"cassava" poems - Hello Poetry

1 Backwater nymph, queen of serpentine black tresses flaunting its coconut oil gleam; envy of leggy girls from the Western ghat mountains, and lissome maidens from the plains, who can never eat as much fish, even if they wish. Wearing hibiscus flowers, on coiffure like hood of a king cobra, your coral lips silently speak of hot peppery kisses, waiting for me at shaded corners. Your sultry body in me arouses desires, that could only be whispered in your ears. 2 On a coconut lagoon when we met, for the first time and spoke, non stop, as if we knew each other life long, I heard music in your words. Oh! in the tongue you spoke, I heard the cadence of a nightingale ecstatic, on its wings above the clouds, love had prompted us to fly above the storms. Your gleaming coal black eyes, like silver hooks, tug at my heart strings, that makes music, only I can hear, you are a free flying lark, above Kerala's lush coconut coast, that extends from sea shore to the mountains. 3 **When we relished steaming brown rice, mixed with clarified butter, with spicy tuna curry, tasting so dainty, cooked in bubbling sweet coconut milk, my eyes like two crazy butterflies circled your face, a blossomed Champak*. Mashed cassava and roasted squid, melted on our tongues, in a perfect culinary language any one would understand without effort. 4 Your lips had cinnamon scent, spice land's boons, when we kissed we touched heaven of scents and spicy tastes. When our eyes fell on each other, near the ancient synagogue, the hay days of which is over, a long jasmine garland coiling your hair, marked you different, from the the ladies of your neighborhood, surrounding you. How well you did pretend that you have never seen my face before! You have mastered love's cunning, and all the wily tricks to cheat the enemies of our fiery love my Freudian mind perfectly understood. Just imagine the brouhaha we would invite, when we elope, in the last boat, to Alappuzha, stealthily at midnight.*

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May 1, 2013

May 1, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC

k-balachandran

A love song for my Cochin* girl

1 Backwater nymph, queen of serpentine black tresses flaunting its coconut oil gleam; envy of leggy girls from the Western ghat mountains, and lissome maidens from the plains, who can never eat as much fish, even if they wish. Wearing hibiscus flowers, on coiffure like hood of a king cobra, your coral lips silently speak of hot peppery kisses, waiting for me at shaded corners. Your sultry body in me arouses desires, that could only be whispered in your ears. 2 On a coconut lagoon when we met, for the first time and spoke, non stop, as if we knew each other life long, I heard music in your words. Oh! in the tongue you spoke, I heard the cadence of a nightingale ecstatic, on its wings above the clouds, love had prompted us to fly above the storms. Your gleaming coal black eyes, like silver hooks, tug at my heart strings, that makes music, only I can hear, you are a free flying lark, above Kerala's lush coconut coast, that extends from sea shore to the mountains. 3 **When we relished steaming brown rice, mixed with clarified butter, with spicy tuna curry, tasting so dainty, cooked in bubbling sweet coconut milk, my eyes like two crazy butterflies circled your face, a blossomed Champak*. Mashed cassava and roasted squid, melted on our tongues, in a perfect culinary language any one would understand without effort. 4 Your lips had cinnamon scent, spice land's boons, when we kissed we touched heaven of scents and spicy tastes. When our eyes fell on each other, near the ancient synagogue, the hay days of which is over, a long jasmine garland coiling your hair, marked you different, from the the ladies of your neighborhood, surrounding you. How well you did pretend that you have never seen my face before! You have mastered love's cunning, and all the wily tricks to cheat the enemies of our fiery love my Freudian mind perfectly understood. Just imagine the brouhaha we would invite, when we elope, in the last boat, to Alappuzha, stealthily at midnight.*

61

I live where a man rubbing White shoe cream on his leather loafers has ulcers From malnutrition and constant cassava. Where a man’s sister loves his Fossil watch And avocados, but gives The whole fruit to her hate child. The road is walked in the morning by Rwandans, the jerry cans on their heads wetting their chests With water from the spigot, half an hour away. Nike shoes are unstitched, laces Washed white daily and The drinking water is gone by seven p.m. I live where black people go thirsty keeping Their sneakers white; throats dry each morning While lacing their shoes.

