"curries" poems
I heard the world's loudest **** today
It echoed round the town enough to say
*"I am a **** of great renown and fame,
I am a **** who's worthy of the name
Of* KING of FARTS!" Unthinkingly I sniffed
And, let me tell you, I have never whiffed
Aught so potent, dank and dread and foul
Blasted out from heaving human bowel
As that king of farts I smelled today
And which took my ******* breath away.
Who was the pumper of that putrid beauty?
How many curries in the line of duty
Had he consumed? It must have been a man -
No pong so strong ere blew from female can.
Can no one answer yet my urgent question:
And say who suffereth such dire indigestion?
O heavens! his torment must be something chronic.
Can no one subsidise a high colonic
Irrigation to prevent another
Noisier and more noisome than its younger brother?
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
**MESSAGE STARTS
Just a quick note to let you all know that Dad and I love you all really and the recent Nepali earthquakes were mistakes which happened whilst he was taking a **** after a couple of strong curries Mary Magdalen made.
MESSAGE ENDS**
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
*And suddenly he finds this--
the season of strange happenings
befall upon him.In Bangkok rains lashed
for three consecutive days without stop.
Huge pythons with strange markings
undulated over waves, that were roads
three days before.A stranger to the town
he feared the fury of river Chao Phraya
but this girl took care of him well,
and when rain paused slightly
she suggested they should eat out.
He left it to her choice, though never knew
much about her, say he was careless.
In that dim-lit restaurant, she said
most unexpected things happen certain days,
and what she said was really true.
She ate his past wholly, so quick
when no one noticed, it was truly smart an operation.
It tastes exactly like Thai cuisine she told him, as if pleased,
full of aromatic leaves of herbs.
He just sat like a zombie, would he understand
the meaning of that sabotage, ever?
As she whispered her words in his ears,
he wanted to contradict, tell her about
coconut milk, pepper and condiments
in which his memories of past were marinated,
like his mom's incredible curries
of fish from Kerala coast.
She pretended she didn't hear
all his memories of spice coast,
she had tactically usurped.
Then a doubt creeped in to his mind
"Is she a banshee, after me?"
She persuaded him to take a stroll
along the bank of Chao Phraya in spate
None would believe him later
his eye witness account of the girl
who ate all his spice land past
jumped in to Chao Phraya turning in to a big fish
and disappeared, never to reappear.*
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 1:49 PM UTC
Today is my sister's wedding
A full day for me to shine
In my peacock green dress
The new full skirt and blouse
With golden laces and pearls
Full of laughter and music
House being crowded with
Close relatives and guests
With three of my cousins
Was standing near a table with
A plate of rock candies and raisins
Bowl of sandalwood paste
Me, spraying the fragrant rose
Water on guests with a smile
Welcoming them to the function
Stage was ready with a para,
A traditional measuring instrument
Filled with paddy, unmilled rice
Decorated with a bouquet of
Beautiful coconut flowers
Lighted bell metal traditional
Lamp,the large nilavilakku
With its glowing light was a
Pleasant vision to the eyes
Can see you all in the front row
Can hear the laughter of girls
With the groom's arrival
Girls,with thaalam,antique
plates with a lamp, lemons
And garland of flowers
Welcoming the groom to the stage
Bride, in her maroon saree with
Golden laces,tied hair decorated
With a ball of jasmine flowers
And shining gold ornaments
Covered from head to toe
Being accompanied by two aunties
Making her sit near the groom
Gorgeous romantic pair were they
With a heart full smile of their day
Exchanged their garlands and
Were given a flower bouquet
Groom tying a knot,a chain with
Thali, which was a pendant
Showering flowers on the
Bride and groom as a blessing
One by one to the stage giving
Wishes and gifts to the couple
Wonderful snaps with my
Sister and new brother-law
Time for lunch on a plantain leaf
Steamed rice, varieties of curries,
Fried items and the special
Sweet payasam with pappadam
Bride and groom sharing their
Lunch with love and laughter
Leaving to her in-laws house
With her eyes filled and red
One by one leaving the hall
Except the dear and near ones
With an after war expression
Tired were they,my parents
But happy to get their daughter
Married to the right guy
It's time to rest and wait for
The albums and videos with anxiety
In seeing my new dress and smile !
