(1)
There’s one thing I must get off my chest
that’s bothered me now
even 50 years on
with the passage of time –
my English teacher then
she always told me when I grumbled
homework was too difficult,
she’d tell me: “That’s a piece of cake”
And I’d go home discombobulated how
anyone could eat paper
or homework
and she said this not once, but every time:
“It’s a piece of cake”


(2)
And my parents and I looked at it
every which way and from every point of view
and concluded in our Perfect Ancient Native language:
“This English teacher is a loony. She is wooly-headed.
She is the lamb Mary lost, silly and muddle-headed.
How can homework be a piece of cake?
Anyway, we don’t eat cake – we eat samosas.”

(3)
And yet the English teacher would put her nose
up in the air
and remonstrate: “It’s a piece of cake!”

Oh yeah, would you like tea with it?

Now, my parents, bless their Ancient Souls,
have gone on into the next world
And I’m left wondering about the secret madness
of that English teacher
who’d ask me to eat cake when I expressed genuine concern…

Well, my parents have passed on, as I said,
and I’ve moved on
as is plain and radiant to see
to master idioms and vocabulary
Punctuation, the catenative verb and Usage;
and, as for that wooly-headed English teacher,
I’m sure she’s moved on into
a comfortable nuthouse
where the staff makes her eat her cake,
and make her think she can have it too -
cos that’s what they do to nuts, and such instances

(4)
And now that I have got that off my chest,
I can comfortably resume memorizing
Volume 3 of theOxford Dictionary
as  I perambulate
and copy 100 entries from Fowler’s “Modern English Usage”
as I victulate
which is all part of my nightly ritual
since she told me to do so some 50 years ago
(cos I happened to look at her Union Jack knickers
when she sat high on the table, and I stood up *****
cos that's what they made us do in the cinemas)
- and that helps to put me into a state of dormancy, to hibernate
till the sun ushers in a new day for me  –
and a new cake for that wooly-headed English teacher,
she, I can presume with certainty,
elegantly reposed and superannuated


Now, I’m glad I’ve got this off my chest
and mastered my idioms and phrases
and I can go eat my samosas

I believe in one church.
I believe in an inter-racial and unbiased church of many nations.
I believe in one church of many traditions.
I believe in one church not hemmed in by history or by man-made borders.

I believe in a God for whom his pallet of skin colours reflects his love of diversity.
I believe in God-given racial difference.
I believe in one creator God who made all humankind equal.
I believe in Christ’s one church that reflects our maker's love of difference.

I do not believe in uniformity.

I believe in the Christ’s common language of love for one another, for neighbours and for enemies that transcends local dialects.
I believe in one sundry collection of priests who are called by Christ to serve one God together, saved by His one sacrifice once and for all time.
I believe in the promise of one resurrected church drawn from all nations, from every generation to meet her bridegroom, Jesus Christ.
I believe in one eternal wedding feast at a table prepared by God which features everything from the finest vegetable samosas to the richest steam puddings.
I believe in one extravagant Father who has built one massive mansion with many rooms so all his people can come and dwell together.

I believe in God's Kingdom come.

We both live in Mumbai,
He is Harish, I am Jai.
He lives on the pavement,
Next to my luxurious apartment,
He lives in a shack with metal covered with tarpaulin roof,
It has a T.V dish and WIFI
Mine is hi tech and fire proof.
He sells Samosas on streets and trains,
I am a CEO of a huge company and its top brains.
He rides a small scooter,
I move in a a posh chauffeur driven car,
We are both dressed according to our status.
But, life is ludicrous,
He is always carefree, laughing and most happy,
Whilst I am always stressed and snappy.
He sells 4000 to 5000 samosas a day,
Free, sometimes by midday,
He gets a profit of rupees one for each samosas he sells,
Mostly he gets orders to deliver on his cell.
He earns as much as I do,
Makes me seethe red and blue,
He is his own boss,
Net income, no tax, no loss,
While I slog day and night for others,
Thinking of it makes me shudder.
He is even the owner of the house I live in,
My company has rented from him,
He even owns two more houses in the neighbourhood  within,
And a garage not  far,
Where it  services  our company's cars.
Life's like that.

I am ashamed, Sister!

I live in a house, I want to renovate.
Yours was bulldozed, now you live in a tent.

I need a new car, trade the old one away.
You lost your feet in a bombing yesterday.

I sleep so cozy and warm in a king size bed.
You find comfort in the cold hard floor instead.

Something doesn't work out I'll complain to everyone.
While you hide your tears when you lose someone.

My freezer is full with samosas and pies.
Your tummy sounds are muffled by rockets and cries.

I open my fast with plenty food in my plate.
You are thankful for that single date.

I do some chores my back is sore.
You lost your sons your pain is much more.

My Eid clothes are bought, few hundreds gone.
You were forced to leave with the clothes you had on.

I need a few holidays throughout the year.
You won't abandon your land despite the fear.

