Savoury effects
some writers write
as if they have all the
kitchen ware in their hands
so that when you read their work
you actually feel the ladle, the
frying pan, the egg beater,
the tweezers, the funnel,
can opener, rice cooker,
balloon whisk, apple slicer,
garlic press, grater,
and all imaginable tupperware
thrown right at your face
and when you ask him why,
'well, ' he conceitedly says,
'that's for their savoury effects.'
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Related quotes
At A Certain Point In Your Life
you go around
your room
and then to the kitchen
you look carefully
on each object
that you see
the rexona deodorant,
the knife,
the garlic and the onions
some rice grains
on the sink
you look at them
and they are all messy
you even think
the deodorant's place
is not in the kitchen
there are wrong
placements and you
want them changed
by you
you want something
proper
things in their places
you simply look
at each of them
and they are all alive
talking to you
they know
you do not have the time anymore
and they are so sorry for you
saying
goodbye
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Agony
And in spoonful oil
Kitchen is busy frying
Mustard and lentils two tablespoons each
And chillies hundred grams
And a pack of cigar or raw tobacco
In added two tablespoons of oil
Then to grind with lemon size tamarind, salt
To make tobacco chutney
And the water soaked tobacco
Kitchen is busy grinding
With salt and cashews handful
To make balls, be deep fried in oil
Be added to a masala tomato puree
To make tobacco kofta curry
And to the cooked rice
Kitchen is busy seasoning
With fried clove, cardamom, and cinnamon
Onion and ginger-garlic paste, salt
Sauted well with flavoured tobacco
Then to garnish with cut cigar pieces
To make tobacco biryani
Tobacco chutney, tobacco curry
Tobacco biryani..what next..
Forgotten Kitchen hurrying
To make more koftas
Be put in sugar syrup
To make tobacco jamuns
Then you see, exhausted Kitchen
Under the wildly running fan rests
Wildly coughing out
Her heart despite its rapidness
Awaiting patiently her lover
Who's been chained to her delicious cooking
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Domestic Shades 8
Kitchen Soliloquy
What a hell, life is a failure
You only know my dear platter
How much, how much I suffer
Like these mustards when they splutter
In hot oil browned dark to darker;
And my dear pressure cooker
Don't you know how much anger
Aberrated folks throw on me? This cutter
My enemy very often cuts my finger
Hell, heart is broken.I'm in danger
Stupid spilt oil, I'm skidded with rigour
Down on this dirty floor.
Slippery life with full of fear
Can't get up from under
This kitchen-ware
Slammed, slipped for ever..ever.
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Lead Balloon
Kiss my ass! I said
And I threw my drink
Tequila trickling
Down his business suit
Must be the irish blood
Fight before you think
Turn it now
You cant cowtow
You cant undo it
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
An angry man is just an angry man
But an angry woman
Bitch!
I had to ask him for a helping hand
It came with the heart
Of a bonaparte
Of a frozen fish
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Love To Read
Is it a misconception,
That writers read...
Other writers' works?
Or reads extensively at all?
Afterall...
When would a true writer,
Find time to get that done...
If one has a love to read?
And...
I am not that one to say,
A reading AND a writing done...
Is an impossibility.
Because I read what I write often.
Regularly and on a daily basis.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cook Of The House
Ground rice, sugar, vinegar, seco salt, macaroni too,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
No matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best cause Im the cook of the house,
Cook of the house.
The salads in the bowl,
The rice is on the stove.
Green beans in the colander and where the res is heaven only knows.
Cinnamon, garlic, salt, pepper, corn-bread, curry powder, coffee too,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
No, matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best.
cause Im the cook of the house,
Cook of the house.
Where the rest is heaven only knows.
Matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best cause Im the cook of the house.
Cook of the house,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Exceptional Excellence Undenied
Tease the cooker!
But not too much.
Remember the cooker decides,
Whose taste buds will be satisfied!
And why...
If the cooker so chooses to apply,
An exceptional excellence undenied.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Writer's Drought
You've heard of a thing called writer's block and you've heard of writer's drought
But writers are never short of things on which they can write about
It's just at times their inspiration well does seem to run dry
And they cannot seem to pen a line though hard enough they try.
The writers drought it causes writers moments of self doubt
Till the words that seem locked in them eventually flow out
Through their pens to their notebooks their dry spells do not last
And on time lost out on penning words they seem to catch up fast.
Some writers in their writing drought cannot seem to feel inspired
To write even a single line they feel mentally tired
But when fresh inspiration comes to them much better stuff they do write
And feeling re-invigorated they sit and pen all night.
