Hasty Marriage
Burden of a Hasty Marriage.
He saw her at the cafe she a cup of cacao and eating a cream cake,
he had a sandwich with cheese and ham. She looked up and smiled,
he knew she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Shy, as he was, still found the courage to get up and walk over to her
table and ask if he could eat his modest sandwich with her; she said
yes and they sat there in silence, just eating. Dimly he knew he had to
say something, but couldn’t but couldn’t find the words so he ate
the cup and saucer, the table cloth, serviettes and crumbs of her cake,
when he began eating the table she told him to stop. Ice broken he said
he loved her, she said she loved him, not to waste time they got married
in the afternoon. Found a hotel room and stayed in bed for a fortnight.
Made love in every position one could think of; they even forgot to eat.
Entwined they slept until a knock on the door, something about paying
for the room. For him was a welcomed distraction, got up had to go to
his bank he told her, two weeks in bed it stunk like a pig sty. Paid his bill
but didn’t enter their room, he was cured of love based on sex alone
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Smile
At a cafe in Liverpool I sat eating bacon butty
washed down with milky tea, wife had left me
and I was feeling glum. A woman at a far table
looked at me and smiled. An overcast day, felt
as the sun had come out. I didn’t know what to
say or do so I looked out of the window rain.
Her boyfriend came, they left, but she sent me
another smiling glance
Knew I would be OK.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Peanut-Butter Sandwich
I'll sing you a poem of a silly young king
Who played with the world at the end of a string,
But he only loved one single thing—
And that was just a peanut-butter sandwich.
His scepter and his royal gowns,
His regal throne and golden crowns
Were brown and sticky from the mounds
And drippings from each peanut-butter sandwich.
His subjects all were silly fools
For he had passed a royal rule
That all that they could learn in school
Was how to make a peanut-butter sandwich.
He would not eat his sovereign steak,
He scorned his soup and kingly cake,
And told his courtly cook to bake
An extra-sticky peanut-butter sandwich.
And then one day he took a bit
And started chewing with delight,
But found his mouth was stuck quite tight
From that last bite of peanut-butter sandwich.
His brother pulled, his sister pried,
The wizard pushed, his mother cried,
'My boy's committed suicide
From eating his last peanut-butter sandwich!'
The dentist came, and the royal doc.
The royal plumber banged and knocked,
But still those jaws stayed tightly locked.
Oh darn that sticky peanut-butter sandwich!
The carpenter, he tried with pliers,
The telephone man tried with wires,
The firemen, they tried with fire,
But couldn't melt that peanut-butter sandwich.
With ropes and pulleys, drills and coil,
With steam and lubricating oil—
For twenty years of tears and toil—
They fought that awful peanut-butter sandwich.
Then all his royal subjects came.
They hooked his jaws with grapplin' chains
And pulled both ways with might and main
Against that stubborn peanut-butter sandwich.
Each man and woman, girl and boy
Put down their ploughs and pots and toys
And pulled until kerack! Oh, joy—
They broke right through that peanut-butter sandwich
A puff of dust, a screech, a squeak—
The king's jaw opened with a creak.
And then in voice so faint and weak—
The first words that they heard him speak
Were, 'How about a peanut-butter sandwich?'
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Real Art
Real Art
I woke up a blue neon light, outside my hotel room,
kept lightning up my space, I looked out and saw
a man in a cafe sitting by the counter eating a burger,
he had hat on and looked ca 1948.
Knew I was in an Edward Hopper painting but didn’t
want to be a part of his bleak cityscape of lone men
who live in cheap hotels and drink coffee in a cafe,
which clientele are lost souls like me.
I splashed water in my face adjusted my tie put my
hat on and walked out, a cab drove by looking for
a fare, I opened the cafe’s door, the man with hat had
gone, drank coffee and ate a doughnut.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Chocolate Cake
I love chocolate cake.
And when I was a boy
I loved it even more.
Sometimes we used to have it for tea
and Mum used to say,
'If there's any left over
you can have it to take to school
tomorrow to have at playtime.'
