Housewife's Choice - Kettle To Popocatépetl
Day day follows, Time despoiling,
tea-breaks bravely boredom foiling.
Bubbles boiling in the kettle
test their mettle ‘gainst the metal.
Atoms, constantly turmoiling,
pressure steam which soars uncoiling
till mist vapour cools to settle.
Tea leaves seethe as soft stream rises
soothing stress, green taste surprises,
tension melts though sugar, milk
added betray all Chinese silk,
treason seems to swallow. Wise is
she whose grace competes with Isis.
Feeling fair, in finer fettle
harrassed housewife from harsh toiling
desists, dame dainty, nothing soiling,
blushing Nature often nettles,
lips, fingertips, paints pink as petal.
She'd seize Sherlock, Conan Doyling,
J. K. Rowling, or, gargoyling,
romance - Popocatépetl -
or turn to T.V., mind resettles.
Thus each livelong day, self-oiling,
turns on kitchen kettle boiling.
first version Kettle to Popocatépetl 3rd August 2006
(3 March 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Pot And Kettle
Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot.
A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot.
The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin,
And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within.
Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth,
I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth.
For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings
My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings.
Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame,
But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came.
There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true.
For every hour they told their hearts, 'Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'
As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot,
So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot.
As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you.
And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'
poem by Robert Graves
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Kettle
There’s many a house of grandeur,
With turret, tower and dome,
That knows not peace or comfort,
And does not prove a home.
I do not ask for splendour
To crown my daily lot,
But this I ask – a kitchen
Where the kettles always hot.
If things are not all ship-shape,
I do not fume or fret,
A little clean disorder
Does not my nerves upset.
But one thing is essential,
Or seems so in my thought,
And that’s a tidy kitchen
Where the kettle’s always hot.
In my Aunt Hattie’s household,
Though skies outside are drear,
Though times are dark and troubled,
You’ll always find good cheer.
And in her quaint old kitchen –
The very homiest spot –
The kettle’s always singing,
The water’s always hot.
And if you have a headache,
Whate’er the hour may be,
There is no tedious waiting
To get your cup of tea.
I don’t know how she does it –
Some magic she has caught –
For the kitchen’s cool in summer,
Yet the kettle’s always hot.
Oh, there’s naught else so dreary
In household kingdom found
As a cold and sullen kettle
That does not make a sound.
And I think that love is lacking
In the hearts in such a spot,
Or the kettle would be singing
And the water would be hot.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Canadian Folksong
The doors are shut, the windows fast;
Outside the gust is driving past,
Outside the shivering ivy clings,
While on the hob the kettle sings.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The streams are hushed up where they flowed,
The ponds are frozen along the road,
The cattle are housed in shed and byre,
While singeth the kettle on the fire.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The fisherman on the bay in his boat
Shivers and buttons up his coat;
The traveler stops at the tavern door,
And the kettle answers the chimney’s roar.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The firelight dances upon the wall,
Footsteps are heard in the outer hall;
A kiss and a welcome that fill the room,
And the kettle sings in the glimmer and gloom.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Polly puts the kettle on
Polly puts the kettle on
Snakes rattle on insane
Round the kettle rattle on
All she puts is in vain
Polly bottles water deep
The taps mocks her ‘bravo’
But water steam stubborn peeps
The dishes clatter NO
‘The steam’s too high
Up on a ceiling
It winds too nigh
To a broken feeling’
‘What’ asks Polly
‘Hiss’ say snakes
‘What’s at stake
When kettles break? ’
‘What? ! ’ screams Polly
‘Hiss’ snakes curl
‘Ha ha ha ha ha ah
You bottle a whirl
My fair lady! ’
‘Why? ’ shouts Polly
‘Hiss’ snakes hide
Dragging down the water deep
‘Who? ’ asks Polly
The steam still glides
A broken feeling leaps
With heart in utter fear
‘Don’t ask for your daddy
He’s not ever here
My fair lady! ’
‘How? ’ stammers Polly
‘Has it happened?
Oh what a mistake to make!
To ever put the kettle on
When I’m not ready for the tea
My fingers are burnt
They swell in pain
I’ll just have to learn
Not to do that again! ’
See also Pollyteaparty by the same author
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kettle boils like my anger
As the kettle boils.
So does my anger.
My anger is reder than the heat.
Its not just the heat of the moment.
The kettle is getting hot.
My anger nor depression will cease.
Its like some kind of disease.
