The Maundy Thursday
In a feast the host must receive the guests
With humility. Else he is the beast
That relegates his guests as mere beggars.
Jesus washed guests' feet on Maundy Thursday.[before the feast]
25.03.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The gift and the feast
The cost of the gift must not be compared
With the cost of the feast thrown, by the host.
The feast stands for the host's potentials.
The gift stands for the guests' limitations.
26.04.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Just to 'Hang' In There
We've all seen them rush,
To meet and greet new guests.
With impressions made.
And in fresh dress...
To do their best,
To be the ones addressed.
We've all seen them rush,
To meet and greet new guests.
Especially the ones who profess,
To be those righteous.
But disguising their true selves,
As pests who love to gossip.
We've all seen them rush,
To meet and greet new guests.
To get those same guests...
To get upset and leave.
And the actions of those responsible,
Seem as natural as the scenery.
If one is not in constant movement.
And movement is a required necessity.
For anyone who stays around.
And not just to 'hang' in there!
For the purpose to keep this reviewed,
With the same complaints to report...
On a daily basis.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Guests
One by one, the guests arrive
The guests are coming through
The open-hearted many
The broken-hearted few
And no one knows where the night is going
And no one knows why the wine is flowing
Oh love I need you
I need you
I need you
I need you
Oh . . . I need you now
And those who dance, begin to dance
Those who weep begin
And welcome, welcome cries a voice
Let all my guests come in.
And no one knows where the night is going ...
And all go stumbling through that house
In lonely secrecy
Saying do reveal yourself
Or why has thou forsaken me?
And no one knows where the night is going ...
All at once the torches flare
The inner door flies open
One by one they enter there
In every style of passion
And no one knows where the night is going ...
And here they take their sweet repast
While house and grounds dissolve
And one by one the guests are cast
Beyond the garden wall
And no one knows where the night is going ...
Those who dance, begin to dance
Those who weep begin
Those who earnestly are lost
Are lost and lost again
And no one knows where the night is going ...
One by the guests arrive
The guests are coming through
The broken-hearted many
The open-hearted few
And no one knows where the night is going ...
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Guesses
Find the guesses you care for,
And solve any hindrances of the past;
The past has managed a relaxation,
Forming me and my guests.
The host is me and my name carried weight,
Hosts are like countries, of time,
They fit in a shape, in some people
There are guests who fit and replicate.
The fair man jostles in the crowd of worries,
Never does his friend keep the secret,
Just worries are in sight, in the hearing cloud,
Why do they craft me so grandly?
poem by Naveed Akram
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Unwanted Guests
A mansion is built.
And unwanted guests,
Are reported to reside inside.
And there are those who claim,
This was not known.
Even though the unwanted guests,
Entertained, prepared the meals...
As well as took suggestions as to what to serve,
For choices of dessert.
And...
Tucked them all in bed at night!
To then leave,
On their own...
To wander freely around the mansion!
And yet,
It has been declared...
The guests who wandered freely around the mansion,
Were unwanted.
AND...
No one will admit,
They knew a mansion existed.
Nor have a clue who built it,
Or 'how' it got there.
I live on a fixed income.
And my every move is watched.
Even my approach to await a coming bus,
At a public bustop...
Is monitored as suspicious.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fire!
Attached they are without curteousy...
A demand to strike when needed
Seems cursed.
Extinquishing sparks
From arched eyebrows of those heated.
Alliances threaten to leave before dessert is served.
The feast that began,
Begins to lose the enchantment...
With the splitting of nerves!
Conversations are overheard,
Of the host having fits!
Seating arrangements are disturbed...
As uninvited guests come to sit!
And the chef is in the kitchen,
Throwing up his hands!
The meal he prepared,
Has been spoiled by such demands.
A coup in Thailand?
And now Iran breaks down the door?
The feast is looking bleak!
And Iraq continues to crumble as a nation for sure!
While those who make announcements to split...
Witness fumes and rising smoke,
Pouring through cracks from the floor
Abandoning a course 'selected' they ignore!
'Fire! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Maya, the illusion
Look back at your wedding.
Note down the guests.
Look back at your son’s.
Note down the guests.
Compare the lists
To know what illusion
The kith and ken are
No bond could ever exist,
some already extinct.
Now you know what Maya is.
04.05.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The latest lesson of my grandson
Four year old
Daughter's son
Just started talking
In some kind of comprehension
Returned from school
The other day
And there were some guests at home
Some of who were to
See our grandson first time
And it was my daughter's role
To introduce each
Of the guests
To her son
She is your aunty
Say 'Hi' to her
Which my grandson did
He is your 'Anna'
(Anna in Tamil means elder brother, it can be cousin too)
Say 'Hi' to him
Which my grandson did
This your grandma
Say 'Hi' to her
Which my grandson did
This went on
Till the time
All the guests were introduced
It is our practice
To give the child
A handwash immediately after
His retrun back home from school
And I took that charge
While I was helping him
In getting a wash
The fellow asked me
In a low voice like whisper
Are there no good person
Among our guests
Startled I asked him why
And he replied
Just today
School miss said
That all of us should
Grow to become a good person
Mom said these people are
Either grandpas, grandmas,
Uncles, Aunties, Annas or Akkas
But she said none
To be a good person
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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The Needle and Thread
The Needle and Thread one day were wed,
The Thimble acted as priest,
A paper of Pins, and the Scissors twins
Were among the guests at the feast.
That dandy trim the Bodkin slim
Danced with Miss Tape-measure,
But he stepped on her trail, and she called him 'a whale,'
And that put an end to their pleasure.
Wrinkled and fat the Beeswax sat
And talked with the Needle-case.