And the next day I would take it to school
wrapped up in tin foil
open it up at playtime
and sit in the corner of the playground
eating it,
you know how the icing on top
is all shiny and it cracks as you
bite into it,
and there's that other kind of icing in
the middle
and it sticks to your hands and you
can lick your fingers
and lick your lips
oh it's lovely.
yeah.
Anyway,
once we had this chocolate cake for tea
and later I went to bed
but while I was in bed
I found myself waking up
licking my lips
and smiling.
I woke up proper.
'The chocolate cake.'
It was the first thing
1 thought of.
I could almost see it
so I thought,
what if I go downstairs
and have a little nibble, yeah?
It was all dark
everyone was in bed
so it must have been really late
but I got out of bed,
crept out of the door
there's always a creaky floorboard, isn't there?
Past Mum and Dad's room,
careful not to tread on bits of broken toys
or bits of Lego
you know what it's like treading on Lego
with your bare feet,
yowwww
shhhhhhh
downstairs
into the kitchen
open the cupboard
and there it is
all shining.
So I take it out of the cupboard
put it on the table
and I see that
there's a few crumbs lying about on the plate,
so I lick my finger and run my finger all over the crumbs
scooping them up
and put them into my mouth.
oooooooommmmmmmmm
nice.
Then
I look again
and on one side where it's been cut,
it's all crumbly.
So I take a knife
I think I'll just tidy that up a bit,
cut off the crumbly bits
scoop them all up
and into the mouth
oooooommm mmmm
nice.
Look at the cake again.
That looks a bit funny now,
one side doesn't match the other
I'll just even it up a bit, eh?
Take the knife
and slice.
This time the knife makes a little cracky noise
as it goes through that hard icing on top.
A whole slice this time,
into the mouth.
Oh the icing on top
and the icing in the middle
ohhhhhh oooo mmmmmm.
But now
I can't stop myself
Knife -
1 just take any old slice at it
and I've got this great big chunk
and I'm cramming it in
what a greedy pig
but it's so nice,
and there's another
and another and I'm squealing and I'm smacking my lips
and I'm stuffing myself with it
and
before I know
I've eaten the lot.
The whole lot.
I look at the plate.
It's all gone.
Oh no
they're bound to notice, aren't they,
a whole chocolate cake doesn't just disappear
does it?
What shall 1 do?
I know. I'll wash the plate up,
and the knife
and put them away and maybe no one
will notice, eh?
So I do that
and creep creep creep
back to bed
into bed
doze off
licking my lips
with a lovely feeling in my belly.
Mmmmrnmmmmm.
In the morning I get up,
downstairs,
have breakfast,
Mum's saying,
'Have you got your dinner money?'
and I say,
'Yes.'
'And don't forget to take some chocolate cake with you.'
I stopped breathing.
'What's the matter,' she says,
'you normally jump at chocolate cake?'
I'm still not breathing,
and she's looking at me very closely now.
She's looking at me just below my mouth.
'What's that?' she says.
'What's what?' I say.
'What's that there?'
'Where?'
'There,' she says, pointing at my chin.
'I don't know,' I say.
'It looks like chocolate,' she says.
'It's not chocolate is it?'
No answer.
'Is it?'
'I don't know.'
She goes to the cupboard
looks in, up, top, middle, bottom,
turns back to me.
'It's gone.
It's gone.
You haven't eaten it, have you?'
'I don't know.'
'You don't know. You don't know if you've eaten a whole
chocolate cake or not?
When? When did you eat it?'
So I told her,
and she said
well what could she say?
'That's the last time I give you any cake to take
to school.
Now go. Get out
no wait
not before you've washed your dirty sticky face.'
I went upstairs
looked in the mirror
and there it was,
just below my mouth,
a chocolate smudge.
The give-away.
Maybe she'll forget about it by next week.
poem by Michael Rosen
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Young Lovers
I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee.
At a nearby table, two lovers are kissing and making up,
but then after their last kiss they decided to disconnect
to take a deep drag from their shared cigarette
and to take a sip from their cooling coffee cup.
Placing the cigarette in the ash tray they cuddled back together
fitting like a glove with their arms around each other
totally preoccupied, giving no one else a second look.
