A Tin Of Sardines
A tin of Sardines.
Mother by an assembly line putting tiny sardines into tins,
a machine did the rest, a squirt of oil and a lid stamped on.
Sardines side by side, in total darkness, wait to be eaten.
But first of all the sardines had to be smoked, the smoker
my mother’s lover, he visited her every Sunday afternoon,
and I was sent out to find a place that sold ice cream, even
when it rained. Rusting sardine cans, littering the wayside,
don’t walk barefoot in the grass at summer time. Mother
by an assembly line, putting sardines into tins, the smoker
had another girlfriend now and I got no Sunday ice cream.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Broremann The Fisherman
Broremann the Angler
On the pier where fishing vessels were tied up my brother
sat fishing all the while seagulls kept swooping and shrieking,
he blissfully ignored them. He had no hook at the end of his
line and when asked why he said, I don´t like to hurt the fish.
But crafty little Broremann was not as innocent as you may
think, he didn´t like fish, all those horrible tiny bones,
his mother had sent him down to the pier to try catch some
fish for lunch. He liked sausages with mashed potatoes and
stewed peas, now he could go home tell his mother fish didn´t
bite today, but made sure to put the hook on the line so his
mother could see he was really trying. An old fisherman gave
him two sardines wrapped in a newspaper, but wouldn´t you
know it the pair of sardines somehow slipped out of the paper
and made their way back to the sea.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Vanishing Future
The Vanishing Future
The lake we swam in, as children, is now
a sea of knee high thistles, in summer
evenings, that had no night, we fished for
trout, now I see empty tins of sardines
blinking in fading sunlight
I had travelled long to get here fifty years
or so, my old home was an oblong square
on ugly ground, but I did find a rusty
spade to dig my tiny space while smoking
a last cigarette or two.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
poem by Frank O'Hara
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The Failed Revolution
The Failed Revolution
In my childhood’s town there was one neon light on top of a five storey building:
“Jesus Saves.” I asked mother what Jesus saved.”Souls, ” she said without looking
up, she was reading the communist manifesto, dreamed of the day when workers
would take over factories and throw into prison the obese capitalists. She tried to
emigrate, to the Soviet Union, but was turned down, she had no skills other than
putting sardines into a tin. Mother made rice pudding that day and I was allowed
to scrap the brown sticky residue in the pot. A famous rich capitalist is in jail,
in Siberia, It is nice place he has internet, sits in his shirt sleeves sends emails to
friends protesting his innocence. Accused of stealing oil from his own company,
I wonder how this is possible. No, not the revolution mother was dreaming about.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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I Don't Recommend Sardines
I use to love my cabbage with potatos,
Buttered and baked.
And with fired pork chops!
Crispy too!
And that's what I ate.
Until I rediscovered,
A fresh salad with tomatos.
And...
With a slice of pound cake.
To me this was great.
But I don't recommend sardines,
For certain people.
Or acquiring a taste for rare steak...
Served to drip,
With a bleeding done on paper plates.
No...
I don't recommend sardines,
For certain people.
Or acquiring a taste for rare steak...
Served to drip,
With a bleeding done on paper plates.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Window Into The Past
A Window into the Past.
Visiting time over, mother was ill in hospital she had been so tired lately.
Nearby a small stream, an empty box of matches was my raft, rudderless
it rushed down rapids and disappeared under ground, under the town
and I wondered if it reached the docks. I had bought mother a chocolate,
in the same shop that sold oranges and but they were too expensive,
but ate most of the chocolate while listening to her instructions, to peel
spuds, buy milk and yesterday loaf (half the price) , open a tin of sardines.
But first I had to go down to the docks see what ships were in and also try
to find my raft. When I came home mother stood smoking in the kitchen,
she had peeled the spuds. They had let her out only so she could pack her
suitcase; she had to go up the mountains, where the air was pure, and be
cured… and I knew why I hadn’t found my raft.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Life is like a box of sardines and we are all looking for the key.
quote by Alan Bennett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea.
quote by Eric Cantona
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fell
Stars fell on the trenches last night.
