Best Ghee Poems
DIWALI- FESTIVAL OF LIGHTS
Gilttery lamps, Myriad diyas and light
Illumination pan India filled with delight
Whole nation splendent like lovely bride
The zest of fest spread far and wide
From northern mountains, western sands
To eastern coasts and southern islands
The spirit of triumph of good over bad
To dispel darkness like light, in life to add
To cleanse both our inner and outer sleaze
Infuse purity, love and peace like fresh breeze
Plenty sweets, delicacies for taste-buds to savour
Fire-works add shiny and shimmering flavour
All families get together to celebrate this occasion
Bond of love enhances in every relation
There’s fun, there’s frolic and there’s prayer
Brings happiness and joy this feast every year!
glossary:
Diya- is an oil lamp, usually made from clay, with a cotton wick dipped in ghee or vegetable oils. Clay diyas are often used temporarily as lighting for special occasions, while diyas made of brass are permanent fixtures in homes and temples.
date: 2nd November 2016
Where had you been, we were so keen,
To feel your touch, we enjoy you so much.
‘Til ke Laddu’, ‘Pinni and Kachodi’,
‘Gajar ka Halwa’, ‘Garmagaram Pakodi.
Sweaters and shawls, quilts and blankets,
Everybody is packed in socks and jackets.
Cold wind that blow and faces that glow,
Noses turned red, dandruff that spread’.
Resolutions, commitments and preparations,
Dear January, You are full of celebrations.
You bring with you, lots of things to do,
Hello January, we welcome you.
Date - 18/01/14
*Til ke laddu- eatable balls of seasame seed.
*Pinni- Eatable balls made of wheat flour, lots of dry fruits and ghee (melted butter).
*Kachodi and pakori- Two Indian snacks.
*Gajar ka halwa- Carrot pudding.
*Garmagaram- served hot.
{ These things loose their taste if I dare to write them in English--
sorry for the inconvenience caused to my English friends. :( }
.
How about a One Pot Kitchen
Minimalist to the Max
First sort out Food
Millet - 5 grains
And a Clay pot
Rotate millets
Every 2 days
Soak and boil
Soak for 8 hrs.
In 5 times water
Leave it overnight
Thereafter COOK it !
first thing in the morning
Slow cook an hour on flame
Toss some greens and veggies
The porridge gets ready as base
With warm soup as the first course
add some crackling spice in Niger oil
Now we need just 1 more vessel ..that ..is ...all
I use a cast Iron ‘ kadahi’ from here on
Flame it hot ..cast iron pot...pour Ghee
Add some chopped onions spices et al.
The cooked millet porridge is tossed in
And voila you can make any no.of dish
And yes. NO compulsory need for Salt.
Now the real fun is ‘time management’
In a 24 hour cycle- Clay Pot is utilized
8 hrs soak 16 hrs to store the cooked
Lunch at 11 dinner by7 that’s 8+16 hr
(A 16 hr gap is suggested in between
2 big meals with light eat in evening)
Yes. Entire day the food stays fresh
+ Slight fermenting is encouraged
some add curd or coconut water
Sprouts ginger garlic turmeric
Boiled eggs potatoes sage
Vinegar Garnish
.
Millets in Clay pot
Experience Zen in kitchen
I had heard of Black-
beauty
From highly learned
men
And, a twiggy oily
figure!
I have always
appreciated.
City-women walk in
style
Wear stylish and
talk in style,
A Cow-boy shall
always commend!
But I have
somewhere read,
An Indian American
poet to his
Syrian wife wrote
An unknown love
poem!
Blaming her of
dating once
A Muslim friend.
Therefore ere we
may walk together
any more,
Tell me, for instance!
Have you visited
that saint’s shrine?
There, near your
abode,
The fort’s on the
Rocky Mount;
Climbed those
hundred-fifty stony
stairs?
Yes!
Many many times, in
that sweet nonage
With grandma.
And nowadays on
almost all Sundays
In the evenings, with
my mom.
Ah! Ah!
Then you must have
Fed the wild-
pigeons’ flock, corn;
Helped the lame,
blind beggars with
coins, and rice;
In the festivals’
nights
Served the waking
worshipers—coming
from the far villages
in country,
Fried in ghee, the
rice,
And in Samovar—
Kahva!
Yes, my dear Yes!
I have, I have, I
have.
I was sitting in my
small cottage with
a cot and a chair
On name of furniture.
The little window was
my amazing friend
Because it gave me
Chance to peep through.
The next window panes
Always welcomes eyes
A girl Motee(fat) was forcing
mirror to declare herself princess.
A coat of talcum powder
followed by sun cream lotion,
all artificial things to fool girls
market produced for beauty.
Nice fragrance to add ghee in fire
From left to right, feet to head
examined herself but not satisfied
Once I dare to tell her truth hard.
Beauty lies in our self not
in things that used by you
Wrestler brothers bad memories
Recalled ,got on first they met.
If you have courage enough
to tell her once Motee
got rewards fractures on body
Then why not dare my buddy.
the match stick
Well if you are an Indian by birth, yes you guessed him,
Saint though by birth, he let any issue just burn to ashes,
Dear friends, do not worry he is not an antagonist nor a proto,
Yet he plays a major role,
in each character of Hindu mythological world.
And is the sole cause of the
Sri Mahavishnu's dasavatara, shall say.
With a tanpura in his hand, singing hymns, prayers and other songs,
In the act of devotion to lord Vishnu, a sage wise yet mischievous,
Creating Vedic litterateurs, most clashes, between Vishnu and his devotees,
You all know his audacity to screw Hiranyaksha and Hiranyakasipu
The two loyal guards of lord lord Maha Vishnu.
He is said a great muni or rishi not for his penance alone,
but for the the benefit of man, as his name means.
'Nara' means man, and 'da' means benefit,
He spoke as gossip to create troubles at bad times,
But the end results being good.
In his eagerness to protect the righteous
And punishing the wicked,
A messenger who added a little
Of ghee to make matters worse.
His discussions are found in Chandogya upanishad and Pashcaratra literature.
To the lay men known only as the sage who created problems,
In words a match stick, which just requires a scratch,
Is a first order musician, well versed in all veda's and Upanishads
Of all the sama veda, the veda of music,
A student of the Sanaka, Sanandana, Sanatana, and Sanat Kumara
the four mind born sons of the great Brahma,
the first jounalist on earth,as bhagavat purana says,
is the son of of a maid, parentage a bramhin and a low caste lady,
who after the death of his mother went in search of absolute truth
worshiped lord vishnu until the day of his death,
was given the blessing though he would die shall be in the upanishads
still alive,
Ladies and Gentlemen, good folks gather round!
What I have here to show you is worth every pound.
It will soothe your dry bunions, seal your canoe,
Moisten your leather, and stretch your shampoo.
At my own huge expense, from India to thee,
The famous, spectacular, Big Jumbo’s Ghee!
I’ve used it as wheel lube from here to Mumbai.
It can quiet your babies at night when they cry.
It can mollify itching from poisonous plants.
It will ease the infirm of their ravings and rants.
No sir, not a swindle, this is no evil boast.
You can even put Ghee on your pancakes and toast!
Just so, Sambo travelled from hamlet to town,
Selling his Ghee; a half-cup for a pound.
Word spread like wildfire, for this was no hoax.
Just a golden-brown product that’s good for all folks.
He lived very simply, for Sambo was blessed.
And sent home his millions so Mumbo could rest!
5/30/17
For the contest “Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman”.
Sponsored by Debbie Guzzi
Huge heaps of fire gaze at me from far,
the flaming maws marking time.
I smell its smoke, holy smoke, rising;
Its classic smell, leaching through
Its perfumed camouflage.
And piles of wood stacked up like
disappointments, big and small.
Little men hover, powerless as moths.
Hungry cows circle the fires
like brides, the matrimonial fire.
Galaxies of the gods
blazing at the altars of the ghats.
One eats up ghee, the other human fate.
Upon towers of grief, the aviation lights
Pundits sit stamping away
travel papers in Sanskrit.
Not far away, gurus sell Sanskrit
to English-speaking clients.
I am blank.
No fear. No love or hate either.
What else could be in there.
Is there at least some last desire left?
And I find, of all things, hunger, in there.
Hunger for food
But hunger is death also.
Yes, death, the last in desire. That is the finding.
That is going to be the verdict too
Mruthyuna eva idam aavrutam aseet ashnaayaya.
Death, the very first void,
Death, the hunger, with its mouth of fire
The death that gnaws at everyone’s gut.
‘Ashanaaya hi mruthyu’.
Notes:
Mruthyuna eva idam aavrutam aseet ashnaayaya : all this was covered by death that is hunger
Ashanaaya hi mruthyu = Hunger is death indeed.
This is from Brhadaranyaka Upanishad. ‘In the beginning, there was nothing. By death was all this covered. Or by hunger. For, hunger is death indeed’.
I
For once he banished all birds
from the air
not just Mynas tick-picking
on twitching backs
but all birds, unnamed
and high bred
with each wave of his contrived hand
extending the pelting rice on the shorn land.
Some came to sort the heedless grain
in their hunger of disdain
Some fluttered from hump to hump
from his total need
to his clambering might.
Each time they came and went
he let them alone
choked in their distensions.
He could not see their pain.
Perhaps their general nature - too
grave to offend
saw in his absence
in his indifference to want
the chance of their malice
their frolicksome end.
II
Too late in the arboured rites
he careered with his adolescent fancies :
the ghee-man
with his pails of souring milk
Working within his churning bones
old rishis’ immolating ambitions :
the curious incantatory neologisms
the crowd-infused lusty prayer
the unsliced un-schismatic advaita piety
What should he take : the game or the adulation
both silently exploding buds
in the crammed clutch of mania.
Somewhere in the lambent miasma
Old age and the deep cloistered pining of chaste women
roused out of season
make mud the surmounting of goals.
Must he not retreat then and melt
Fuse into a negating asana
Conniving at the self-raped
furtive orgasms.
That
he could extinguish his cravings
with too much incontinence
he saw
That
he assailed entrances along marbled corridors
with hardly a mindful push
he knew.
(c) T. Wignesan - 1965 in tell them i'm gone. Paris: 1983.
I've climbed the monkey-sided mountains
overlooking Rishikesh;
a spill of Rishis in the granite bowl below,
each with callous, with incense, with their
various beggaries...each sweet-tongued with
prasad.
I've bent to kiss a broken man;
my lips on his toes, his laugh in my ear.
Antarayaami statuary all around.
Japa mala japa mala japa mala;
Namostute.
I've tucked my frame under
a stories-filled and stories high
Hanuman; folded myself into
a Room of Song. Chalisa after
Chalisa for hundreds of years.
The pilgrims and flowers, the
ghee candles and Sri Ram Sri Ram
Jai Jai
Rams.
I've sought myself. I've sought the selfless.
I've made friends with both.
I've come home dusty only to
be Lost.
I've come home refreshed only to
be Lost.
The Names, the mantras.
The Bhajan, the Ganges.
None had Answers for me.
Each had answers for me.
None had Questions for me.
Each had nothing for me.
And so I bow.
I thank.
Each.
Every.
One.
I thank One.
He had opened
His second resturant
'Dehlcious
After his first
'Mak Tohal'
His book was sellimg well
'How To Flavour Curry'
And his TV show
'Byriani Like Nani'
Was hot stuff,
So he thought he had
The ghee to the world.
We were visiting good old Niagara Falls, the most beautiful place on earth. With its waterfall cadences and fresh lit sun, who could ask for anything more. Hand in hand we strolled together wearing summer sandals light as air. We talked and spoke of days to come, how we'd make a family together some day.