'I am glad,' she said, 'that my niece, the Thread,
Has married into this race.
'Her mother, the Spool, was a dull old fool,
And the Needle and Thread were shy;
The result you see came all through me,
I taught her to catch his eye.'
The Emery-ball just there had a fall-
She had danced too long at one time,
And that put a stop to the merry hop,
And that brings an end to my rhyme.
The groom and the bride took their wedding ride
Down a long white-seam to the shore,
And the guests all said there never was wed
So fair a couple before.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Each is a head
A dull woman too is the centre
of attraction on her bridal day.
An idiotic man too gains status
in the role of husband and father.
Any woman is the queen as mother.
Any host is a king to the guests.
Every cat has a day.
Every beast is a head.
04.05.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sacrament Hymn
ON a fair Sabbath day, when His banquet is spread,
It is pleasant to feast with my Lord:
His stewards stand robed at the foot and the head
Of the soul-filling, life-giving board.
All the guests here had burthens; but by the King's grant
We left them behind when we came;
The burthen of wealth and the burthen of want,
And even the burthen of shame.
And oh, when we take them again at the gate,
Though still we must bear them awhile,
Much smaller they'll seem in the lane that grows strait,
And much lighter to lift at the stile.
For that which is in us is life to the heart,
Is dew to the soles of the feet,
Fresh strength to the loins, giving ease from their smart,
Warmth in frost, and a breeze in the heat.
No feast where the belly alone hath its fill,—
He gives me His body and blood;
The blood and the body (I'll think of it still)
Of my Lord, which is Christ, which is God.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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I Do No Tours
Where
Do you get all of this 'stuff' from?
'From the attic'
From the attic?
But
I don't see any attic
'And you wont
I am the only one that has the key
And in my 'home'
I do no tours
I do guests
And no tours do those guests get.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Wedding Night
WITHIN the chamber, far away
From the glad feast, sits Love in dread
Lest guests disturb, in wanton play,
The silence of the bridal bed.
His torch's pale flame serves to gild
The scene with mystic sacred glow;
The room with incense-clouds is fil'd,
That ye may perfect rapture know.
How beats thy heart, when thou dost hear
The chime that warns thy guests to fly!
How glow'st thou for those lips so dear,
That soon are mute, and nought deny!
With her into the holy place
Thou hast'nest then, to perfect all;
The fire the warder's hands embrace,
Grows, like a night-light, dim and small.
How heaves her bosom, and how burns
Her face at every fervent kiss!
Her coldness now to trembling turns,
Thy daring now a duty is.
Love helps thee to undress her fast,
But thou art twice as fast as he;
And then he shuts both eye at last,
With sly and roguish modesty.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Suisunes Woman
when waters were clear
and elk foraged, fearless on
high bluffs, she waited
for her husband
flowing swiftly
with catch of salmon
he rode the western wind
as her eyes guided him
while high above
gathered the feathery
souls of the old ones,
returned from sea,
honored guests,
to the evening feast.
poem by Steven Federle
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New Year 2012
At last year’s New Year bash in the ballroom at the hotel, had two
hundred guests, this year 45 guests and the room was chilly and
had melancholic echo of yesteryears. A luxury liners’ last voyage,
ready to be chopped into bit and sent to the voracious furnaces
of China’s famished thirsts for steel.
And we, the 45, where stalwarts from bygone epoch the last of
a shrinking middle class. Too many waiters, too many cooks, they
knew what was coming next, the dole. Who needs a flat footed
waiter or a cook you can’t teach new tricks?
Twelve o’clock we toasted one another but our joy rang hollow in
the big room. The party was supposed to continue till four in
the morning as it had before, most guests left quarter past twelve;
I can only hope the crew, we dastardly deserted, drank the wine
ate food we left behind and had a proper wake.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Anniversary
Birthdays when you are old reminds you of the grave,
you see it a freshly dug hole waiting just for you.
People bring you wine, what else do an old man needs?
Guests getting high on wine they brought you and it is all
jolly. I try to join in. wife has made an effort candlelight
and so on guests are people I never see unless meeting
them at a pretentious art exhibition; and I think of my
childhood when birthdays were important, I tell stories
of a past of poverty and need; wife disrupts saying
I should forget about the past, how can I it shaped me
for what I´m today? Cakes I think of are those I never had
in my infancy; cakes I baked, with condensed milk, when
the captain had his birthday -if he was an ass hole I spat in
the dough-, on ships made into nails somewhere in hot
Bangladesh. How tired I´m lost in the past. Guests leave
the old man´s party, but my wife is not stunned when calm
falls I have to collect the dirty glasses and do the dishes.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Muse on the visits
The land that you own and things in hand
Have come to you to stay as guests,
For a snap or sleep and would slip soon
From you against your wish and acts.
It’s not gentle for you to deny
The guests their freedom of movements.
What you own, be it land, things or friends,
Are your visitors, not prisioners.
You don’t get them; instead to you they come.
Their visits are joy and exits, sorrow.
The sorrow is the merit of the joy got.
Muse on their visits, not on their exits.
29.10.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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Modern Love XVII: At Dinner She Is Hostess
At dinner, she is hostess, I am host.
Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keeps
The Topic over intellectual deeps
In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.
With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball:
It is in truth a most contagious game:
HIDING THE SKELETON, shall be its name.
Such play as this the devils might appal!
But here's the greater wonder; in that we,
Enamoured of an acting nought can tire,
Each other, like true hypocrites, admire;
Warm-lighted looks, Love's ephemerioe,
Shoot gaily o'er the dishes and the wine.
We waken envy of our happy lot.
Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot.
Dear guests, you now have seen Love's corpse-light shine.
poem by George Meredith
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