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
She arrives in high stilletto’s
And a miniskirt so taught
That the boys are all distracted
And our job becomes a rort,
And the office girls get ******
And production spirals down
So then our new Middle Manager
Rolls up her sleeves and goes to town....
She sticks her oar in frequently
And stands with jutted hip,
She’s territorial dynamite
And serves us gloating lip.
She often curries favour
With Department Heads and such
And makes a fuss at our expense
Which irritates so much!
She has a way to circumvent
The types she will not face,
In using her authority
To snidely put them in their place.
Her manner is too sharp
And too dismissive for my taste
And the condescending smile
Has me grinding teeth to paste.
And the way she stands and taps her toe
And glares beneath her brows
Has the office juniors panicking
And avoiding, as allows.
There’s an issue over paper
And the telephone account
And the petty cash, though balanced,
Is a questionable amount.
Historically our working week
Has employed a give and take
With an easy flexibility
That allows us all a break,
But the new Middle Manager
Has reversed the mode of work
So that everyone competes
And the roster’s gone beserk!
Her manner’s often strident
With a whiplash to her voice
And the snarl of her vindictiveness
Leaves us all with little choice
But to bend our backs to labour,
Work our fingers to the bone
And suffer her till knock off
Then, thank God, we’re fleeing home!
There’s a memo in the “In box”
Rumour has it, from on high,
That due to overdue restructuring,
That some redundancies are nigh.
And though there’s great reluctance
And some measure of regret...
It seems our new Middle Manager
Has got her notice...Sorry Pet!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
15 January 2011
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 4:38 PM UTC
Greenland's fjords
Native tongues
Thai curries
Tundra calls
answer
Let me answer
Earth, all of this
great
I'm grateful
To be here
Warm showers
Nashville towers
But all of this
All of this
Earth
calls
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
The cheery, bronze bell heralds our coming--
A stout, brown man, a happy Buddha wearing my father’s vest
And his diminutive daughter, a caramel girl with inquisitive eyes
Marveling over the lush painted settings
The tapestries of women with slanted eyes,
Sitting precariously on rocks, surrounded by wild ocean-foam
Mermaid mistresses I imagine
With long golden nails,
A holy temple atop each brow, an adorning crown
Past the multicolored, patterned elephants
And silk orchid flowers,
Gliding across dark, cherry-chocolate wood
Lacquered, glossy as her watching eyes
As if all were coated with amber honey-sap
They take their thrones.
The windows are draped in lace and purple
The color of monarchs, even the plump, crystal glasses
Shine pale maroon, like African violets, in their elegance
And a Bengal Sugar Sweet Tiger, swims in each cup
Dusky orange, as a faded sunset
Belly up he is curled, exposing white soft cream…
And florescent rice crackers
Lie popped in a porcelain dish
Stiff and bright,
Like skeleton jellyfish, frozen
In mid-propelled undulation,
About to escape
Before they are dipped and broken
In sticky pepper, gold-gilded sauce
Rich curries; satay, with alien names
Are laid before them, feast upon feast
Savory meats and vegetables soaked in vinegars;
A parade of colors and textures and tastes
Every plate garnished, an artwork…
And while she surveys this domain,
In all its tiny grandeur, a feeling of
Dignity creeps down her shoulder, straightens her spine
To think that part of her is from such a kingdom
Though she might never see it
To still feel like royalty,
The Queen of Siam.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Today I write an ode to Joe’s
Procurator, seller, and trader
For my better half it is your coffees
For me, your store entire, for
Your bounty fills my refrigerator
Treasures spicy from India, Japan
Brought to us by your Trader San
From south of the border
Travel goodies galore-a
Compliments of Trader Jose
Then there’s Trader Giotto from Italy
Without a doubt, his yummies call me
There are Jo-Jo’s, curries, oh cho-co-late sweet
And did I mention lotions for feet
There is Pilgrim Joe’s and Trader Ming’s
Who bring to us the finer things
The wines, the drinks, the healthy oils
I dream at night of all your spoils
By way of mention, I cannot forget
Baker Josef who serves to us
Tasty bagels, delicious baguettes
Arabian Joe’s and Joseph Brau
Bring us falafels and rings in our beer
Oh, Trader Johann's and Trader Jacques'
For bodies clean and lips that are fresh
Your Joe's Kids keep mummy's happy
Trader Darwin's help us all stay healthy
Did I, could I, miss anyone?
