Long Minimalist Poems
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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
In the cosmos where colors collide/
Under a canvas of vibrant pink and purple tide two abstract figures, hats tilted just so/
Stand tall in the galaxy, putting on a show/
Geometric shapes dance in a minimalist spree, Jazz notes shine like stars, wild and free/
Are they space lamp illuminators, or comedians in flight? Telling tales of the universe, in the stillness of night.
They float through the cosmos, shining so bright. UFOs in formation, or cosmic jesters on a space flight/
Bold colors clash, a celestial array, In this otherworldly realm where a new comedy's hybrid imagination is at play/
Saturn lamps flicker, casting shadows on cosmic dust, While alien beings laugh, bursting at the seams, man, what a rush/
So let the jazz flow, let the universe hum, In this vibrant expanse, all are welcome to come/ Join the cosmic comedy and let your worries fade into the Milky Way/
Under the glow of laugh-N- lamps, in this infinite space. Embrace the abstract and one day visit Mars/
For in the heart of the cosmos, we’re all comedians there. So laugh with the aliens, they brought us here, In the vastness of space, we are all going there/
Feeling that glow in the heart, tender reflections of simplicity, in profound silence, such tranquility ,flowers upon this page. Sentence by sentence the lustre of a grateful mind, a ray of sunshine through a dark cloud.
From this confusion, the mosaic of ideas harmonizes, delineated and etched as a pattern of thought, a ribbon of inspiration settles as a verse.
The image becomes a phrase minimalist in flavour,these syllables become a form. A phrasis of verse out of my mind’s eye to light bonfires of imagination in another’s. The enigmatic and ephemeral,naked and ashamed lie here for all to see and hear.A monumento moment,the very motion of my being,singularly my own.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2013
I designed houses including furniture, like that -
just in case, because the owners may fill it with crap,
of course, there were glitches associated with riches,
but no problems, no flying geese on the wall.
No gnomes in the garden, no plastic windmills,
no gas barbecues, a bad reminder for the Jews,
we don't want minimalist, otherwise nothing at all,
but no curtains, rather an organic free-for-all.
They made love in the bathroom, bedroom and hall,
on the terrace, even and oddly over a sloping wall;
all those places had been on my computer screen,
now they were christened - like a film in-between.
I gave them my soul, Chopin's music in the trees,
made a prescence for them - one of life's mysteries.
bemused
at the prospect of life
a personal vision
unashamed
minimalist
yet
melancholic
eclipsed
in a calm solemnity
uncompromising
full of abandon
passionately involved
a familiar narrative
encountering oneself
an artistic instinct
candour with revelation
and
yet
detached
from all the whys&wherefors
disturbed by experience
yet
innocent
lingering in this dislocation
of the cultural&spiritual
in
notions of intimate disclosure
shaped
by absences
challenged by self confession
encouraged
by
detached depiction
absorbed
by
relationships
oblivious
to comment
I I
b c
art art
I I
b c
old old
I I
b c
ash ash
I I
b c
one one
I I
b c
all all
y
ell
The day my life went ape ‘chit’ in no more than three-hundred words
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch counts
And pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis works wonders
When I am asked to write a poem that is either precise or reductionist
Thus I report from my personal lock down epicentre of home isolation
With free advice to conquer the gremlins of free speech and contagion
Firstly pretend you are German because one compound nouns fills a page
Then rediscover hyphenation and have a match with auto-correct settings
Or pick up the challenge and find those scrabble pieces under the couch
Next to valuable coins a few toe-nails or belly-ring to gather your thoughts
Pasta shapes with letters and letterpress cookies are essential food items
You will find them on shelves in shops where the loo roll had previously been
On that delicate matter it might be worthwhile to consider what colloquy
You can fit on a single ply sheet used sparingly on both sides in dire need
Word counts are useful to pass the twenty seconds it takes to wash hands
But remember to spell hyphenation-control-centre with a dash of content
Consider that a pencil is sharp on one end if you poke fun on the toilet
My wife still bears a charcoal tattoo from when a soft roll in satin sheets
Gifted an indelible reminder that pleasure and pain work hand in hand
A carefully calligraphed dot to dot surely trumps auto-generated novels
Unwrap fortune cookies and proof read for the true meaning of spells
Whatever tickles your fanny until cohabitational glow fades in the face
Of adversity calling for regaining control over figures of speechlessness
Blank page …?
One last piece of counsel and guidance for a true minimalist poet or scribe
‘I love you’ works well all you have to do is repeat one-hundred times
28th March 2020
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogochis the name of a
small town in the North of Wales
pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis lurks in the shadow of corona
Poem written for Caren Krutsinger's contest 'The day my life went whacko'
Word count exactly three hundred words
Vivaldi in every season https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/vivaldi_presto_1146945
Satie minimalist music https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/contrarian_chords_another_satie_tribute_1169333
Cage piano happenings https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/happening_poem_1_ear_candy_988004
Brubeck-& all that jazz https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/happening_no_4_ear_candy_998687
Haley rock 'n roll https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/footle-around_the_clock_141264
Elvis Always on my mind https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/it_seems_like_yesterday_120657
Mahler the majestic https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/happening_no_8_ear_candy_1002335
Christian hymnody https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/an_easter_hymnody_215744
Requiems many&varied https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/requiem_468371
Worship music https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=QvLxZEU02uI
New York City is like a cobblestone symphony,
where jackhammers and footsteps form the rhythmic timpani,
sirens and honking taxis, are the cymbals, that provide sudden bursts of energy,
traffic’s hum could be the violins and pigeon squawk a chorus of industry.
The sounds of life never seem to stop because they echo around continually.
Fifth Ave is fashions seat and in every store we saw teenagers tweeting,
perfecting that perfect, offhanded pout to pair with their newest, elite treats.
Envisage a High-(snob)-society playground, a cathedral of style in concrete,
where high fashion brands compete, with glittering displays meant to tease and entreat.
Bergdorf's windows are a whimsical winter wonderland, without a single touch of green,
and Tiffany's underwater dreamscape, contends with Cartier’s minimalist sheen.
At night, the buzzy bars ignite, and laughter spills like sparkling champagne,
flanged martini glasses clink in chorus, to silly school year stories, and tipsy holiday refrains.
We all know that times like a ballet dancer, who pirouettes in increasing haste,
holidays don’t last forever, Yale’s not known for leisure and new terms must be faced.
But for now, we’ll steal kisses in Bryant Park, because we don’t have a second to waste.
We had breakfast on the Champs-Élysées this morning at Café Joyeux. Their croquet monsieur (a breakfast sandwich) was to die for - one bite can cure a hangover. They also serve a deep, rich Yirgacheffee coffee (€15 a cup) that I think God stirs with his little pinkie finger - it’s THAT good.
We took up most of the little outdoor, oval tables on the right side (there are 10 of us) and our little sorority was noisy with chatter - earning us looks. Our European vacation culminates today. We’re flying back to Georgia in a couple of hours. June seemed to drain away like water.
The minion my Grandmère charged with coordinating our vacation, François, breakfasted with us. He’s one of the flock of Sorbonne Université MBAs she recruits each year to infuse new energy into her conglomerates.
He briefed us on our departure and flight. His imposition of definitive order and advance planning allowed us a casual and carefree sense of travel. In an ideal world, he’d coordinate my entire life.
He’s been on-call all month but joined us, off and on - like when we arrived in Doublin, at customs, to smoothly guide us through and again, similarly, in Paris.
He’s 26, very handsome and model looking. He’s perfectly tailored, with an elegant yet minimalist style. He wears dark shirts of admiral and yale blue with long black jackets and gray slacks with no tie. His hair is a hipster straight, blonde fringe.
He’s so perfect that I wouldn’t put it past my Grandmère to have placed him in front of me, like bait, to see if something with us sparked-off.
He’s Frenchly brisk and yet dryly solicitous - as if I have the power to sanction his position, which, in a way I suppose I do.
“How’s François doing?” Grandmère would ask, each time we talked.
“He’s wonderful,” I said, “I think he’s a keeper.”
“Good, good for him.” she would reply - making the comment sound almost sly.