Most writers you will talk to of writers drought can tell
When there is no inspiration in their inspiration well
But when inspiration returns to them and their creative juices flow
They become much better writers and in self confidence grow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Shall Have These Hands That Shall Write About Hands....
must have i forgotten
from where all these come?
ah, i have read about your hands
and now i shall have to mind about mine
once i had these hands
whose name is
work and struggle and
sacrifice
they lifted rocks
outlined by Sisyphus
and roll them from
atop the hill
and put them again there
in senseless
labor
when i got reason
my hands began to think
as though they have brains
under their nails
these hands begin the
questions
grapple for answers
and got
no satisfaction
they dabble in poetry
trembling and tense and
looking for
a compromise for some
fetish
must have i forgotten from where
these hands come?
someone says these hands are from
the hands of God
whose hands hand what we do not have
in hand yet
these hands did what was wrong then
and covered the face of the
penitent and the remorseful
these hands that slap a face that
triggered a gunfire
that lay upon the hardened breasts
and held breaths
these hands that write now for you
face upside down not asking for anything in return
these hands that speak for you
as you turn your head for someone else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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She Is Sleepless, She Is Probing
They read your lines
They perhaps like you
They try to read you
In between
she is sleepless
And she pities you
she is probing
And she writes for you too
And you feel so honored
Comes our arrogance
You say you write
Only for yourself
For art’s sake
You say you cannot
Write for no other
You say you cannot
Stop writing
Your essence is just that
To write for no other
To write or you die
Be kind
Let them read you through the night
Let them follow you
Warn them though
They may have followed
A blind man eking his way through
His darkness
Without even a cane to feel his way.
The Virgin Mary
And Veronica
The crying mother
And the cloth to wipe a bloody face
Don’t stretch further
There is no Christ in me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Most Writers
Most writers 'twould seem have moments of self doubt
But they never go short of things to write about
And to become a top writer of one a big ask
And to succeed as a writer for many seems too daunting a task.
Most writers do not write for wealth or for fame
And despite lack of success they pen on just the same
For every one hundred thousand writers perhaps one writing millionaire
Amongst the ranks of the wealthy the writers are rare.
Few writers can hope for to scale success height
For the love of writing they only do write
Few writers get published and fewer know of success
But in their writings on paper their thoughts they express.
Most writers will never know wealth and renown
And they are not even well known in their own Hometown
They never will be known beyond their home shore
They write for the love of it and little more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Writers, as they gain success, feel like outsiders because writers don't come together in real groups.
Writers Are Born Not Made
Ocean is dry
And fount not secreting
Wind still rove the dry land
In its usual way
I want to write
Everything in me want to write
Even though ocean is dry
And fog too thick i can't see remote place
I must write
I must make thess two lovers
Starring at each otherexpressionlessly
Make love to yield readables
Writers are born not made
Writers write and write
When ocean overflow its limit
When ocean overdry that feet could
Navigate the way of ships
Writers write and write
For is in them to write.
poem by Alade Abayomi IdrisWhite
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Daily
you wake up early
you wash your face
you use soap and water
you wipe your face with
a white towel near the sink
hanging
you dress up
you take breakfast
you chew your food
you drink your coffee
you read the papers
hear the news on tv
you go to the garage
warm up your car
you open the garage
and speed your way to your office
you read the whole day
you talk less
you take your lunch
and you cat's nap
you work the whole afternoon
you read a lot
you write
you are tired and ask your driver
to drive you home
you open the door of your house
you sleep with your shoes on
you sleep for some hours
you are hungry
you go to the kitchen and eat
the food made ready for you
by your housemaid
you are alone in this sequence
you turn on the tv
and the whole night you feel
you are the lookout
for something that is about to happen
you ask yourself, what is this all about?
you tell yourself, you do not know, it is just your daily routine
for years and years, and it goes on and on and you have no
way of stopping
they call it life
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Balloon Of Whims
The balloon floats to the ceiling
the balloon bounces to the ground-
You are stuck in the middle
your emotions stir all around.
You can't run- you can't hide
from your feelings buried deep inside.
You just have to feel them through
even if they make you feel blue.
Then let them go up in the air
inside the balloon without a care.
This balloon of emotions has no whims
it will go anywhere it sees fit.
Miles up high balloon will fly
balloon cleansed of pain when you cried.
Written by Christina Sunrise on August 3,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Poems I've Considered Writing..All Thanks to You..
It seems I'm writing more
Than I have for quite some time..
It's not always good writing
Sometimes It's just a matter of getting out my emotions on paper
Though they say you shouldn't put everything on paper
But,
That wouldn't make me much of a writer then, would it..
I don't do it on purpose..
To be honest,
I can't really help it..
And,
When I contemplate some of the poems I've thought of writing
Since our acquaintance
Well,
Some of the following titles spring to mind..
'This should be interesting'
'I wonder how I'll ever get on in this place'
'I hope I make a good enough impression'
But, then, that's not specific to you, is it..
I'm always worried about making a good impression, doing a good job, working on bettering me...worried about what others may or may not think
I'm not in competition with anyone but myself and sometimes I think that's
Tougher than competing with someone else..
