I seek deep truth at half past-twelve,
But find it hiding in the skokiaan again. (1)
IDA sighs again,'' know thy ale''. (3)
Phuza Face orders a second pail (2)
By dawn I've solved life's mystery grim
Its mostly froth with little brim.
So drink Majwalis,and think no more. (4)
The mind's a map,the heart
Explanation of a Pub Crawler's Philosophical terms and names
Skokiaan-an illicit home-brewed alcoholic drink made from yeast,sugar and water.Usually its consumption leads to loss of wallet,teeth,wife and kids.Devotees are especially not fond of water and general cleanliness.A nice smell
IDA- means I Drink All.This is said by someone who never buys you drink/alcohol.
Phuza Face- is a colloquial term for the physical effects of heavy or long term drinking resulting in which leads to swelling,puffiness,redness of the face,dark circles under the eyes.
Majwalis-He who is devotee of alcohol and alcoholism who drink himself to death and beyond.Usually a cheque collector. Has a phobia of not reporting for duty on Monday and Friday.
I’ve strolled down Bedford from Barrow,
maybe a couple times or more.
When I would get to 86,
I headed through the garden door.
I felt inspiration flowing,
from the rafters down to the floor.
Words for future generations,
by the authors that I adore.
They sat on these stools by the bar,
and drank their whiskey from this glass.
They saw the world through this window,
and watched it gently slide on past.
The true spirit of literature,
hangs in every sip I take.
I try to honor their presence,
in each single line that I make.
So, here’s to you Chumley’s Tavern,
drink a toast to your ancient past.
But alas, just like all good things,
you have come to your end at last.
Steinbeck and Millay may live forever,
through eloquent words that they wrote.
But as for you and me dear friend,
we’ll just be history’s footnote.
In my dream I wandered into a basement piano bar because someone told me it was the secret place to get great waffles. Sitting at the piano was Beth Hart crooning sorrowful songs, no other accompaniment, just Beth and a piano. It was like this tattooed lass just wandered down the stairs and sat down and started playing with only a few present to share a glorious hour in our lives. I sat at a table near the piano eating a thin waffle with whip cream on top, a scattering of walnut pieces, and no syrup, with a shot of Effen Black Cherry Whiskey on the side, blissfully listening to Beth. I could have died, my life fulfilled.
outword(ed-gar)ammered
with(all-en)joymeant
(poe)trees
for-aging
for-roots
rye-penning
in-words
pain-full
force-shadows
oft-times
hell-loose
innate-shuns
care-acting
sleep-less
new-rot-tic-talks
a-bell-ing
for-tunes
knots-so
past-or
meant
stan sand
(poe)ssessions
HALLOWEEN TAVERN
a dark spooky night ~
where did all the pumpkins go?
jack-o-lanterns lit.
10/1/2017
Questionku
The warm, dark wood of high-backed stalls
enclosed us like a womb,
and, nose to nose, we talked with eyes,
oblivious of the room.
You shone with special radiance
that welled up from your soul,
a subtle, golden inner light
I was honored to behold.
The candle made our shadows dance
so merrily on the wall -
our faces orbited the flame,
so happily enthralled.
Your eyes were pale as opal stones,
translucent as the sea,
and in their depths I know I saw
what looked like love to me.
You were so fair, so beautiful,
so graceful, that you gave
to me a blessed memory
I'll carry to the grave.
Grouping here to plan retreat,
the redcoat officers smelled defeat:
the boards complained beneath their feet,
on entering Wright's Tavern.
They game was up. They understood.
All that remained was noise and blood,
and limping back as best they could,
the fifteen miles to Boston.
Pungent smoke and powder smells,
irregulars' derisive yells,
and fifteen miles of living hell
now stretching out before them.
The King's Own's torn, depleted line,
drawn up before Wright's tavern sign:
this sight would come back to the mind
in years to come, in England:
But now, the urgency was such
that no-one pondered very much
on Tyrant George's loosened clutch:
plans needed improvising.
Back east the shattered remnants flowed,
along the Cambridge Turnpike Road,
to quit the New World for the Old:
America was rising.
Henrietta
That's my father there
why pour him more liquor?
Crushed peanut shells are
scattered all over the floor
Beer bottles smashed
while blood drips from the roof
A body hangs from the rafters
while loyal patrons play
a vodka filled game of Russian roulette
Piss stains plastered all over the bathroom floor
cockroach's and rats run rampant
all while raging alcoholics throw fist
and set fire to bar stools
Drunker stupors, and stain glass windows rule
people call it martial law but I call it a regular Monday night...
enormous tavern
goddess
eating me
like pan
drooling sweat and honey
In the deep of the sleep i was taken to the writers tavern
a place warm and cozy where they took beer in metallic mugs
a place where a mortal who has shared a story never before
heard or seen in mortal eyes is honored.. i took my cup of tea
and was driven back home.. the writers tavern a warm place
where immortals and mortals mingle enjoying accomplishment
lewis k nyaga
lover a tavern
wine of delight in her lips
stupor a poem
© rajat kanti chakrabarty
4th December,2014
I can see a
pale green
farmhouse
against the
nearly neon
vegetation
of the cornfields.
Soybean sprouts
are shooting
up here and
there.
In this place,
there is no
existentialism
or angst
questing
against our
sanity.
There is no
god or God.
Just the cornstalks,
the soybean sprouts,
and the pale green
farmhouse
in the distance.
Welcome to the Tavern off Love
the old and wise and the young and foolish we charge a dollar
for lovers and poets the wine is free
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