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Jun 10, 2010

Jun 10, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC

brynn-champney

The Zebra

I live where a man rubbing White shoe cream on his leather loafers has ulcers From malnutrition and constant cassava. Where a man’s sister loves his Fossil watch And avocados, but gives The whole fruit to her hate child. The road is walked in the morning by Rwandans, the jerry cans on their heads wetting their chests With water from the spigot, half an hour away. Nike shoes are unstitched, laces Washed white daily and The drinking water is gone by seven p.m. I live where black people go thirsty keeping Their sneakers white; throats dry each morning While lacing their shoes.

15

Gunga peas calypso Madly in my cooking *** gradually I pour canned coconut milk into the swirling flavors of cilantro, garlic and onions Staring into the rich brown stew I can see my Mother grating coconut meat and hand squeezing the milk like teats from a cow (Too much work for me) creating a traditional coconut rice and peas dish She was raised on a farm in St. Elizabeth, Jamaica early hours, rugged, hard labor were natural for the family which included nine siblings Pauline was a kind big hearted Soul with ample soft ***** perfect for children to lay their heads upon and skin that always seemed to smell of curry Burnt sienna Indian complexion wavy black river hair and colorful patois accent painted a portrait cavorting over the dandy, rolling goat hooved hills of Jamaican village peasantry The Moravian church of England formed beliefs woven inextricably through the fabric of her simplistic innocent existence our Mom instilled a love of God in us that was pure and hearty "Sonya stop your daydreaming" my Mother's clarion voice interrupts my avid reverie "Bumba!" I cry aloud "I haven't had bammy in eons" Quickly my fingers Google Another tasty native recipe chock full of memories and cassava root

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Nov 20, 2014

Nov 20, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC

sonya-ki-tomlinson

Gunga Gal

Gunga peas calypso Madly in my cooking *** gradually I pour canned coconut milk into the swirling flavors of cilantro, garlic and onions Staring into the rich brown stew I can see my Mother grating coconut meat and hand squeezing the milk like teats from a cow (Too much work for me) creating a traditional coconut rice and peas dish She was raised on a farm in St. Elizabeth, Jamaica early hours, rugged, hard labor were natural for the family which included nine siblings Pauline was a kind big hearted Soul with ample soft ***** perfect for children to lay their heads upon and skin that always seemed to smell of curry Burnt sienna Indian complexion wavy black river hair and colorful patois accent painted a portrait cavorting over the dandy, rolling goat hooved hills of Jamaican village peasantry The Moravian church of England formed beliefs woven inextricably through the fabric of her simplistic innocent existence our Mom instilled a love of God in us that was pure and hearty "Sonya stop your daydreaming" my Mother's clarion voice interrupts my avid reverie "Bumba!" I cry aloud "I haven't had bammy in eons" Quickly my fingers Google Another tasty native recipe chock full of memories and cassava root

46

I believe in Garri The holy son of Africa Who was conceived by our toils Born of the ****** Cassava Suffered under the grater Was suffocated in bags, died and buried He descended into hell On the third day he arose And is now seated on the Centre of the frying *** I belive in Garri The savior of the lives The defender of the weak And the universal mother of all

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Apr 14, 2016

Apr 14, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC

martina-ngose

The Garri Creed

I believe in Garri The holy son of Africa Who was conceived by our toils Born of the ****** Cassava Suffered under the grater Was suffocated in bags, died and buried He descended into hell On the third day he arose And is now seated on the Centre of the frying *** I belive in Garri The savior of the lives The defender of the weak And the universal mother of all