Don’t want to leave out even one
Your marinated meats, your frozen treats
From Diner Joe’s there are lunches quick
For us working stiffs, his heat-n-eats
Oh, pumpkin scones and cereal O’s
I should not forget your sample bar
Where tastys await to test for my plate
And did I say how amazing you are?
While others sell just fluff and stuff
Of your yummy goodness
I cannot get enough
So if one day soon the Joe’s disappear
I’ll not fret, no i’ll not fear
On me for sure you can count the cause
Right down to your last breadcrumb
For shelves will be bursting in my garage
Where I'll be holding them all, without ransom
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
'Twas the night after Christmas and I lay curled up in bed
With my hair wild and frizzy and my face a bright red
I had cleaned and scrubbed floors, I had cooked and I'd baked
I had done what I could; made curries and cakes
I had gifted many presents and received many too
From books and lip colours to green socks and red shoes
I had prayed and thanked God for his love and kind ways
I had prayed for mankind and for happier days
But something was still missing - I felt it in the lull
I felt restless and edgy, a wee lost, a tad dull
I thought and I pondered - then it dawned upon me
I was missing my poet friends, and writing poetry -
So I wrote this little poem to send love across the seas
Prosperous and healthy may you all always be
I wish you much happiness, peace, hope and light -
And now to the West I wish a good day, to the East a good night.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
Drinking in an evening
while sipping down a year as a day's ending.
With sun setting, keep repeating
old retreats.
The streets freezing and specters easing
from exhaust pipes
speak of an emptying, of fatigue, of a face framed
in memories
of arguments, apologies, in-jokes and glass nights'
frost-embossed panes--
of walks down roads well salted
of adding salt to stir-fry curries to season
Which?
--Not Spring, just yet.
Who cares?
--Well, me!
I'm drinking in an evening
Sipping. Gazing out southwestward.
I trace with soft eyes a solid skyline.
See the Bighorns' darkened profile,
backlit with bright fading
hinting, half-telling
stories
promises
half making
that they'll still be there, tomorrow.
I met those mountains long ago--
I've known them my whole life,
you've only seen them.
I met them long before you,
but they remind me of you
and that's not fair.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
The spooky, eerie feeling grips me,
As I watch Grandpa swinging from a tree.
His body is lifeless, limp and pale,
His hands are fragile and frail.
“Grandpa”, I shriek, “I thought you were dead,
For your funeral mass the first reading I read”.
“Shut up kid”, he says with a frown,
“Do you know how bad it is there down?”
“Down?” I gasp,”So you made it to hell?”
“Believe me girl heaven ain’t that swell.”
“Is it hot down there? Do you loathe the heat?”
“Down there kid, I hate the food I eat”.
“Food?”, I exclaim ,”do you still need that?”
“Of course we do you blithering brat”.
“But aren’t ghosts the gliding type all slim and light?”
“Yes kid, but we need energy to scare Earthly folks at night”.
I gently ask, “What is it you miss most from up here?”
“Is it the TV set, liqueur bottle or fishing gear?”
“Honestly kid, I miss the food your Grandma would make,
Those sinful crumpets and cookies she’d bake,
those meat pies and curries with assorted spices,
Oh that food would distract me for an hour and half from my Earthly vices.”
“But you never liked her cooking and always criticized this and that”.
“Yes m’dear but I’d still gulp it down and get all chubby and fat,
So pay heed young girl, don’t fuss over your looks and weight,
We men love that initially but later grow to hate,
It’s the food a woman cooks that we remember even when dead,
So ensure you keep your husband always well fed.”
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
November is a month
i dread, all the marking...
all the words ..... ideas
clutter up in my head....
all the hopes and ambitions
weigh heavily on my back.
the first day, my birthday
hip hip hooray!!!
then a rushing, pell mell
downward track
of red pens and meetings
going on and on and on
planning, prepping, late night stressing
then, when not at work,
not shirking, just not working
hoping to give the brain a rest
am bombarded...
like i am ******** in cheer
...continual messages of
christmas is near....
coffee and carols,
shopping and angels
harking, harking,
joy to the world, fa al lalala...
