"cardamom" poems
bike's rusted chain
against the walls of my childhood
a new family lives inside
but what they don't see
are the notes of cardamom and burnt orange
rolls of film that my parents and I left behind
capturing sneakers over gravel
along the east river
toward the steel Hell Gate
as dad jogged beside me
his caramel skin
against the sycamores
my first time learning how to ride
they don't feel the bruises and scrapes nor
taste the paella we shared for dinner that evening
they only see what we gave them,
an empty house with matte finish
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
Upon the cardamom hills, mountain goats,
ace acrobats, above the high rocks gaily prance,
I fell in love with the coy mountain mist, silvery dense
transforming each second, her wizardry in display,
her white cloak was spread above green tea gardens.
she sprung down in a hurry to meet me, excited
how soothing is her soft caresses, impassioned kiss
from the does she has learned a lot I can very well gather,
the fear and the flight to keep danger at arm's length,
purple sun, was curiously peeping down from the hills,
mountain mist pulling spicy cardamom scent around her
whispered to me, "Don't tell any one I am here
before cruel sun chases me out of the hills, let me
hide and play with the little ones of mountain goats
in the cardamom valley where he can never reach"
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
Eating mushrooms, to her is yet another art
she loves to perfect, in my ear she whispers
with such visible pleasure,"I want to be a connoisseur in this"
Her studio smelled herbs and wild flowers of inner forest,
brought me back to the cardamom and cinnamon garden
I played in my days of boyhood; spices build a bridge for us.
More of a herbalist than a paint smelling artist, she seems,
mounted on the wall on irregular fashion were the mushrooms
she painted with a passion rare, and a precision mirroring life;
the paintings brought her past in to the studio, only trained eyes
would discern the cryptic symbolism, a consummate artist she certainly is!
The woman who smoked cigars in succession and untiringly danced,
she said was her favorite, along the lake front we took a long walk
comparing notes; there were parallels that met, we found soon enough.
"You too knew her so well, I am aware", she said. A room filled with smoke
where we dance, make love, grow tired, fall down and sleep, wasn't it our life?
No one can miss the signature smell of her dense cigar smoke on my dress!"
I loved the smell of cloves she exhaled while eating mushrooms.
though detachment she pretended, eating mushrooms never was that!
I kept looking down at her eyes, a sailor about to sight the land,
any panting moment that rushes with a monsoon song for me and her.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
My small hut of dreams
surviving all alone atop of hill
covered all around with huge deodar trees
of muddy wall and slanting roof sill
Ginger and cardamom tea
near the orange fire place
reading journals
I will live , capturing the first snow in days
freshly baked potato in oven clay
sprinkled rock salt with melted cheese
fragrant leaves of corainder
lingers on and stays
sweet and sour taste of wine
from the close by farm of grapes
friends and family gather everynight
over dinner and United prays
bells echoing mystery in the air
far from the temples on a difficult mountain
where path to heavens looks reachable
trekking the rocks in sun and in rain
Manisha
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
August heat rolls in unchecked
I dab softly at my neck with a hint of Autumn whispers
Already yearning for cardamom and patchouli
Winds to blow Chai kisses my way
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
It is easy to think me a fool,
the foolish boy whose foolish dreams
melted his wings and
broke his father’s heart.
What is harder to see:
I knew the math of it all,
remembered the geometry of
wax and feathers
so well I could taste it on my tongue
scraping like cardamom
and sour sweet like tangerines
on the roof of my mouth.
Height and wind speed,
melting points and velocity,
lift and ******
bird wings turned to equations
I held in my heart.
But oh,
to fly is nothing at all like math.
It is nothing at all like diagrams of
birds and insects and cloud formations.
To see the sun, The Sun, oh,
to spread your fingers through it’s warmth
as the air becomes tangible like the sea,
oh, there was no room in this heart for
the coldness of figures,
they were melted long long before my wings.
So judge, though the sky has never loved you
and I will yearn for the sun, The Sun,
oh,
from the bottom of the sea.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
Everyone dismisses me as insane,
But I am a prophet,
Profiting,
On the inane.