'Ummmm...I don't know what to think'
'Someone thinks highly of themselves'
This would have been about you by the way..
I guess first impressions aren't always accurate
'I think I can trust you'
'Maybe I've made a friend'
'Why did that feel like a date'
'What's wrong with me'
'Something to look forward to'
'Saying Goodbye'
'Hello Again'
'I like having you as my friend'
'Someone to talk to'
'That's...Not..What..! ! ! '
Because sometimes I feel like I can read your mind..
And,
It's not always on it's best behavior, is it..
I hope that doesn't change... it makes me smile.
'I Have to Admit, You're Kind-a Sweet'
'Nooooo! ! ! '
This would have been a funny poem..As would,
'Do you mean what you say, when you say what you say'
But, then.. I think..
'Maybe it's all in my head'
Let's face it.. I am known to think too much, too often, all the time...
It's a minor glitch with my mind...
Then, there was the minor incident where..
'Being Forced to Face That I'm Feeling....Something'
But, that's just hard for me to do..so,
'Bury it, Pretend it Doesn't Exist'
Or
'We Aren't Going to Talk About the Elephant in the Room'
Were poems that were quite appropriate to write..
I didn't write them..
Well, not quite that way..
Some others would have been,
'Uneasy with My Feelings'
'I Wonder What You Really Think of Me'
'Too Bad I Can't Read Minds'
'I'd love to know what your first impression of me was...does it still hold true'
I don't know if you have read my work..
I sometimes think it's you..
But, I figure there's no way for me to know
Unless you give me a clue..
And, maybe you have
But, subtleties are lost on me
Especially when it comes to you..
So I write..
Or contemplate writing poems..
With funny titles
Titles that don't always mean what they say
Or say how I feel
Or are specific to you...
Because writers write..
It's what they do
But, sometimes
My Poems
Might be
Just for you...
poem by Rabia Minhas
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A Happy Melody in The Kitchenette On My Day Off!
Hey! Darling what are you frying that smells fine?
Shrimps in hot garlic Tonight's menu!
Oh! That sounds very good
But don't be tired
Just a slice of bread
Dip in the last night's chicken gravy is more than enough
With a bottle of King Cobra Beer!
I am scared if the food is not sufficient
You may run to different restaurants for varities?
I understood the sorrowful music and changed the topic.
Darling! I am scared that we have to work here till we die?
Don't bother honey as I read in the paper the horoscope
End of this year Saturn moves somewhere
And bring prospects to Capricorns!
We both are Capricorns and do not forget that?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Because She Allowed It She Was Destroyed
one summer she attended a poetry workshop
upon invitation of some writers
and wannabes like her
her name is poetess
modest
shy
truthtful to every word chosen by her
in the poem that she chooses to
read before them
these writers listening to her
after which
the chopping begins, the stabbing knife, the slices of her self
the sharp teeth biting her to pieces
the slapping criticisms of her works
her poems her life
she was bleeding to death
they have no inkling to save her
she shrinks
like some sundried raisin
she shatters like some broken glass
she shuts up
she runs away and throws all her poems to the trash can
she is ugly she is a witch
since then she never wrote again
because of them
these writers ahead of her
she was the object of their ridicule
she was utterly destroyed
because she allowed it
she had known better
that one should write
because one must write
not for anybody else
but for oneself alone
one need not even win
or excel
one only needs to write
because you love to write
because you must
survive this love of your life
your poetry, now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Brunt Of The Heat
A frying cake blamed a frying pan
And the frying pan, the frying cake
For the brunt of heat they bore from the stove
Like a woman and his son’s wife do.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Reba
Reba sink a boulder in the water
Reba tie a cable to a tree
Reba stuck in a game of lipstick perfume flypaper
Reba press a razor to a slide cross a needle with a prune
Knee deep in the motel tub
Reba dangle ladle form her lip
Dip
Sip
Reba babble to the nag with the lipstick perfume
Mutter to a farmer in a truck
Take a peek at the cheetah, reba
Cheetah on the prowl in a cage
Sink a boulder in the water
Tie a cable to a tree
Mutter nature to the nag
With the lipstick perfume
Reba flush a fleshfarm leftover
Thunder in a circle
Down the pipes
Bag it
Tag it
Sell it to the butcher in the store
Reba put a stopper in the bottom of the tub
Picked up a jar unscrewed the top
And watched it drop into the water
A little scoop of plaster mix
Some coffee grounds and mud
And then she stirred it with the ladle
That her grandmother had bought her
Threw in a pot of melted wax
A forefoot and a hoof
Apple core, worms galore
And a can of some corrosive
Coconuts and chloroform
Some wicker and some cork
Toxic waste, some purple paste
She hoped was not explosive
Reba dip a ladle for a taste of her creation
And she knew that what she make
Would be the finest in the nation
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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