After several minutes of holding, kissing and whispering,
and the occasional passionate tongue in mouth sucking
it looked as though they were here for the rest of the day.
Suddenly her chair flew backwards, as she quickly stood up
rocking the table, which spilled the coffee from their cups
and the ashtray to hit the floor, as she pushed him away.
She then slapped his face and shouted at him in anger,
but he sat calm and collected, and said that he loved her,
and she had misunderstood what he was trying to say.
With her hot temper cooling she decided to sit back down
and asked him a question, which caused her face to frown,
as he explained she dragged the chair closer to him again.
Picking up the fallen ashtray she listened to what he said
whilst others in the Café were drinking and being fed,
and outside it persistently poured with torrential rain.
She ordered two fresh coffees, with a deep sigh of regret
while he lit up another blue tipped cigarette,
which they both drew upon until none remained.
He held out his hands as they looked into each other’s eyes,
with a smile she touched his finger, as though to apologise
then dragged her chair closer and began kissing again.
I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee
watching people fall out who later make up,
and it’s by no means unusual to see in this busy place
a few exchanged words followed by a slap across the face
and then a kiss and make up, over a fresh coffee cup.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Another Day
having the low down blues and going
into a restraunt to eat.
you sit at a table.
the waitress smiles at you.
she's dumpy. her ass is too big.
she radiates kindess and symphaty.
live with her 3 months and a man would no real agony.
o.k., you'll tip her 15 percent.
you order a turkey sandwich and a
beer.
the man at the table across from you
has watery blue eyes and
a head like an elephant.
at a table further down are 3 men
with very tiny heads
and long necks
like ostiches.
they talk loudly of land development.
why, you think, did I ever come
in here when I have the low-down
blues?
then the the waitress comes back eith the sandwich
and she asks you if there will be anything
else?
snd you tell her, no no, this will be
fine.
then somebody behind you laughs.
it's a cork laugh filled with sand and
broken glass.
you begin eating the sandwhich.
it's something.
it's a minor, difficult,
sensible action
like composing a popular song
to make a 14-year old
weep.
you order another beer.
jesus,look at that guy
his hands hang down almost to his knees and he's
whistling.
well, time to get out.
pivk up the bill.
tip.
go to the register.
pay.
pick up a toothpick.
go out the door.
your car is still there.
and there are 3 men with heads
and necks
like ostriches all getting into one
car.
they each have a toothpick and now
they are talking about women.
they drive away first
they drive away fast.
they're best i guess.
it's an unberably hot day.
there's a first-stage smog alert.
all the birds and plants are dead
or dying.
you start the engine.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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And You Too Will Eat What We Are Eating
come now
i have praises for you
about what you have written
come join me
on this table
i am eating my words
that i have just vomitted
it is not fattening
it is indeed enriching
this vomit
this acceptance of
i have committed an error
i have not predicted the way things ought to happen
i have not looked at you well enough
come
join us and you too shall eat what we are eating
words and nothing but words
but you can make the difference
with your beautiful eyes
your beautiful soul
we will listen now
you must sing your most beautiful songs
as we eat our own words
as we swallow our own prides
as we accept what we are
in our uselessness
in our misery
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cheese Cake
I met a babe in a backseat drive-in
Back in the saddle shed sit
Pulled on the reins just to keep me risin
She loved to chomp at the bit
Daddy do it, oh, just do it
Daddy do it, please let me see
Do it, please just do it daddy
Do it, do it, drivin me crazy
She walks away with her eyes
Down on her bootlace
She lives to give it away
She dont believe in the right or the wrong case
Shes always liable to say
Daddy do it, oh, just do it
Daddy do it, please let me see
Do it, please just do it daddy
Do it, do it, drivin me crazy
(cheese cake), looser than her sister
(cheese cake), her sugar gets me high
She knows I cant resist her (cheese cake)
Got my fingers in her pie (cheese cake)
(cheese cake), sneakin out the back door
(cheese cake), rollin down the lawn
Everybody kissed her (cheese cake)
At the crack of dawn (cheese cake)
Daddy do it, oh, just do it
Daddy do it, please let me see
Daddy do it, please just do it daddy
Do it, do it, do it, drivin me crazy
(cheese cake), looser than her sister
(cheese cake), her sugar gets me high
She knows I cant resist her (cheese cake)
Got my fingers in her pie (cheese cake)
Repeat (cheese cake)
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wings
I felt wings being put upon my back
I knew there was no turning back
I had left this material world, and took
the steps up to the sky.