Sardines in the mud
Waiting for the light.
Men and boys
Will never see wife or mother again.
Waiting for the whistle
Rum, prayers and rain.
Men fell on the battlefield this morn.
Some lay in the wire
Hanging on their crosses at dawn.
Wives and mothers
Will never see their men again.
Leaders gorge
And drink whiskey
In safety
In warmth
Insane.
poem by Kevin East
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~ Some Factors of If
if wishes could replace my tins of sardines
I'd be swimming so fast to you overseas
if lucky meant winning on spun lotto balls
I'd buy us an island but no shopping malls
if dreams could convey that doubts stay away
I'd hope for a plane ride and more than okay
if valuables stayed safe when carried on my back
I’d chose your soft naked as the only ting I’d pack
if depressions cut through valleys to pave waves for sun
we’d slide on down that mountain and radiate in free run
if time, my love, for us would hitch on hike to bring advance
we'd glide into infinity in sensuous, slow long dance.
poem by Pssive W Nker
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Why Can't I Come From The Bay Of The Mouth
most ignorantly I ask
it's a wonderful bay and it's got a lot to say
and you don't even have to put it big letters
the sardines almost extinct would not mind
and even if they did
they would be silent about that
yes, I come from the bay of the mouth
I openly say and if it's a crime
one should say it aloud
or keep their mouth shut
and do nothing about my place of origin
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Peanut Butter Conspiracy
By: jimmy buffett
1973
Lookin back at my hard luck days
I really do have to laugh
Workin in a dive for twenty six dollars
Spendin it all on grass
We were hungry hard-luck heroes
Tryin just to stay alive
Wed go down to the corner grocery
This is how wed survive
Chorus:
Whos gonna steal the peanut butter
Ill get the can of sardines
Runnin up and down the aisle of the mini mart
Stickin food in our jeans
We never took more than we could eat
There was plenty left on the rack
We all swore if we ever got rich
We would pay the mini mart back
Yes sir! yes sir!
We would pay the mini mart back
It was a two man operation
Had it all down on a note
Ricky would watch that big round mirror
And Id fill up my coat
Then wed head for the check-out aisle
With a lemon and a bottle of beer
Into the car, got to make it on home
Suppertimes getting near
Chorus:
So whos gonna steal the peanut butter
Ill get the can of sardines
Runnin up and down the aisle of the mini mart
Stickin food in our jeans
Never took more than we could eat
There was plenty left on the rack
We all swore if we ever got rich
We would pay the mini mart back
Yes sir! yes sir!
We would pay the mini mart back
I guess every good picker has had some hard times
I sure had my share
Its really kinda funny to laugh at em now
But I dont want to go back there
So every now and then when Im in the grocery
Ill take a little but not much
cause you never know when those hard timesll hitcha
And I dont want to lose my touch
Chorus:
So whos gonna steal the peanut butter
Ill get the can of sardines
Runnin up and down the aisle of the mini mart
Stickin food in our jeans
We never took more than we could eat
There was plenty left on the rack
We all swore if we ever got rich
We would pay the mini mart back
Yes sir! yes sir!
We would pay the mini mart back
Yes sir, yes sir
We would pay the mini mart back
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Busy Life
THE busy days are here
crowding themselves
packed like sardines
but there is still joy somehow
in this fast paced
life,
reading between the lines
amidst this crowd,
the poems keep on whistling
they have a beautiful world
within and
i keep on listening
still abreast
as alive as
a fledgling about
to fly
away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Song Of The Sardine
A fat man sat in an orchestra stall and his cheeks were wet with tears,
As he gazed at the primadonna tall, whom he hadn't seen in years.
"Oh don't you remember" he murmured low "that Spring in Montparnasse,
When hand in hand we used to go to our nightly singing class.
Ah me those days so gay and glad, so full of hope and cheer.
And that little super that we had of tinned sardines and beer.