Lovers in love
two linen gloves
fitted just right
There were acrobats, jugglers on tightropes, and children rippling the air with their tinkling laughter. Together we aimed at little yellow ducks and won the grand prize. Hugging Mrs. Jewel Bug, we walked away kissing beneath a bluest sky dappled with cotton candy clouds and morning sighs. Since we stayed longer than expected, we stopped by a little Cafe and drank frothy cappuccinos to our hearts content.
full-fledged memories
golden colored hours
days gone by
Those were the days of impulsive escapades, endless surprises and pleasant up-comings. Moments of mindlessness existence in a lifetime yet to be unspun. Today the mortgage is paid and the children left home. My favorite juggler is in heaven waiting for an old tattered Jewel bear and a swollen gal with a heart pliable as ghee. I smile at the thought that one day I will join him. We'll drink foamy coffees and watch the trapeze artists spin, swing and fly. They will hang off ropes made of stars and moonbeams, just like us.
UNSUPPORTED CODE What could i say
Than the truth..
You are room mates
You and the devil..
You said the vows to each other
You have licked each others lips
And smeared ghee on each other
Why turn your back to devil that knows your transgressions
You belong to this hell, don't you?
Its you who chose to be a permanent member
As you shouted yes i do, i do
To this devil you had dated some two years ago
Do you want to quit the devil to marry Lucifer?
No way, no cheating your dear devil
Remember you even kissed his fangs before the priest
You cant tell us the odor is too bad now?
You have done it several times
Just close your eyes
And do it again
Push your lips to his
And
Kiss The Devil
Nobody ought to put asunder between you two
Till death do you apart
You have to do as you vowed
Its that called him that
'This devil'
Its your devil
You are his only demon
Just kiss your sweet Devil
In this hell of marriage
What did you expect while marrying him?
Lullabies?
You would be a fool to divorce the devil
And marry Satan
Stop playing games
Love your man
1.Eating meat to swell
how can pity?
2.Protect hoarding as to
mercy abjure meat.
3.Heart of tasting meat
as armed unkind.
4.Mercy is unkilling, unkind
kills, flesh-eating unrighteous.
5.Life, non-eating flesh even
hell retains eater.
6.If unkill for flesh-eating
none sell it.
7.Avoid flesh-eating if realizing
sufferings of beings.
8.Pure from illusion evades
eating life-less flesh.
9.Avoiding mutton betters thousand
ghee-burning sacrificial rituals.
10.All beings revere kind
non-eaters of meat.
…………………………………
Dedicated to Thiruvalluvar(31B.C), the author in Tamil
Translated by S.Kandasamy, MUSIRI, TAMILNADU, INDIA
Published in poetrysoup.com on 13-12-13
dear read... stop
that's almost a
palindrome start
...er my
father called
my mother
mother but i
called my mother Mum
also this is not a poem
for mother's day but
though written on
mother's day
please
read the title as intended
simply to be a memory of
being at my
Mum's
house one day when i was
thirty one years
of age but
this
is
what
was
going through my head
knowing that someday
i would write it down
i was in the
kitchen sauteing
onions in butter and
Mum was in a back room
in the back of her house when
from the stove suddenly a splatter
of butter now
turned to ghee
but still with the
fat floating on top
spat up and on to my
arm stopping all thoughts
as mentioned
above as well
as the wooden
spoon i was using
to saute the onions
in the butter now ghee
i caught myself but not
catching myself in time
also dropping the F bomb
in fact dropping the whole
nine yards when suddenly
the stampeding sound of
a single animal entered my
ears as suddenly as did my
Mum and she slapped me
in the face and said, "Don't
you ever use that kind of
language in this house ever
again!!!" and that slap
took my 31 and turned me
to 13 once again back to
when i was a boy in the
kitchen cooking and said,
"Yes Mum."