As the kettle boils I melt.
In the heat of the depression.
And the mist of the anger
poem by Amy Kerswell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There was an Old Man who, when little,
Fell casually into a Kettle;
But, growing too stout,
He could never get out,
So he passed all his life in that Kettle.
quote by by Edward Lear
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Warming Brew!
Running in circles screaming and laughing, touching and reeling, escaping!
A burst of excitement, adrenalin courses through our veins heightening
Our excitement!
Our breath rises in vapour like a steam engine of old or a boiling kettle ready for a warming brew.
Life is a playground full of wonder, ready to be explored, friends loyal and true
Like musketeers on a quest!
These where such halcyon days, care free, untroubled from life’s pressures and demands.
worry was not an option!
Our youth, passionate, fresh, our minds racing and new, the world was seen so clearly!
If only we could see life through a Childs eyes in older age?
No colour, no race, no creed, no sex, no discrimination just oneness!
Perhaps this world would be a much better place?
poem by Shea Stagg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He Has Only Given
I've only told a few.
Not even you.
What it is that ticks my clock.
And gets me boiling hot...
Until the letting off of steam,
Slowly cools...
That anger that builds up in me.
With the acknowledgement...
My peace of mind is worth the 'keep'.
My peace within I wish not to release.
Or stop!
It keeps me going.
That's all I've got!
I've only told a few.
Not even you.
Who and what...
Stirs that pot,
I keep covered.
Not take off the lid,
To blow my top!
I've earned too much,
Just to sizzle and burn.
And the patience I have had,
To resist from going stark raving mad...
Is a blessing only God knows,
That I have what He has only given.
My lips have almost been bitten off.
But I've learned to chew and swallow my resentment.
And witness the doers,
Receive their due from their misdeeds done.
With a repeating that chills my heat...
As that boiling within me starts.
'I have what He has only given.
He has only given.
He has only given...
What I have.
And I am grateful to receive.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Miss World 2012
Ni Hao, come into my kitchen
Boiling in the kettle is soup
This broth is about to thicken
Made from the chicken of my coop
Miss India, be seated on first
Mexican lass second chair please
But could this order be reversed
Miss china comes first like a breeze
You are all my guest, so behave
What you get is what you deserve
Once you hold the ladle, do save
The best, for your own choice to serve.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Swifts (2)
At twilight the swifts have no power,
to hold back that pale blue coolness.
It bursts from throats, a clamour
an outpour that can’t grow less.
The swifts have no way, high
up there, overhead, of restraining
their clarion cries: ‘O, triumph,
see, see, how the earth’s receding!’
Like steam from a boiling kettle,
the furious flow rushes by –
‘See, see – no space for the earth
between the ravine and the sky.’
poem by Boris Pasternak
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heat theory of emotions!
Emotion has the temperature,
That can go higher and lower,
In the presence of the loved and the loving,
The temperature and pressure are regular,
The palpitation gives the pleasure,
The legs floats softly in the delightful air,
All mistakes of any kind look pettier,
The love spring is active with sprinkler,
The noisy atmosphere may be quieter,
When the emotional temperature is higher,
A small provoking will increase the pressure,
The hearts pound quicker than ever,
The emotion will reach the boiling point,
To whistle not stop if it is kept in a kettle,
To spill over if it is kept in the open container,
To scald the human mercilessly with the steamer,
Dissipating the heat and pressure,
will save us from being an abuser or a loser.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mimics in a kitchenette
A spoon in the rack
Beside sugar and salt jars.
Spoon mutters;
'I love both of you and you're like twins
But it complicates me without tasting you
How do I jump to the old Master's
Cup of Tea?
Kettle whistles and the Master still asleep.'
Parrot in the cage whispers;
'On holidays Master won't wake up early.'
Then who poured water into the kettle? '
'Don't you know Master brought a sweet *bride last night.'
[*A job agency has supplied a house-maid from a rural village.]
It is sad to grow old but nice to ripen.
-Brigitte Bardot
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Keth Caterers from Dandenong
In my simple kitchen
Food is still warm
And I have a secret Recipe
That's the cleanliness.
Cuisine really Asian and bit spicy
But please don't worry.
When the water's boiling
I pour you a fine Sri Lankan blend Tea
Of Broken Orange pekoe
Into your tiny porcelain cups.
And I am sure you go home happily
But the weekends your crazy wallets cry
Let's go there once again.