I knew I was dead! I just couldn’t understand
How or why. Why did I leave all that I loved
Friends, family, and my loved ones
To climb the steps up to the sky.
WHY? WHY? WHY?
This question kept pounding in my brain.
What did I do, am I going insane?
If I am dead, what am I doing here?
I feel myself walking on the ground.
Yet! I don’t hear no words, no sounds.
Am I between heaven and hell?
Then what am I doing here.?
Then I heard a voice say:
Sometimes spirits find it hard to leave
For in their hearts they do grieve.
You will learn that things are not what they seem to be
There is a difference between spiritual and reality.
They both walk side by side, and can affect you
No matter what you try.
You was chosen to leave this world
And that’s the reason you have those wings
For you will be into everything.
You will show people love, compassion, hope, and faith
Before it becomes much too late.
You will show people how to care, and how to share
How to give strength when there’s no one there.
How to move on in life, and go thru the struggles and strife.
There are so many things that you must do
That’s the reason that I picked you.
So spread your wings and spread them wide
For you have a long ways to fly.
There is someone waiting for you, and when you
Get there, you’ll know what to do.
So I flew to where he said: this was something I did dread.
The person that he sent me to see, was a relative that I once knew
Cancer cells were eating her away, and by her side her family did pray.
Somehow she saw me when I entered the room
She asked me if it was time- I said it was much too soon.
I told her she had to make peace with everyone she knew
And that would take a day or two.
She smiled and said: I understand!
Will you sit and hold my hand.
I held her hand till it was time to depart
For her new life was about to start.
She saw a band of angels in back of me
And they all began to sing.
HALLELUJAH TO THE NEW BORN KING
Now I felt that I earned my wings
Bringing people home was an exhilarating thing.
poem by Louis Rams
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Poem in Memoriam T. S. Eliot
I'd been out the night before & hadn't seen the papers or the telly
& the next day in a café someone told me you were dead
And it was as if a favourite distant uncle had died
old hands in the big strange room/new shiny presents at Christmas
and I didn't know what to feel.
For years I measured out my life with your coffee spoons
Your poems on the table in dusty bed sitters
Playing an L.P. of you reading on wet interrupted January afternoons
Meanwhile, back at the Wasteland:
Maureen OHara in a lowcut dress staggers across Rhyl sandhills
Lovers in Liverpool pubs eating passion fruit
Reading Alfred de Vigny in the lavatory
Opening an old grand piano and finding it smelling of curry
THE STAR OF INDIA FOUND IN A BUS STATION
Making love in a darkened room hearing an old woman having a fit on the landing
The first snowflakes of winter falling on her Christmas poem for me in Piccadilly Gardens
The first signs of spring in plastic daffodils
on city counters
Lovers kissing
Rain fallin
Dogs running
Night falling
And you `familiar compound spirit' moving silently down Canning St in a night of rain and fog.
poem by Adrian Henri
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The Escape
The Sad Escape.
I sat by the table, near the window, reading. A woman and her man sat
on a filthy sofa, eating smoked sardines off an old newspaper.
This room stank of unwashed bodies and lack of hygiene. Dry washing
that should have been ironed weeks ago occupied a chair.
The pair rolled their own cigarettes and had nicotine stained fingers.
It was raining heavily I could not go out and felt a violent despair, like
a trapped animal that attacks its rescuers.“Use fork and knife” I snapped.
They both giggled. Rain had stopped I walked out, light shone out of
miserable curtains…and I knew. I must leave now. Get out! It was too easy
sink into apathy, and ignorance. Yet, I loved them, they were my flesh
and blood, good people who had never been encouraged to seek anything
better. But I must leave… and I left never to return.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Chornicles of a Dark Heart Part 12 Two Sides to Every Story
I dared to say those magic words ('I love you')
As people passed by in herds
you looked a little bit confused in our silence contest
But this is where the poem changes.. takes an unexpected turn
I guessed what you would say and that i would burn
But you didn't...? you smiled and you drew closer...
closer... thats how you glided forward and whispered to me 4 words
unlike my 3 words the ones that were spoken were like birds
I couldn't believe how happy i was...