Santa queues
truly not an Ebeneezer
but Christmas teasers
in November make me grey
around the gills
fish out of water
lamb to the slaughter
and running on empty,
always empty,
just want one day...
when the world
would stop hassling
and just go away
no end of year parties...
prentending to be hale and hearty
with all sorts of colleagues
and academic smarties
no presentations of budgets..
thinner than last
no we could not fast
this area, to be on line
no it's alright, it will be just fine
while sculling copious amounts
of cheap, cheap, nasty red wine.
no hangover from said feast...
no, you be the one to corner the beast.
no more standing with mothers and others
watching children in a god awful christmas play
and clapping and chatting while little bettsy
recieves an award for knitting a sleeve
and george gets one for adding fourhundred and forty
please, please show me the door.....
not to mention hayfever,
daylight savings and more
but all this seems trivial...
when I consider
the blight of my life...
in the stakes of annuity.
the month of November has a great heart
Movember...a charity of moustache art
has an fanatic in my big, bluff,bloke
for a month he curries and cares for the
caterpillar that grows on his lip...
a fuzzy flecked monstrosity
with the mange and a weird flip.
November a month of avoiding
the succour of contact....
with that thing,
my toes curl now
thinking of it....
tho I try not to react
(after all charity begins at home)
november november
truly you are the ***
last year he bought
the ****** thing a comb
yet in the end
you are but a month
and it seems I survive you
year after year
thank god for take away meals
and long cold beers....
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
eating Thai curry in small increments because no two curries are the same something like snowflakes and i want to feel flavors burn on my tongue. pacing is everything except when it is not attacking devouring smoking tumbling fondling smothering
over doing it
feels right. right as right can be when having an idea of right is wrong. improvisation, dear
making
it up as you go along and along and align your thoughts with your bones
what would it be like to go sleep and never wake up? meet me at the first star on the right and straight on til morning
we were too big for that place and everyone knew it
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 8:59 PM UTC
this is my star, david can have his, this is my claim over anything of this world, a little spice, hardly a castle, or an empire, a harem or millions in the bank account; a private education or ancestry stretching back to the crusades in up-kept and tidy memory like some duke of Burgundy.
only today did i discover bohemian Istanbul
sitting in a kitchen cabinet next to
a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil...
barely drank... not to the palette of some,
anise, hardy recognisable in curries,
but infuse it with alcohol and the story changes,
Europe and the long lost history of
the Ottomans, and indeed the Turks,
Muslim, steppe people, and therefore drinking
people. bahramji & mashti playing
in the background, a shisha pipe in my hand
(portable)... and today's discovery... white
absinthe! the moment i realised, i was squeezing
lemon juice into the glass... and to my idiotic
amazement the potion started turning milky...
just like Hapsburg absinthe (98%, £40 a pop)
or la Fé(e)... oddly enough not all absinthes turn
milky if diluted with water... for example
Czech red and Czech blue and even green don't
turn milky... because the Czechs drink it like
***** in shots... unlike the other versions where
you take the sloth route and prolong the feeling
of the warming anise... that's because they contain
worm-wood. but this Turkish absinthe, i'm amazed!
small world in terms of bumping into people,
but an even smaller world to discover different
cultures in your vicinity... i should have come
across what i'm drinking sooner (it's called Rakı),
but since it's not mine i will not over-indulge even
though i know the owners of the bottle do not
appreciate anise on their palette, unlike
what diogenes the cynic said:
i like best the wine drunk at the cost of others;
me? i indulge in what i buy, because i own it,
as i can't over-indulge the company of others.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
for Kate and Nicola and Wayne and Paul and Cameron and Skye and Kylie and Nathan and Cameron and the weird guy next door.
Here’s to you, my crazy friends
You ******** misfits too cool for my school
But you liked me anyway, you let me
read you my book of poems
You played Bone Machine while I was tripping
We walked through the suburbs looking for fairies,
We slept with each other despite my huge crush on you
You liked me anyway.
You taught me to smoke ****
To stop hating on op shop clothes while
I wore Country Road and cashmere vests.
We watched the sun come up, smelling of sweat
and drugs and DJs’ last hurrahs and dark old
warehouses, kerosene fire batons and your menthol
cigarettes.