I have everything yet I still want more.
You just want peace, the end of this war.

Despite all this you are closer to Allah then I'll ever be.
So I am ashamed sister, ashamed for being me!

YUMMY YUMMY IN MY TATTOOED TUMMY
I like eating very much, call it a passion coz obsession sounds too mad.                                                            
Give me a sandwich tuna mayo one sliced tomato on bread times two.                                                        
Not enough!
Time for chicken donner on nan with everything on: hot sauce, salad cream with salad, peppers too, Jalapeno style. Add an order for onion barges, samosas and chips in pita bread with mild sauce on.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Half an hour later, an Italian beckons. His pizza looks cool! I say three types of meat, sliced, on top. Extra cheese, deep pan and two types of olives. Munchy time and yes, I enjoy this meal.
Later… What next? English fish and chips with salt and vinegar and a drop of gravy. No mushy peas, I hate them! I’ll take two fish cakes on the side. Traditional English grub down the hatch. Then meat and potato pie on a muffin. Careful not to burn my mouth! Did that before.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Time for some American influence, supersize me! Huge portion of fries, mega big burger and a litre of strawberry milkshake.
I’m multicultural in my diet. Foreign people are cool when it comes to their cuisine. I love Norwegian apple juice, as I need a drink after eating their goats’ cheese on rough white bread.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Chinese crispy duck is desirable, just like egg fried rice and prawn crackers. All available food is welcome, I’ll eat your left over’s on my trip of eating.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!

The phones stopped ringing ,
my mobiles run out of bat ,
and the clock keeps ticking,
tick tick tick Tok .
and as I pull the covers more hours slip away .

The rain won’t stop falling and the winds blowing a gale ,
as I head out to the churches with porch lights ablaze ,

There’s a choir down town ,
its time to come shine ,
for now it’s time to come and sing !

The  lights are all a blazing the trumpets are on tune ,
and the rain just keeps on falling on this sunny afternoon.

Yet all  I’m wishing is all I want ,
and there are beautiful heavenly voices coming from the front .
I’m just standing there with tears in my eyes with ,
mince  pies and samosas cups of coffee and cake ,

and they are all busy chatting so full of love and grace .

The Christmas tree with it’s pritty lights behind the pull pit lies ,
with happy faces all around it handing out samosas and mince pies ,

The doors closes and the roads are all quiet ,
the clock keeps on ticking in my room ,
I turn over ,
Put out my light and all there is ,
Is you

The last time I had seen this particular cousin of mine, I was still in college and he had a head full of hair. In between, there had been three funerals, two weddings and four births in our Trojan royalty of a family. I had been a university graduate for a year, and the prospect for a job, a decent one at that, had started to grow dimmer by the day. He asked, “Will you tutor my daughter?” “Yes!” I said. And we set out immediately. He, on his bike and I, on my motorcycle following him. We took a right turn at the famous landmark of the statue of demoness Putana, sitting on the grass with her ***** out and legs spread forward. He introduced me to his wife and daughter. Telling them to stand side by side, he told me, “She's only eleven, but look at her! Already equal in length and width to her mother, who is no delicate petal herself. Do you think you can teach her GK?”

The universe wasn't made with dissent. Plus, the chicken samosas were really delicious. I tried on a grin while the overachieving pre-teen bustled around the room showing me her accolades for painting, singing, studying. As I left he pointed at a tree, “Do you know what tree is that?”

“Bael?” I answered thoughtfully.

“Apple. That's an apple tree.”

“Oh! Does it bear fruits?”

“Not in this climate!” He laughed out loud.