When I get lost in stargazing
My cup of cardamom chai
Configuring constellations of cream,
I pocket piping hot horoscopes
Right out of the tea kettle.
Remember --
I drink in the universe,
Sanctimoniously symbiotic.
So the next time I offer,
To read your tea leaves,
Left dried at the bottom of the cup,
Don't scoff me off,
Because what I do,
Is translate the universe's art.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
CHAI GARAM CHAI
Millions of cups of TEA/CHAI each day, we Indians happily consume
It is almost a must every morning, evening and before we work resume
Lures us its aroma at home or when we pass by a tea-stall, tempting are its fumes
One of the most consumed drinks in India is definitely chai, anyone can this presume
Huge varieties there are, count one cannot; but the most famous I guess is Masala chai
Most Indians, specially Gujjus, this thoroughly enjoy; even foreigners must definitely it try.
Every morning a fresh cup of boiling chai makes your day; ah! that cup of "garma-garam chai"
My most favorites are the aadu-ilaichi (ginger cardamom) n Bawaji special, the fudhina-leeli-chai
Once you sip it, along with Bun-Muska, almost addicted you are, you get a "Chaska" true.
There is an art in concocting a good cup of chai; one must know how to it properly brew
Sadly I wasn't allowed to taste coffee or tea/chai when young, I tasted it, only when I grew
Tea here, is a drink old, but the Brits loved it n made it famous; so, chai is old tea is new
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 4:59 AM UTC
Her laughter pumps the gas, dumps the clutch shakes and rattles from each intersection
Her wet feet leave monster tracks long damp claws arching across the cement
Her hair grows brambles collecting thorns and twigs with the best of bushes
Her senses, corvid, snatching up dropped coins, pencils, paperclips
Her tongue unfettered, butterfly breath reels with snips of story and songs
Her eyes hold drops of honey, sticky sweet lashes follow the sun
sunflower cheeks blush cardamom on yellow velvet
glow butterfaced with dandelion kisses
Rough, regular under hand, stubbornly slate, unchanged unmoved.
if her soul is a garden there is a cinderblock there
holding down the sunflowers,
along with the grass at her core, it grows roots,
but no moss.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
I don’t have any pressure to go sledding
Because I’m still afraid of falling on the ice
And you loved the snow
I don’t have to risk my life on icy back roads every day
On the pretense of returning your things
Just so I don’t have to wait 24 hours to see you
I don’t have an extra pair of your shoes under my bed
From when you accidentally left them there
You were always leaving your things around
I don’t have a second home to spend the day at
With open fields full of snow banks for fort-building
The house is gone and so are you
I don’t have a reason to build a snow-fort this year
No one cares to sleep in it, it’s too cold
You were that kind of crazy
I don’t have someone to bake cardamom cookies with
We both had sticky dough on our hands
And we washed them in the same sink at the same time
I don’t have a friend at the Christmas parties
Who can back up my wild stories about the week
And argue with me about the rules for card games
I don’t have a cuddle-buddy for watching movies
We never really got the chance to do that
We were always running off to get some alone time
I don’t have to hide when I’m changing out of my wet snowy clothes
Because you’re never going to walk in from the cold
And start changing your clothes too
I don’t have a fire in my hearth
But I’m sure there’s one in yours
I used to enjoy watching you make them with your dad
I don’t have any wet, ***** sandy puddles to clean up
Because you’ll never walk across my kitchen
And forget to take off your boots
I don’t have to walk around barefoot
Even if it means getting my socks wet
Because you’re not there to remind me with your calloused toes
I don’t have twice as many presents under the tree
Not because we ever exchanged gifts, we were too poor
But every present you received and loved made me happy too
I don’t have snow down my neck from the snowballs you threw
I don’t have wet globs of melting ice in my hair because you tackled me
I don’t have anyone to make tea for, because I don’t even like tea
I don’t have your countless little siblings to share my snacks with
I don’t have to make cooking mistakes because I can’t bring you baked oatmeal
I don’t have a built in heater to share the backseat with
I don’t have a hoodie I can pass back and forth between us
I don’t have a companion to go on long walks with
I don’t have a curious mind to share kissing ideas with
I don’t have a hand to hold when I’m about to fall down on the ice
I don’t have you
*This is the time of year that makes me miss you
I start to notice the empty spaces in my life
And there are little things everywhere to remind me of you.*
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 11:08 AM UTC
You left nothing, only the Stevens book
That read: There is not nothing, no, no never…
Nothing and a yellow bicycle:
Two tires on a rickety frame.