I am sorry these days little lull
As I was pregnant and temporary shut the windows
When my little Rascal comes to the town
Your kettle boils again!
*To my daughter Tharindu and Son-in-law Kelum for their determination, where they reside in Australia.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Settled in Nettles
I remember climbing nettles-
Nettles climbing our wooden fence,
The excitement of touching,
The thrill of the blisters-
The red and the oozing
Beneath my long sleeves.
I remember nettle necklaces
Burning the fingers that linked
The green leaves- big green leaf
To big green leaf- How
My neck had red blotches
Itchy and sore. I scratched
And then bled and then wore fluffy scarves.
I remember Justin Whiles
Who scrunched up his face and bit
On his lip and tied me with rope
And dragged the green nettles
Over my skin and asked, 'Why
Did we do this again? '
And now in my cabinets are nettles
In jars- jar after jar- big glass
Jars, brimming with nettles,
Their thick green leaves.
And sometimes the night
Gets quiet and cold
And I walk to my cabinets
And pull down the jars
And pull out the nettles
And bite on the leaves
And bite and then chew
And then swallow the leaves-
Leaf after leaf-
Jar after jar-
Till the night's not so silent.
Till I throw up green mulch
In my hands.
poem by Alicia Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hypothetical Departures
the kettle is not
in its proper place
grains of rice
scattered on the
path
no birds pecking
this time
the cat on the fence
is keen
but helpless
leaves in heaps
there is no wind this time
i think about
burning
the curtains are
unmoved
dusts settle
layered
there is a story
to tell
the archeologists
are not bringing their
brushes
of history
even the winds
if you taste them
are bitter
when the gate opens
this time
no hand shall open it
again
a woman sits
staring blankly to a humid
morning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heat It In The Kettle
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Mix and blend before you can,
Put in the potatoes.
Mix and blend before you can,
Add the tomatoes.
Heat it in the kettle then...
Use chopped beef.
Or any kind of meat.
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Mix and blend before you can,
Put in the potatoes.
Add the tomatoes.
Use chopped beef.
Or any kind of meat.
Heat it in the kettle then
Heat it in the kettle then
Heat it in the kettle then...
Feed me love!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love Scales Whistling
Tea kettle laugh-en
Hot Water chort-ling
Bubb-ling Boil-ing joy
Occupational
Love scales whistling
Serving savor-ed smiles
To their garden faces
(Mountaintop Gardens, Tennessee
~August 9,2006)
poem by Debora Short
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Violet Fire
Renewal revels on golden islands
No encumber some vicissitudes
We are the pink rocks of romance
Freedom soars on porcelain angels
Leaves of classic paganism
Inside the tubes of wet forests
Symbiotic truth in your flesh
Poetry of the inner loom
Canals pour their elastic walls
She is the hot moon
Burning trees of green wind
Blue birds like sensuous fire
All monasteries rooted in the desert
Time in pink talons on nipple mountains
Seize the moment in hungry red
Silk stockings around my cerebellum
Stars of silk decadence
Our passion reaches knowledge
Knowledge of ancient flowers
We make love for days like violet fire
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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When the Year grows Old
I cannot but remember
When the year grows old --
October -- November --
How she disliked the cold!
She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
With a little sharp sigh.
And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound,
She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget --
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!
Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!
But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!
I cannot but remember
When the year grows old --
October -- November --
How she disliked the cold!
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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She will not allow
She will not allow me to speak
Force to keep mum and make weak
Not mentally but otherwise very strong
She is quiet different and never goes wrong
Why I fall for her in recent days?
It is quite ambiguous and not right anyway
What she has in her like specialty?
I think she has top most genuine quality
It is not easy to penetrate her heart
Probably she has camouflaged it with art
This is one of the rarest ever known
She has every right to disclose or own
She thinks of entire world and tries to settle
She may be boiling like water in kettle
There is only evaporation and forms cloud
She puts finger and utters with no sound
I catch you in every signal
They arrive at regular interval
I try to decode but fail to read
May be, it requires talented head
But whenever decide to speak
It may travel strongly and not weak
I shall catch it and form the opinion
What else can do one very good companion?
Well, less said is better and for the good
She has maintained and firmly stood
On her own feet and ready to greet
I shall look for her to meet
I do not know who will speak first?
I am unaware of the exact test
But I am for sure she will start
As she needs to open the heart
Let it not go unnoticed
So many things are promised
Time may not allow for it to revise
We both have to prepare for it and rise
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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