so many people become such  bad compatriots of drinking,
i've chosen an anthem for them: no, they're not obscure
Ukraine patrons of Chernobyl leveraging the Para Olympics
to get a whiff of the invisible  atomic wind - how many times
i got drunk from mere conversation, and how many i sobered up
when drunk when something dear to my heart was laughed at...
i decided to drink alone, because as many times that good
conversation lifted me from  the placebo effect of drinking,
it also dragged me into hatred that turned into pure bile
of rotting acid... i have an anthem for these people:
special needs by placebo... they belong in that ****-pile
of thought, yep: the ought i without i thought:
purest example... or albino lions and the one female that came up
to an engaged lion and showed her belly as if it were her cleavage...
i dare say, ol' chap, Darwinism made new assurances
in human ****** prowess a bit, too much, humanoid...
i'm not watching Para Olympians racing the track,
i'm gladly watching cyborgs... they're not human, evolutionary
terms come into play, they're cyborgs.... or how wolves yearn
for their best fried, never mind the alpha wolf being segregated -
awooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
                 discrimination concerning
   actual timing of that prolonging.
                  Dracula said: try the samosas, they're added spice;
i keep telling myself: these people can make it,
                            but then i said: well,
            if i am to praise acts dictatorial, i have to become
dictating what's anti-democratic involvement:
                 stipends of pedantry, and how that backfired
when the chosen became the elect -
                                            and how the elect
              was recognised as an unread book -
and the chosen people as, simply: people who
bought or simply owned the book,
                 not having read it.
yes, sometimes drinking alone is all you need,
         not because there's some hierarchy of addiction -
it's because there are people who can
  get you drunk on talk,
          but there are ******* that can make
you sober up with their talk -
        and those you thought were your friends
introducing you to the latter crowd are worth
keeping in touch with: they're merely worth
postcards. come to think of it, poetry is
akin to manual labouring, or the best poetry is,
the poet ought to have an implant that says:
   our work is no easier than a bricklayers'...
  there's enough to digest what would appeal
to the person seeking a river, or fluidity -
                 poet akin to a labourer -
                  some call it the contract
    of increased chances of spinal pains
hunched at the keyboard or when lifting weights
that have nothing to do with aesthetics -
                   sure... you'll hear my voice...
but first pay me for my words... if the former doesn't
fit with the latter? forget it!
                                         i have an anthem for
some people who's sole requisite in confirming
compatible life is served up in only one request: pay your tax.
                  and Nietzsche was right:
do i regret not having made such an observation,
   or do i regret having read it? perhaps both -
worse off: have i not chanced my behaviour as
containing the dynamic of having experienced such
and such an observation?
                                             the subtle nature of the year,
the ***** of fear - and music to contraband
the comforts of the house and the fireplace and the television
and the monthly gas bill -
                               subtle cries from caves and aged forests -
poetry too: ars nocturna (nocturnal art) -
                     a hive of contradictory abysses
peeling sight from sight, and eye from the Everest
cross-eyed that's the tip of the nose:
         or Bobby Moore alone, drinking in complete
company (his self, the reflective, not the reflexive
himself: that needs company) -
                          because a lot of people can ruin
your drinking, by sheer congestion of missing
artefacts that will never be exhumed -
                                  a lot of people that drink
are brought before the court of alcoholics anonymous,
but they never figure out that their sanity
    is why a lot of people drink...
                         the reflexive means the devil's
dozen dissection of keeping interaction to a fulfilment
of a night out... the reflective means:
                                                                       you.
i find it so surprising, a Christmas present to be honest,
  that so many people can't seem to ingest
     what they digest into others with their presence...
so many conversations can leave you drunk...
    but in equal measure, so many conversations
  can make you sober up due to blatant irritation:
             i was asked to join a.a., i simply said:
    *******...                    you watch the ******* television
                   and tell me you never wished to
feel the adrenaline of Somalian pirates...
                        i'll sniff out your lie quicker
  than you'll be able to say: my life's in technicolor.
            yeah... and i'm Moses the Unbeliever.

An ABCDERIAN of soups
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As an application for the post of ~
       Castle Sou Chef and would be Laureate
Below stairs a Sou Chef most extra ordinary
       Is required. ( Only stupid need apply)
Candidates must be most experienced and
      Inspiring without pride ,prejudice or ego.
Dedicated to the daily soup production and
      Miles and miles of uplifting prose for all
Each and every day, three sessions per day
      Without interruption or failure to amuse
For with failure comes “Death by be heading “
      No second chances , there’s no way out.
Granted this post has never been filled ,
     No applications have ever been received.
Hundreds of sad Sou i cidal people have tried
      To apply but their poetry was *******.
I think they were happy with the risk of failure
       It must have played a part I guess.
Joking with the chief jailer ,had this Poet with.
      His finger to write with ink in the dust
Kings loved this kind of justice, killing two birds
      Poets and Sou chefs with a single stone.
Like as if any poet could be a Sou chef
      With his head always in the clouds ?
Might I then hand this condemned Poet a life-
        Line with an aid of ABCDERIAN of soups .
Now to enable him to list by heart a few soups
        And produce a winning Anthology ~
Olives, Omelette, Onions , Oranges all make
       Special soups and very special soups too.
Pakchoi,Panchetta, Parsley,Parsnips,Pasta,
       Peas , Peppers and pretty purple prose.
Quick soups, slow soups,Pork and potatoes
       Poultry,Prawns in barley , even prunes.
Radicchio, Rice,Rosemary, roasted lamb shank
       Indeed a hundred and one different broths
Soups of the Mediterranean,Seafood ,Salsa,
         Samosas or simply left over sausages.
Thai chicken noodle,stir fry bean sprouts,
       Thyme, tofu or even mention Tuscan bean
Using recipes from around the World over a
       Thousand days ,should allay the AXE.
Vegetables both hot or cold ,sour or sweet
  Can be produced from,Knowledge of vinegar
Wild mushrooms grow in every corner of the
     Castle inside the walls and without
Xanadu can thence become the paradise a
       Poet seeks as long as he can stand damp
Yes poet if you can’t stand the damp try to get
    Into an  unbearable heat of the Kitchen.
Zucchini (or courgettes as you know them)
     May bring this poem to a close. Now Apply.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Written by Philip
December 14th 2018.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


P