When you looked so like a little queen with your proud and haughty air,
That I took from the box the last sardine and I twined it in your hair."
Alas I am only a stockbroker now while you are high and great,
The laurels of fame adorn your brow while on you Princes wait.
And as I sit so sadly here and list to your thrilling tones,
You cannot remember I sadly fear if my name is Smith or jones.
Yet Oh those days of long ago, when I had scarce a sou.
And as my bitter tears down flow I think again of you.
And once again I seem to see that mad of sweet sixteen,
Within whose tresses tenderly I twined that bright sardine.
Chorus:
Oh that sardine in your hair, I can see it shining there,
As I took it from its box, And I twined it in your locks.
Silver sardine in your hair. Like a jewel rich and rare,
Oh that little silver sardine in your hair.
poem by Robert William Service
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On His Father's Side
On his mother’s side
Born in Bethlehem
On his Father’s side
No one before him
On his mother’s side
Growing and learning
On his Father’s side
All knowledge showing
On his mother’s side
Stuck in one location
On his Father’s side
Present in every nation
On his mother’s side
He was hungry
On his Father’s side
The multitudes he did feed
On his mother’s side
At Calvary he died
On his Father’s side
He was the essence of life
On his mother’s side
Buried like other men
On his Father’s side
He rose again
On his mother’s side
Human and weak
On his Father’s side
The God of eternity.
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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One Hundred Laments
Trading the sweetness, a rainbow
on icefalls, you will come back on rocks
and drink the elixir of death.
A fantastic dream of soap bubbles in a tumbler,
ejecting the inky grief on the transparent glass.
The pink goddess of wealth
will descend again in your bowls. Brassica
will decide the future of grass.
The moon ride has become cheaper in cans
like sardines, unethical but sleeping with god.
Thongs were visible on steps of bathing ghats
for the benefit of bullfighters. Gibbons
indulging in aerial bombing. Comfortable
in groves jacarandas were smiling.
Unlike you I smelt the dried flowers
between the pages of history
to meet the shadows on the walls of time.
poem by Satish Verma
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A Least...
when the night is darkest
because the rains are heavier
when we are packed like
sardines inside this cave
uncertain about what happens
next, fears pile, and beats of
the heart get too tense,
let us not talk about the future
set aside the past and
suspend the present, at least,
we can speak about the moon and
the stars
how the stars drink space
and how the moon wades
on the waves of time
and then perhaps we shall be
ready about the storms
that are still coming
lest one of you, once lovers
tell the love of
soft sunshine.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Contrails
With my Navajo friend Johnny,
Sitting on a dune of red sand
In Monument Valley, Utah,
And partaking in a little cotraband
Whiskey, we gazed up high,
Squinting in the air toward the sun
Where there was the vapor trail
Of a jumbo jet.
'Where are all those people
'Havin' to go? ' he asked.
'Packed up like those fishies,
Those, um, sardines in a can.'
Told him I did not know.
We rolled cigarettes
And enjoyed being landbound,
Down in the dumps,
Not double-daring gravity
And the jackrabbit horizon.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Seagull
One day in the hot sun, under a mackerel sky
on a bench in a parking lot, waiting
for a bus to Kingston Station, wielding
fans, we found ourselves approached
by what? a lost-looking seagull-
bow tie-less, but in charcoal
tails and a light gray vest, nonetheless,
waddling formally our way.
'Now what, ' I wondered, pulling in my feet, and
sitting up abruptly, 'could it possibly want with us?
Spare change? ' So far from the sea
did we look like sardines? I watched as
its webs drily toed
the sun-softened tarmac; as it padded closer
on stalks half-lit like hollyhock stems
I saw in a painting once.
There was much to admire
in the feathery plush of its breast,
whitecap-white but whiter when the breeze blew it back;
I clucked at the way its level head swiveled
smoothly, side to side, like a rudder;
chuckled at the way its scimitar beak,
yellowed and notched, swerved
this way and that, like a tiller;
poem by Morgan Michaels
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