13

our part of Guintarcan where family and relatives resided was called, Li-og Li-og 1 a very large boulder at area’s end resembled a disembodied head lending the name, “small neck” 1 before the war a peaceful private paradise miles from town beautiful birds coconut trees all sorts of seaside foliage young married women walked barefoot and ******* wearing only a sarong wound at the waist they carried round, flat baskets atop their heads full of food and other things early morning, noon or just before dusk men would be out fishing with nets sometimes signaling each other by blowing into conch shells Father would come home with large conch baby conch called bucawil scallops and oysters in their season he kept a jar of large black pearls and small white ones harvest time gathered us all together Father would go fishing to bring home a good catch Mother, aunts and Grandmother would prepare the treats sweet potato, cassava and other goodies men would bring chicken and pigs to roast and plenty of tuba to drink they would build a big bonfire by the shore to light up the festivities women would roast newly harvested palay 2 men would take turns pounding it in a large mortar and pestal starting slow then faster and faster till they had to rest and let someone else take over onlookers cheered them hooting and clapping it would get so noisy as the children watched in awe after the pounding the women took over shaking and shaking palay in flat oval baskets tossing husks to wind with movements like artwork what remained was placed in earthenware bowls for all to enjoy this delicious 'pilipig' singing and dancing into night revelers went home drunk and happy supporting each other as they staggered waving goodbye to host and hostess with a heartfelt and hardy “Salamat!” 2 - rice with husks

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Jul 7, 2014

Jul 7, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC

del-maximo

OUR PARADISE (tales of my mamasita cont.)

our part of Guintarcan where family and relatives resided was called, Li-og Li-og 1 a very large boulder at area’s end resembled a disembodied head lending the name, “small neck” 1 before the war a peaceful private paradise miles from town beautiful birds coconut trees all sorts of seaside foliage young married women walked barefoot and ******* wearing only a sarong wound at the waist they carried round, flat baskets atop their heads full of food and other things early morning, noon or just before dusk men would be out fishing with nets sometimes signaling each other by blowing into conch shells Father would come home with large conch baby conch called bucawil scallops and oysters in their season he kept a jar of large black pearls and small white ones harvest time gathered us all together Father would go fishing to bring home a good catch Mother, aunts and Grandmother would prepare the treats sweet potato, cassava and other goodies men would bring chicken and pigs to roast and plenty of tuba to drink they would build a big bonfire by the shore to light up the festivities women would roast newly harvested palay 2 men would take turns pounding it in a large mortar and pestal starting slow then faster and faster till they had to rest and let someone else take over onlookers cheered them hooting and clapping it would get so noisy as the children watched in awe after the pounding the women took over shaking and shaking palay in flat oval baskets tossing husks to wind with movements like artwork what remained was placed in earthenware bowls for all to enjoy this delicious 'pilipig' singing and dancing into night revelers went home drunk and happy supporting each other as they staggered waving goodbye to host and hostess with a heartfelt and hardy “Salamat!” 2 - rice with husks

62

(tales of my mamasita) after breakfast father would tend his tuba father and mother would then forage the farm for cassava, sweet potatoes, green bananas tarot roots and fruits sometimes harvesting enough for two days while mother prepared lunch father would fish for viand with his fishing net going to the far side of our part of the island or staying not far from the house sometimes big brother and little brother would go with him to carry large baskets for catch father was an artist with his fishing net circular and hand knotted lead pieces sewn to the rim his fishing net was carried folded over his shoulder the tip held in front of him the heavy weighted part hanging behind eyes shaded with hands he searched for schools near the shore in the clear turquoise putting it down on powdery dry sand his fishing net was supported on his forearm grabbing another part with his free hand he would turn and fling his fishing net over the blueness seemingly effortlessly arms stretched skyward his fishing net would expand in mid-air arcing like a geodesic dome hovering like a frisbee floating down to the water in slow motion finally sinking into sea father would wade waist deep stir the fish with his hand then haul his fishing net full of mullets and other small fish we would feast for lunch and dinner with a plentiful catch both father and mother would scale and clean sun dried, smoked or salted preserved for tomorrows everything was cleaned up and put away after lunch siesta time afterwards, mother would do her pottery fix the tree bark for father’s tuba or repair his fishing net using a tatting device father and mother always kept themselves busy never whiling away the time till dark

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Jun 5, 2015

Jun 5, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC

del-maximo

HIS FISHING NET

(tales of my mamasita) after breakfast father would tend his tuba father and mother would then forage the farm for cassava, sweet potatoes, green bananas tarot roots and fruits sometimes harvesting enough for two days while mother prepared lunch father would fish for viand with his fishing net going to the far side of our part of the island or staying not far from the house sometimes big brother and little brother would go with him to carry large baskets for catch father was an artist with his fishing net circular and hand knotted lead pieces sewn to the rim his fishing net was carried folded over his shoulder the tip held in front of him the heavy weighted part hanging behind eyes shaded with hands he searched for schools near the shore in the clear turquoise putting it down on powdery dry sand his fishing net was supported on his forearm grabbing another part with his free hand he would turn and fling his fishing net over the blueness seemingly effortlessly arms stretched skyward his fishing net would expand in mid-air arcing like a geodesic dome hovering like a frisbee floating down to the water in slow motion finally sinking into sea father would wade waist deep stir the fish with his hand then haul his fishing net full of mullets and other small fish we would feast for lunch and dinner with a plentiful catch both father and mother would scale and clean sun dried, smoked or salted preserved for tomorrows everything was cleaned up and put away after lunch siesta time afterwards, mother would do her pottery fix the tree bark for father’s tuba or repair his fishing net using a tatting device father and mother always kept themselves busy never whiling away the time till dark

69

Creole love potion. Heavenly body Built for motion. Passion fruit. A wonderfull construction. Afrolatin...Fufu and Habanero... Cassava bread Red beans and rice. Dont worry...I know god must have a plan Countless others,same design. Made to make men lose their minds. Saal Good.

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May 24, 2014

May 24, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC

geno-cattouse-1

Jenny From The Block

Creole love potion. Heavenly body Built for motion. Passion fruit. A wonderfull construction. Afrolatin...Fufu and Habanero... Cassava bread Red beans and rice. Dont worry...I know god must have a plan Countless others,same design. Made to make men lose their minds. Saal Good.

11

Memories Moans and groans of the dying and the living-dead Last words: phrases that lingered Still on their tongues Bloods, boots and broken bones on cassava farms where they fell Crosses rotten, and this rusty brown shell Tell stories of a past - that ****** movie This ****** war

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Jun 11, 2014

Jun 11, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC

jeddy-patricks

That ****** Movie

Memories Moans and groans of the dying and the living-dead Last words: phrases that lingered Still on their tongues Bloods, boots and broken bones on cassava farms where they fell Crosses rotten, and this rusty brown shell Tell stories of a past - that ****** movie This ****** war

9

We'd return tired from the green patches we toil, or in deep blue, we sail our crafts days on end, ordinary folk, we are, we worship work morning sun wakes us up as soon as he shows up, we set about quick and stand our ground till the sun leaves, we are worried about nothing, no quills for us nor frills, one thought leads us forward, we seek light, till it lasts we fought, relentlessly we did,to make both ends meet, we fought, we fought, to stop the rot, day in and day out We ate cooked cassava root, drank spring water, when winter came, we shivered in palm leaf thatched huts, all those who were known smart had their proclivities and fads, on the streets,we buy and sell, we haggle all through our lives, nobody seeks us for anything, we are invisible, in the dark we have no special place in anything, anywhere. Silently we fought, kept our aching souls clean, never we were in ballads, tales or honor lists, in every roll call, our names went missing, when nemesis struck, it came for us first in times of calamities, our bodies lay strewn all over the country and all around the towns, every one was rescued and kept in shelters authorities loudly claimed but it was not about us we waited and waited yet relief didn't come.

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Aug 8, 2013

Aug 8, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC

k-balachandran

The Invisible Ones

We'd return tired from the green patches we toil, or in deep blue, we sail our crafts days on end, ordinary folk, we are, we worship work morning sun wakes us up as soon as he shows up, we set about quick and stand our ground till the sun leaves, we are worried about nothing, no quills for us nor frills, one thought leads us forward, we seek light, till it lasts we fought, relentlessly we did,to make both ends meet, we fought, we fought, to stop the rot, day in and day out We ate cooked cassava root, drank spring water, when winter came, we shivered in palm leaf thatched huts, all those who were known smart had their proclivities and fads, on the streets,we buy and sell, we haggle all through our lives, nobody seeks us for anything, we are invisible, in the dark we have no special place in anything, anywhere. Silently we fought, kept our aching souls clean, never we were in ballads, tales or honor lists, in every roll call, our names went missing, when nemesis struck, it came for us first in times of calamities, our bodies lay strewn all over the country and all around the towns, every one was rescued and kept in shelters authorities loudly claimed but it was not about us we waited and waited yet relief didn't come.

24

Chains and pains were the only gift our white folks brought from far away land where they came from Blessed with cassava but they made dust our favourite meal Hopeless like a bird in the mouth of a tiger as we sing songs to our white masters from the same mouth they padlocked "Long live our white masters" Whilst our heart beats hatred Day after day We wonder why our master's cane had to fall in love with our backs. "How cold can you be? Why do you hate our black skin when you know you have a black heart" "You force us to work beside a river and watch us die of thirst" Were the last words of elder ebere Before his life was taken Tears in the eyes of infants As they watch their priceless black brothers and sisters being sold for just 14 English pounds Merchant ship about to sail far away from Africa Our fatherland of peace and unity to a land of no return.

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Oct 7, 2018

Oct 7, 2018 at 3:12 AM UTC

OORIS

**Chains and Pains**

Chains and pains were the only gift our white folks brought from far away land where they came from Blessed with cassava but they made dust our favourite meal Hopeless like a bird in the mouth of a tiger as we sing songs to our white masters from the same mouth they padlocked "Long live our white masters" Whilst our heart beats hatred Day after day We wonder why our master's cane had to fall in love with our backs. "How cold can you be? Why do you hate our black skin when you know you have a black heart" "You force us to work beside a river and watch us die of thirst" Were the last words of elder ebere Before his life was taken Tears in the eyes of infants As they watch their priceless black brothers and sisters being sold for just 14 English pounds Merchant ship about to sail far away from Africa Our fatherland of peace and unity to a land of no return.

16

You and me, Our love deep as the sea, Together, Forever. Hold my hand my gentle dove, As we traverse life's journey with love, Living, laughing and loving, Every moment just devouring. Enjoying the taste of ripe mangoes, The tender maize and cassava as we go, Feel the taste of salty air, Us, a fine pair. And as our steps slow and dither, Our eyesight get dimmer, Your hand always in mine, We'll be fine, Together, Me and you forever. 1/2/2020

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Feb 1, 2020

Feb 1, 2020 at 12:06 PM UTC

salmabanu-hatim

Together

You and me, Our love deep as the sea, Together, Forever. Hold my hand my gentle dove, As we traverse life's journey with love, Living, laughing and loving, Every moment just devouring. Enjoying the taste of ripe mangoes, The tender maize and cassava as we go, Feel the taste of salty air, Us, a fine pair. And as our steps slow and dither, Our eyesight get dimmer, Your hand always in mine, We'll be fine, Together, Me and you forever. 1/2/2020

19

** Give me back my Community where I had no refrigerator/freezer yet drink cold water from clay pots. Give me back my community where I wake early to sit by fire place in cold seasons Give me back my community where I play till midnight and still have my bath outside without been afraid. Give me back my community where I can visit any of my relatives/kinsman without fear of being poisoned. Give me back my community where I had no TV yet never lacked stories via tales from grandpa and grandma Give me back my community where I can travel home any time without fear of being kidnapped/killed. Give me back my community where a brother after peeling his own cassava helps his neighbor out. Give me back my community where I had no light at night but the moon Neva failed to show me the way Give me back my community where I had no car yet never got envious of my neighbor's and he never failed to give me a lift Give me back my community where there was no park, spar or tourist center to visit on Easter/Christmas yet I move from house to house eating, drinking and still get much money Give me back my community where I saw no daily police patrol yet my community was extremely peaceful Give me back my community where I had no phone yet never failed to communicate my friends Give me back my community where there were few pastors yet members received prayers without paying for them. My Community my community!! O My Community!!! I miss my Community Give me back my Community - Emperor Daniel C. Asomeji. May 2019

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Sep 12, 2019

Sep 12, 2019 at 7:02 AM UTC

asomeji-chizenim-daniel

GIVE ME BACK MY COMMUNITY

19

The final hours of the Sunday market Chellama thought of how she'd spend the night- Lonely, in her mother's company Eating the fruit of her labour Hearing a babyvoice call her name She looked up and found- With fire in his hair, a little man: A sungod of a dwarf Her toyman; She felt the boars of fire Bang on her inside He asked for her hand They rolled like dice In the hay; only the dogs were near (The urchins lifted cassava roots from her stall) She found the dwarf had lost his fire He turned cold and- He was dead Chellama pulled herself up and scampered to her stall and- There, cooling herself down, thought of how she'd spend the night Lonely, in her mother's company

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Aug 4, 2018

Aug 4, 2018 at 6:48 AM UTC

snehal-p-sanathanan

Chellama and the Dwarf

The final hours of the Sunday market Chellama thought of how she'd spend the night- Lonely, in her mother's company Eating the fruit of her labour Hearing a babyvoice call her name She looked up and found- With fire in his hair, a little man: A sungod of a dwarf Her toyman; She felt the boars of fire Bang on her inside He asked for her hand They rolled like dice In the hay; only the dogs were near (The urchins lifted cassava roots from her stall) She found the dwarf had lost his fire He turned cold and- He was dead Chellama pulled herself up and scampered to her stall and- There, cooling herself down, thought of how she'd spend the night Lonely, in her mother's company

21

I found myself in a place,in a place where my voice has being raped,where my crying eyes has being stolen, where am being cheat because of my fate, where am not chanced because of the race, where my hungry mood has being accelerate. Where my state can never be wherever I stay,where the way I was tortured has made me being an apostate,where my best food is now turn to cassava flakes,where my degree certificate is now use to fumigate. Where three women with differences are being amalgamated,where my human right has being assassinated,where the power of my vote has being castrated. Where the unsupported girls are being impregnated,where the ungodly acts has being elevated, where I vote to suffer for another four years,where I don't have choice because of the political fears. Yeah this is the place I found myself!! a place call Nigeria

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Apr 1, 2019

Apr 1, 2019 at 10:55 AM UTC

Lawal

The place i found myself

I found myself in a place,in a place where my voice has being raped,where my crying eyes has being stolen, where am being cheat because of my fate, where am not chanced because of the race, where my hungry mood has being accelerate. Where my state can never be wherever I stay,where the way I was tortured has made me being an apostate,where my best food is now turn to cassava flakes,where my degree certificate is now use to fumigate. Where three women with differences are being amalgamated,where my human right has being assassinated,where the power of my vote has being castrated. Where the unsupported girls are being impregnated,where the ungodly acts has being elevated, where I vote to suffer for another four years,where I don't have choice because of the political fears. Yeah this is the place I found myself!! a place call Nigeria

6