When I do pick up a poem,
It’s to hear the gravel cadence of you,
Softer, informed by everything that spins:
A world, a bicycle, a chestnut tumbling
Downhill the city’s painted a roadside path,
My collarbone’s begun to mend.
The house gets drafty late afternoons
So I learn to cook:
Turmeric, cayenne. Hing & coriander.
cardamom. Cumin & mustard seeds.
Hing’s a pungent flower called asafetida
And corriander’s just cilantro.
Icy fingers spindle wheels on window panes.
I leave the teakettle to boil.
Spokes of trees shiver in the silverish dusk
Taking lessons from everything bare,
I let in the cold to hear
No stones turned in the drive.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 7:48 AM UTC
*Chambord recollections,
exhaling smoky vapors,
wisps of Madagascar aromatics
midst a French Château dream,
dipped in honeysuckle reminisces
of cardamom spice and the pungent
zest of once 'neath a midnight legend*
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
My brush is full of
fall-in-love hues.
cinnamons and cardamom,
rich garnets buried inside rocks
that have yet-to-be cracked
open.
my hand is full of
tiny thoughts,
the color leather & lapis
lazuli,
where the south is leaning up her chin
to give the north a kiss.
I'm going to
present you with the colors
like a row of
exotic spices-
expensive, condensed, the palate,
this palette,
of every world I can see you
in.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
Cups of coffee and plates with sugar crumbs
from pastry warm with cinnamon and cardamom,
and books overturned on antique tables
with scruff marks and scratches, loved, well-used,
(and me, in the middle of it all, listening to the
heartbeat of this country and its sincerity,
learning wisdom through small things).
He is a six foot springtide of caffeine and literature,
effervescent with sincerity and kindness and warmth.
I smile at him over the rim of my cup, and
suddenly I am swept up and moving with
his current, in love with him and a summer
spent scribbling into casebound notebooks
and with my hair flying in the wind that rustles
the trees around us, and with his lips on my neck.
Wild roses on brick walls and wooden window frames,
and the lavender growing on the curb all smile,
content to witness summer love bloom like
all things tend to do, in this season and this place.
I let him explain to me the stars in nights that
never seem to really begin but last forever;
he teaches me in not-quite darkness what
they mean, and I tell him under fairy-lights
how small I feel in the multitude of this universe.
He nods solemnly and I feel his breath in my hair,
holding me on this earth as he shows me galaxies.
- lund. cs.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
my hands are still
soft from rolling dough
in sugar,
still smell faintly
of cinnamon and nutmeg
cardamom and clove
spiral upward in
the smoke from black
tea, a warmth
inside to mingle
with the smoke of
fire
I have nutmeg hands
and chai-campfire lungs
I am warm-scented
steam in an empty
orange sweater
I am the poem
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
In this tightly interwoven
tapestry of
silks and cottons
softness upon stems
an intricately-boned
journey
manifesto of life
I find myself in
patchwork landscapes
of ochre and
rust turning
turquoise
earthern shades
of cumin and cardamom
cloves and coriander
piquant red of paprika
alighting the senses
My fingers reach out
to sift the powder
to crush
fragrant fronds
of fresh basil and oregano
upon the blueprint of tips
allow their scent
to permeate my skin
and infuse tissue
of tongue and lips
and I seem to be
in this
bustling marketplace
my blood afire like
dried ghost pepper
searing and brightening
all flavors
fenugreek and asafoetida
to soothe the ache
of emptiness
chervil and chive
to get juices flowing
I want to slit open
vanilla pods
get at the beans
revel in their essence
wear it all over me
In this realm of spice
and paradise
I am flying,
a magic carpet of dreams
unrolling before me
like an unfurled flag
of new existence
The sounds of hagglers,
fading in raw visons
of shiny apple colors
olives piled high
textures of smooth cherry
budded broccoli
of walnut wrinkles
aroma of guava
Music takes over
I am in a cloud of
oud and lute
syncopated tabla
bells and rumbling
taut skin drum beats
Or is that long low whir
simply my heart purring
to the cadence of
freedom's call?
