Skip to main content

Sunday is...

...a late morning,
a tumbler of degree coffee,
a birthday greeting to a friend
(thank God for Facebook),
another tumbler of coffee...

...a hot water bath,
catching up on weekly politics,
rice and bitter-gourd curry
with jeera rasam and pickle,
a long unhad siesta...

one murukku made from old rice,
ground by hand and made in coconut oil,
one piece of jangri - not too sweet -
washed down with hot degree coffee...

a walk with the dog
drongo-spotting in the garden,
and old family stories with mother
under the jamun tree...

...a little poem, a bit of light reading,
and an interesting online chat
on the Dhammapada...

...and finally an ascent to heaven
with curd rice and vadu-mangay,
before the fall to the netherworld
of Monday.

Comments

Banno said…
Sounds like a heavenly Sunday. You actually have a jamun tree at beck and call? And what is degree coffee?
Ozymandias said…
Yes, we do have a jamun tree. And a mango tree and some others.
Degree coffee is a special coffee prepared in South Indian households, also called filter coffee.

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

The Cruel Love Form Either Meaning Tears Sestina

They ask me to write poems on love. They ask me not to make it cruel. But it should not be funny either. It must follow some poetic form. It must be rich and deep with meaning. It should move people, but not to tears. Why should it not move people to tears? Because they cry when they fall in love For no reason and without meaning. That's because love itself is cruel and causes grief in its every form. One cannot escape from it either. It is not even funny either. One spends all one's time shedding tears And meditating upon the form Of whatever being is one's love Who is in general very cruel And will get upset without meaning. One wastes one's time looking for meaning. One never finds it. One will either die frustrated or suffer cruel punishments. But no one spares tears for stupid people who fall in love And think it is divine in some form. It is not divine in any form. It is senseless, devoid of meaning. the rational do not fall in love They do not play with venom eit...

Romantic I am not

Romantic I am not. I'd rather eat than gift chocolates, Orchids are daylight robbery And candle-light dinners are too dim - I like to see what I eat. If you want guys who: a) Cook exotic Japanese dinners b) Book surprise vacations to Goa or c) Strum a mean guitar Don't come to me. I can do poetry though And say 'I love you' in French and Italian (Je t'aime and ti amo, to get that over with). I do the man-of-the-house-changes-lightbulbs stuff Just as good as anyone else. You want a guy to get on his knees With scrubbing-brush and soap water On the bathroom flooor on Sunday? I'm your man. Put a sparkle on washed dishes, Be at home with Harpic bottles And pay insurance premia on time? - No problem. But don't ask me to cook; I can just about make tea But can't boil a potato into submission. I won't stare with glazed eyes While you're buying curtains But make helpful suggestions too If I understand the colours (Turquoise, beige, mauve and lavender I ...