I put my arms around you because
because those 4 words.... were 'I love you too'
are just what i needed to hear...
I silently knew my own thoughts for once! !
who knew the open book could read i knew that 'I loved you'
poem by David Knox
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We Couldn't Stop Laughing
we hid out in my room
we ate candy
and we couldn’t stop laughing
we joked around
we told our stories
and we couldn’t stop laughing
we looked into the distance
we opened the window
and we couldn’t stop laughing
there was a UPS truck
i stuck my feet out the window
thinking it was a trash truck
and we couldn’t stop laughing
we looked at old yearbooks
we told “do you remember when” stories
and we couldn’t stop laughing
we laughed at each other
we laughed at ourselves
and we couldn’t stop laughing
we laughed at the past
at the present and future
so as friends,
we couldn’t stop laughing
Brokenhearted Melody
I knew a woman
Treated me kind
Gave her all my dreams
Though she didn't know
Or if she did, she didn't say
I knew a woman
Mysterious and fine
Gaver her all my love
Seemed like, in a nick of time
But she didn't stay, didn't stay
I knew a woman
Soft and gentle
Stayed on my mind, on my mind
No need for sympathy
Maybe another day
I knew a woman
I never could let go
She was in my heart
No matter where I'd go
Come what may, come what may
I knew a woman
Think of her all the time
She couldn't feel my love
She's gone, no worries
Don't remind, Don't remind
Got to go now
Running out of time, runnin' out of time
A memory in my heart and mind
Would have loved her
For all time, for all time, don't remind
One day a sweet angel's going to find me
Rest this weary heart of mine
Going to love me for all time
Everything's going to somehow work out fine
Hope I've still got time, pray I've still got time
© James T. Adair
poem by James T. Adair
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A Round Table
we have this round table
and we put all our hands
on it when we eat and
drink and just talk for
hours and hours and
listen. And we ask what
is happening: Karding
broke a leg and Delia
is looking for the money.
Always it is the money.
Always she is short of
the money. And there
were jewelries hanging
on her neck and arms
and fingers, and we all
ask at this round table:
what is happening?
Nothing, don't mind at
all, this is just a part of
the round table, some
wine glass that broke
and must be swept at
once. We keep away the
sound of a crying pig.
We eat pigs here at this
round table. Then we shifted
the talk about our dead
parents. We pray. We
remember we keep on
saying this. We finish eating
the pig. We drink a very
cold water. Our throats
are irritated and we step
out of the room wanting
to pull away our tongues.
when we come back the
round table is empty.
and we laugh about a
joke that we remember.
our childhood games
the river, and the boat
that father made for us.
we turn off the tv and we
begin to talk about the
beautiful flowers in mother's
old garden, the secret one.
we agree. we miss it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Her Sexuality
Even her mother
never knew
how much
sexuality boiled
beneath the surface
how much
she thought of it
when sitting down
in some cafe
watching men
at some nearby table
fantasizing
about them
dreaming about
what they might do
if she allowed
or while sitting
at the office typing
her mind on things
which’d make
her mother blush
the mighty rush
of images
and desires
and old Mr Fleet
talking to her
about some work
not knowing that fires
burned beneath
her flesh and skirt
that she made love
to herself
while in bed
while others slept
and even Kennedy
the office ram
would have choked
on things she did
in dreams or wrote
in her locked up diary
and once
when some girlfriend
of her brother’s
stayed the night
and shared her room
and bed
she fantasised
of touching
and turning over
and kissing
all in the mind
she told herself
just one of those things
and even later
when she finally married
and lay beside him
at night having
sucked him dry
she’d stared
out the window
at the silver moon
in the dark sky.
poem by Terry Collett
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 08: The Box With Silver Handles
Well,—it was two days after my husband died—
Two days! And the earth still raw above him.
And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall.