I only know
that in the whisk
of a second's split
I will savor the flight
and also the
fall
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 2:41 PM UTC
My emotions dry and crumble as leaves do.
The smell of pumpkin and cardamom
Reminds me of the day I cut myself
Deeper than I ever had before.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
The smell of oolong still speaks your name. In the tea and spice shop I drift among leaves and peppercorns, petals and sugar, I want to fade into the muted tones of flavorful hulls, curl into the scent of cinnamon and cardamom. Pulling down the iron goddess of mercy, I realize the veneer of curled baroque leaves rest on a sandbag. Shadowed abundance, a pretty lie, hollow, futile. Too much like us. The Cheshire glimmers of what we could have been. What I always wanted you to be, and what you sometimes were. A small edge, tiny supply to fill my cup, flavor fading too quickly. Replacing the jar, I realize there must have been a last day I named you mine. The last time I called you boyfriend, partner—by our last talk, it was already finished, the last note in a fading song, off tune. I cannot recall the shape of my lips, the weight of your name, the tenor of my voice, the bend of my tongue, much less the listener. I still hear you, through the broken measures of a desperate song. You say you still love me, but perhaps I never told you, dear, I prefer coffee to tea.
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 9:58 AM UTC
Rattan letter rack stuffed
with hundreds of coupons
like requests to the Gods
sits under shrine
called the spice rack.
Little bottles
as dusty on outside
as within,
have no aroma left.
This temple's kitchen counter
top is mustard asterisks on
ivory laminate, so reminiscent
of ancient wonder.
These late '60's early '70's
design elements, lacquered
over with grease of yesterday's
din-dins, are only indicative
of where the resident wished
to be.
Now, even India, has lost
authentic texture, alluring space
and line, in these Internet times.
Though he can still smell cardamom,
nutmeg, and cinnamon waft from
Southeast. It is stuck in his mind.
Yet, since time of his dearly
departed's passing, no sandalwood
has been burned and he only
eats corn flakes.
America has changed him so.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
I poeticize, proselytize
Punctuate and pontificate.
I write couplets and rhymes
And I really do it all the time.
I exacerbate and exaggerate
With no desire to intimidate.
I make similes and metaphors
Indoors and even out of doors.
There’s cussing and discussion
And sharp literary impressions
Through diversions, conversions
Allusions as well as conclusions.
And with luck, no delusions.
Just syllabically deft fusions
Of some deferential references
With a deft touch of reverence.
I rhyme thyme with fresh lime
And cardamom with cinnamon.
Sweetbreads and shortbreads.
Chicken bones and licking scones.
Rhyming pumpkins with dumplings
And matching up filets with filberts
Just as cocoa goes well with Kona.
Marmalade can be a good marinade.
I rhyme chrome wheels and automobiles,
Freeway off-ramps and Tiffany lamps.
Cellophane and vintage airplanes.
Flapper vamps and streetwalking tramps.
Also Cinderella coaches and cockroaches,
Nothing is unfair game to a busy poet.
As well as RCA Victors and boa constrictors.
Since I’m a poet, everyone should know it.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
you want war, you have world war two spitfire pilots to serve your post-colonial migration; and yes, i'll twitch my eyes; ha ha cuisine scots using ginger.
there's a quintessential
fascination with cabbage
among the mutli-cultural
asians of england being picky
concerning scandinavians
and the slavs...
politico i could say as much
about indian spices.. but they're
granulated i admit,
so there's less stink in the armpits;
or there isn't, given chanel cardamom:
assimilated asians into british
society don’t use raw herrings and cabbage
to joke about other european ethnicities
while waving the st. george
of that great fake curry of suffolk.
*i've been telling the turks about sauerkraut for years
to match up a purposive additive for the lamb kebab;
sours to cut through the lamb fat like the chillies
cutting through.*
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC