"chutney" poems
Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….
Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy
There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska
From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings
Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!
Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart
Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”
From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.
Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful
Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Brown sugar sapotas
Blending with custard alfonso mangos
And bold sweet lime juice
Georgette saris
Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces
Mixed with peals and rubies
Gently sloping palm trees
Swaying in balmy sultry air
And hazy golden sunsets
Frenetic yellow autos
Competing with dusty zipping mopeds
Mixed with ambulating pedestrians
Aromas of cumin
Blending with the sewage
Other times with incense
Glows of brass oil lamps
Singing in hums of prayer
Added with turmeric's incantations
Brightly-patterned salwars
Accentuating gemstone bindis
Comfy fitted leggings
Savory masala dosas
Coupling coconut chutney
Meter-high filter coffee
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
amidst Jeffersonian opulence
the Prez broke bread with his
GOP poker face friends
to solve government gridlock
and sequester predicament trends
citizens of the republic
hopeful for nonsense to cease
sat at the table asking
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Obama perused the wine list
boldly choosing a luscious Merlot
senators ordered the finest hors d'oeuvres
the guests were all aglow
numerous delectable dishes
were liberally splayed on the table
revelers sipped flowing vintages
wine a surefire icebreaker
sparkling crystal Lennox flutes
tinkled with convivial release
while America’s disenfranchised
voices ask
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
chutney meat, curried hens and
sweet walnut rainbow trout
the table a horn a plenty
the guests gorged on fine cuisine
a blessed nations bounty
the feast consumed
the Senators sated
said it was some
of the finest ever served
but the taxpayers only
got a peak of the banquet
a whiff of senators nerve
and asked
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
the dessert cart was rolled in
with custards, cakes, creme brulee
cordials, cognac and VSOP tastes
rounded out the wholesome feast
when the check was presented
for payment all guests headed
for the door with haste
they told the waiter the bill of fare
was covered
by the guy asking...
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Music Selection:
Andre Williams:
Pass The Biscuits Please
jbm
Oakland
3/7/13
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
the gentle clinking of
differently colored bangles
combined with
the savory scents of
spices I cant pronounce
and
chanting I can’t quite understand
feels more like home
than a television
and a frozen dinner
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 12:43 PM UTC
I am writing yet another poem
in my attempt to,
not lure,
but to request for your loving attention.
When I woke up this morning,
I woke up a failure
and I felt dead with every breath I take.
I recognized and realized that
I have so many undeserving help
from people who deserves
so much more from me.
I should not lay here with comfort
but rather with remorse.
With regret.
With hatred.
I feel like I failed in masterminding
most of my relationships,
be it a social one, a formal one,
a normal one, a unique one.
Our one.
I drove around town,
my head spinning much quicker
than my 5-spook rims
and my 16-inch tires.
My thoughts spoke words my tongue could not pronounce.
My tongue locked itself up as though my lips were sealed.
Night seems like days with flashes of lights and images
cutting every cells in my cornea, in my brain.
Images of you.
So bright were your light.
I miss you, let that be known.
I am courageous enough for a stanza or two,
but a coward I am truly, madly, deeply.
But I have a passion for us
for we share one common trait that is rather rare.
But it is rather unfair
that the stairs to your room of hearts
stops halfway.
Because if I were to bare you and expose the nakedness of your soul
you will see yourself transforming into someone you want to be
in the glisten of my tear drop,
because I see you right through like an arrow leaving the bow.
And I know you see me right through like the bow-tie I wear can
never hide from you the nervousness I have behind my sleek tuxedo.
We share this common love for words, our view of life.
We share this unique taste in music, and our unique waste of talent
by only having our poems sit on paper and allow it to rot as the paper
expel from it's expiration date.
We share this weird relationship that we had
that I hope I can have back,
that I hope you want to have it back too.
Nothing is as good a pleasure as having our eyes meet
in a slender of a minute;
or even a second.
But it was enough.
It was more than perfection.
We were perfect. Weren't we?
A mixed *** filled with strange mysterious fervor,
Filled with confused but exciting flavors.
We were a jumbled jar of unconditional affection for each other.
Jumbled and crumbled like a hot *** of chutney.
So shall we try again?
Let's have a taste of what I've wasted,
Let's have our hands stretched out wide,
and just hug it out.
Just you and me,
finally
with nothing to hide.
Let's stop the cold fight.
It's never meant to be.
We are always meant to be.
Have I already said that I miss you?
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 4:25 AM UTC
.Filling my life with emptiness
...I used to be productive
But now productivity
Is like a jar of chutney
sitting in the cupboard
for years.
All I want to do,
is just sit in my room
and observe
observe it
shrouding my room
see the dust floating in the air
Like a cold, moldy coffin
And find a hole to jump inside
and hide
my mind
colours
colours
colours
col ours
call ours
call hours
c all hours
see all hours
see the things I could not find in a minute
See a purpose in small things takes hours
I don't need a purpose.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
There was an old person of Putney,
Whose food was roast spiders and chutney,
Which he took with his tea,
Within sight of the sea,
That romantic old person of Putney.
1.5k
Old school, gymnasium, Christmas fair, Thursday night.
Hoops at either end. Tables. People. A woman carries a baby,
could be the PE teacher’s. A Ugandan flag. Jars of dark purple
jam next to jars of chutney, perhaps. The youth, us once,
flit between here and the hall. A choir, maybe thirty strong,
sing Santa Baby. Parents watch, as do we. Half a minute.
The head. Still a towering, suited figure. Handshakes all round.
What are we doing now? Voices like knots of consonants.
Geography man. Flecks of grey stubble. Procedure repeated.
Finger pointed. Scrabble for a surname. Exclamation.
Years rattling back to the front. He remembers, as do we.
Head of sixth seven years ago. Instant recognition. Repeat.
Half an hour. The place, no longer ours. Never was.
Friends the same. Memories. Dust between dark and light.
Car. Back seat. Barely two miles. Little traffic. Turn
into street. Step out. Chill drizzles the face. Handshake
again? Again. Time and place discussed before home.
See you tomorrow then. Yeah. Yeah. Front door key.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
I am waiting for a twenty two.
Two eleven's have past but they will not do
from Piccadilly to Putney
home in time for ham,cheese and chutney
and here it comes.
Humming along brum brum brum
get on the bus
swipe the card
not too hard
taking a seat take the weight of my feet
and in the air from up the stairs the smell of food
someone is chewing on chicken
******* on bones
the women in front are gabbling in phones
and the child behind cries
I've dropped my fries
then an old lady slips on these crispy fried chips
and the bus comes to a halt.
The driver jumps up
screaming this isn't my fault.
Not my day at all
just wanted to get home with no smell of chicken
no phones in my face
but now I'm stuck in the bus
face to face
with the realisation that Putney and ham with cheese and Chutney
is slipping away.
No
not my day at all.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC
Were they children of
A loving Joint family
In a small village of
Of God's own country
Were they twelve in
Numbers of boys and girls
Making it a festival
In times of togetherness
Not a single day
They make a war
Having together
Their all day food
In a small dining room
Filling it with loud
Crackers of laughter
Enjoying even a
A watery porridge with
Fried coconut chutney
Together they slept
In an open night hall
Sharing their beds
And pillows with love
Seeing them sleeping
With their innocence
Standing the moon
With a sweet smile !
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:05 AM UTC
Garden to my left,
colors so bright
the snapdragons and sweet peas
nod their watercolored heads
in the morning's silken light
chutney-colored wall
leading to my door
shoes neatly stacked
with toys in baskets
upon the concrete-patterned floor
plants align the window sill,
marking the flipside to my kitchen
reminding me of wafting tastes
in the form of stir-fry
or juicy chicken
to the right
a pumpkin-spiced ball of fur
my Ginger nestled tight
body rising and falling
in deep slumber's purr
his springtime pillow
puffed just right
The laughter I hear
fills my ears and heart
as children, (mine, too)….play
and I sit with my legs upon the
Tupperware chair
and contemplate the day
Between my palms Turkish coffee
entices with its delicious steam
and here come the thought police
to interrupt my desert dream
Back off *************
I'm not going to jail.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
You Use To
drop the turkey
twice on special holidays
glaze the ham
with stubborn certainty
that lime chutney was
just the ticket
Sterno steaks
brought your short lived
grilling career to a
screeching halt
not to be outdone
by the half- cooked goose
with New Year’s champagne
what I wouldn't give
to see you
greasing
the kitchen floor
with poultry again.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
In the city of Mumbai
When you want food and now
You reach out to grab
The glorious vada pao
A round golden ball
Filled of potatoes n spice
You have one and you are reminded
Of all things good & nice
The great Equalizer
Liked by all, big or small
Have it with chutney or chili
Whether you live in a bunglow or a chawl
Dip it in sambar
or stuff it in a pao
Have it any way
You will only say "wow"
I had one today
I ate it with glee
I have realised like all mumbaikars
The vada pao is meant for me!
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 1:12 AM UTC
A lifetime in the building industry
and with hands as hard as ebony
dad took hold of me
and we walked upstream
to catch our tea.
Fish we caught a plenty
quite illegally
but such a lovely tea they made.
and mum made tomato chutney for salads
a ballad of our days
plays out frequently
in a memory
by the river.
Now it's gone into a more modern time
no weirs to walk across
no islands where we swam too
just a rushing torrent
tormenting me
a misery for all to see
and we used to have such good fun there.
Dad's gone too sometime back in eighty two
and the river stays
plays again
rewinding
binding me to the past.
Nothing lasts for long except those snapshots
of have and haven't gots
and I had lots of both.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
you can't go far wrong with chutney.
a large pickle jar,
gold topped
with a seasonal trim around the rim,
made with patience and love.
- just add a strong grip
with stronger cheese
and a selection of savoury crackers
- and there you have Christmas.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 2:38 AM UTC
We blew out the Sun and went on our way home, in your eyes I saw death, but in mine you saw none,
left alone now.
The window was opened and fresh air,
fresh where it used to be
came flooding in to cover me with the scent of the pine tree,
the chutney of corn,
that was the day that death looked,
I was born.
Three score years on and that long ago and still I know little about nothing I know.
Time still stands with the latch on the gate,
as to when it will close
I will wait
and see.
We blow out the Sun again and the bright lights of memory lane come flooding in to cover me and still in the time,
still working the line,
I breathe easily.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
#जय् हिन्द्
Inhale her blowing piles of mounting trash
Where fragrant winds of change bear human ash.
Eternal allure of the mystic East;
A six-armed goddess beckons to the feast:
Prasadam, chutney, consecrated dhal
And other dishes from the land of Baal.
Sandalwood incense, sickly-smoldering dhoop:
Exhaust from a rocket powered by **** . . .
INDIA! Soon, earth's next superpower—
To wonder when is to need a shower.
Blue-skinned idols bow in superstition,
Third eyes blinded by this apparition;
Your sacred rivers: filth and pollution
Flowing freely, a ***** solution
To your failed nation's shameful backward plight—
True brain-drain as your best minds flee the night
To seek prosperity in Western light.
And so, you've no excuse for arrogance
Amidst the ruins of your temple-dance.
Britain's structures have all long since crumbled;
Your many idols beg to be tumbled
Into the depths of your deathly rivers,
To lie in the muck while God delivers
Your people from their false life-givers . . .
Can Jesus bless, as you go on this way
Benighted—while the West inhabits day?
Will Christ facilitate development
And lift you from your pit of excrement,
Your multitudes freed from ignorant ways?
Jai Hind! And here's to hope of better days.
I'd call it Eastern Wisdom—but it's not.
Bow down in piles of human dung, Bharat;
Worship your cow, while washing in her ****
My poem's close has finally come to this,
As I my guru's bovine backside kiss.
Jul 23, 2024
Jul 23, 2024 at 6:25 PM UTC
We could have a kind of farm,
I suggest,
With a little shop attached,
We could make jam and lemon curd,
Maybe chutney or,
Other things in little packaged jars,
I could bake things,
You could sell paintings there too,
We would only grow vegetables,
And fruit,
We would cook things with love,
Labour the earth with love,
Live together in love,
I feel sure that I could work the soil,
I have always felt an uncertain hard need in my bones,
To give something back to Mother Nature,
And I grew up in the country,
So I feel sure I would acclimatise,
But it is only a fantasy,
A sort of a story,
Even though it does sound nice either way.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 8:50 AM UTC
Filled with preserves
of sweet demure
blended or singular
varieties assured
Jam's, chutney's, jelly's
and beans. Soups,
veggies, fruits and things.
Heated with pressure
and sealed with a twist
Root cellared for seasons
enjoyed like a sweet kiss.
OLD MASON JAR
picked high from the shelf
spreading goodness to all
with some benefits of health.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 5:20 AM UTC