I gave you Siddhartha and Guildenstern and Rosencrantz,
though it wasn’t the first time.
I loved it all: the guitars, the punk chords, the dodgy old houses
in run down parts of West End,
the random houses, the secret nights smoking your
Champion Ruby in my old *** pipe because we’d
run out of **** and Henry Miller wouldn’t settle for just plain *****
Bohemian Cafés and curries,
girlfriends turned turncoat then lesbians,
your secret *** parties that I never found out about ‘till years later
your Mezz Mezzrow typewriter and bright candles of novel beginnings
that never saw the light of day. Her sweet little hips showing a little too
clearly with the the shining light from inside as it lit her silhouette on
your balcony. I miss you guys, with your madness your friendships and
deep inner hipness that wasn’t in me.
So it’s years later now, we’re old and I ain’t seen you in years.
Wayne showed up in a café one day with CDs of his latest, still cool
I was studying Mandarin, and I wanted to reconnect
He gave me his number but I didn’t call him, I can’t explain why.
You showed up one day, “weren’t you going to come and say hello?”
I was but I still don’t know how.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
How empowering it is to be able to sprinkle
Just the amount of turmeric powder,
And to know just how much of a pinch,
Is that pinch of salt and coriander,
Which'll swirl around together in sputtering oil,
Dancing with crisp bay leaves and cloves,
Bathing in the crimson of finely ground chilli,
Forming a fragrance engulfing the sacred stove,
The fragrance that defines every hand that cooks,
Each concoction of spices distinctly set apart
By infinite proportions of masalas and herbs,
Carving infinite routes of satisfying the heart,
The kitchen is the powerhouse of a home,
And the ones who man it are technologists
Who day after day, create curry that reaches
Not just the gut but the self of who consumes it,
It is only when you stand, teaspoon in hand,
While lightly brown onions look up to you in anticipation
Do you realise that forming food is no simple, menial task
It is a scientific, artistic and spritual exploration.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
Hoodie crows visit the garden
I could swear they know my every move
- when I dispose of any leftovers
including the hottest of curries
they soon arrive.
Their intelligence is a marvel
and their stomachs must be made of steel.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Whoah! A stinky ****
In an enclosed room!
Out we go…
To pure fresh air
Ozonal
With a hint of salty sea.
Smell that fresh-cut sappy grass,
Those rustic woods
An acrid hint of fox
Dog and cat
Someone’s perfume lingering in the air.
Things are cooking:
Bacon to **** for,
Baking bread,
Spicy curries
And glorious fish and chips.
Roast beef and lamb
Fast fried food
And coffee
Pervades the air.
Garden blossoms
Traditional roses.
I finger a mint-leaf…
But something is burning!
Ah!
Not the same as the smell of rain.
But don’t ask me.
Ask instead those dogs and cats
With their super-sense of smell.
For Max the Labrador Collie
Always inspects my feet
And heaven knows
What he makes of
That.
Paul Butters
© PB 14\4\2020. ("Fast fried food And coffee" added 18\4).
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 6:24 AM UTC
My home is Brittania
Sarcastic comedy
Eating crumpets and biscuits
Dunking them in the Earl Grey tea
Home is in Pakistan
Across the lush rural fields
Where the day breaks
To a rooster crowing
My home is in Turkey
Near the turquoise sea
In the cobbled old town
Full of culture and history
Home is in America
In land and in liberty
Where everything goes
The good, the bad and the ugly
My home is in Morocco
In the colourful bazaars
The dessert land
A stark divide between wealth and poverty
Home is in Yemen, Iraq and Syria
In the hearts torn by policy
Where they speak the language of tears
And know the taste of hunger
My home is in India
In the classic Bollywood films
The spicy curries
The bright embroidered outfits
My home is in Arabia
In the pilgrimage of unity
The mosque of my prophet
The past, the present and future
My home is the world
The land is one
Humans we are divided
Borders? My God created none
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Yes I am triping
my mother said
always wear protection
so I always leave my socks and gloves on
has to be a news day
in a restaurant
ask the man
where are the toilets
he said just go down the stair
saw a sign on my way home
said falling rocks
what am I to do with that
life is a lottery be lucky
walked past my local Indian
sign says
try our curries
your never get better!
Love P@ul.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 8:51 AM UTC