In number four—the room with the red wall-paper—
Some chorus girls and men were singing that song
'They'll soon be lighting candles
Round a box with silver handles'—and hearing them sing it
I started to cry. Just then he came along
And stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me,
And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled
And said, 'Say, what's the matter?' and then came down
Where I was leaning against the wall,
And touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . .
And I was so sad, thinking about it,—
Thinking that it was raining, and a cold night,
With Jim so unaccustomed to being dead,—
That I was happy to have him sympathize,
To feel his arm, and leaned against him and cried.
And before I knew it, he got me into a room
Where a table was set, and no one there,
And sat me down on a sofa, and held me close,
And talked to me, telling me not to cry,
That it was all right, he'd look after me,—
But not to cry, my eyes were getting red,
Which didn't make me pretty. And he was so nice,
That when he turned my face between his hands,
And looked at me, with those blue eyes of his,
And smiled, and leaned, and kissed me—
Somehow I couldn't tell him not to do it,
Somehow I didn't mind, I let him kiss me,
And closed my eyes! . . . Well, that was how it started.
For when my heart was eased with crying, and grief
Had passed and left me quiet, somehow it seemed
As if it wasn't honest to change my mind,
To send him away, or say I hadn't meant it—
And, anyway, it seemed so hard to explain!
And so we sat and talked, not talking much,
But meaning as much in silence as in words,
There in that empty room with palms about us,
That private dining-room . . . And as we sat there
I felt my future changing, day by day,
With unknown streets opening left and right,
New streets with farther lights, new taller houses,
Doors swinging into hallways filled with light,
Half-opened luminous windows, with white curtains
Streaming out in the night, and sudden music,—
And thinking of this, and through it half remembering
A quick and horrible death, my husband's eyes,
The broken-plastered walls, my boy asleep,—
It seemed as if my brain would break in two.
My voice began to tremble . . . and when I stood,
And told him I must go, and said good-night—
I couldn't see the end. How would it end?
Would he return to-morrow? Or would he not?
And did I want him to—or would I rather
Look for another job?—He took my shoulders
Between his hands, and looked down into my eyes,
And smiled, and said good-night. If he had kissed me,
That would have—well, I don't know; but he didn't . .
And so I went downstairs, then, half elated,
Hoping to close the door before that party
In number four should sing that song again—
'They'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'—
And sure enough, I did. I faced the darkness.
And my eyes were filled with tears. And I was happy.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Round Room
My room is round when I lay down, when I wake up it's square
When I go outside it's on a spiral set of stairs
The people that surround me are waiting out there
In a round room they can't find me anywhere
Right angle rooms drive me crazier each day
Put me in a box I know I'm never going to play
Put me in a square room and I won't know what to say
I want a round room at the end of the day
I had an apartment, four corners on the walls
Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep there at all
I want a curve to the place where I stay
I want a round room at the end of the day
If I pass out take me to the round church
Where echoes resound
And my spirit is found
And when I float high
Take my arm and I'll fly you by
The outskirts of town, to a garden that's round
I went to the lighthouse and I liked the view
I looked out the window and I could see you
Put me in a square house and I won't have a clue
I want a round room just to be with you
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear Boy
I didn't think I was in love with you, and I know I don't want to be now.
Until I started to dream of you, I always had a way to keep you out.
You're back in again, my old best friend; I start to wonder too, do you dream of me like I do of you?
Did you see me in your house, wearing nothing much or anything.
Did you walk with me on that boat, sitting at our table all alone.
Were you eating in my house? Arguing at my front door?
Driving away, with the thought at bay, "do I love her anymore? "
Was it you in blue in my bedroom after the homecoming dance?
All those times, I couldn't see your face, but then I felt your embrace.
Or do you dream of someone else, the prettiest girl you've ever seen, way prettier than me.
Does she have chocolate hair, golden curls, and a wonderful way with words?
Is she better than me at everything, captain of the volleyball team,
She's going to be your prom queen?
Well she'll never know as much as me.
poem by D.M.L. Catseye
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I've always thought with relationships, that it's more about what you bring to the table than what you're going to get from it. It's very nice if you sit down and the cake appears. But if you go to the table expecting cake, then it's not so good.
quote by Angelica Houston
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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