Quotes about kitchen, page 4
Market
a man going to market - - -
a man going to weep - - -
vegetables are waiting - - -
vegetables are weeping for his kitchen - - -
a kitchen waiting for the vegetables - - -
somewhere a kitchen - - -
weeping for the man - - -
particles running out - - -
now - - - particles - - -running out - - -
words - - -
poem by Anupam Mukhopadhyay
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Adult Conspiracy
at morning i stare at the walls
at evening i gaze at the stars
at night i just sleep in my bed
or sit in my kitchen instead
at morning i think of you
at evening i think of you too
at night i just sleep in my bed
or sit in my kitchen instead
at morning i wait for the night
at evening i wait for the night
at night i can sleep in my bed
or sit in my kitchen instead
poem by Max Kuvaev
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God Was Right
God was right when he made the women
Because men built house for the women to live in with their families
And he included a kitchen
But God knew that if the house had a kitchen the women would be better The whole night cooking for her family
And God knew that the kitchen was the perfect place for women
God was right when he made women so that they can have babies
And feed the babies milk from her breasts and change all the babies Diapers everyday
Because the only way babies communicate is by crying
And all the babies needs their naps
God was right when he made the women
So she could be there to do the family laundry also
And women's job is never done at home
Because as long as she lives she will be the slave of home
poem by Aldo Kraas
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The Unemployed
It was dark when I got home
Back from another frustrating day of job hunting
My wife was in the kitchen preparing tea
I could hear soccer fans on TV.
I had tea in silence;
Presence lost to one of those frustrating days
of present and clear danger,
redundancies, unemployment, credit crunch…
what a wasted day; I thought,
I could feel my wife watching me through my minds eye
Reading all the frustration through the lines on my fore head.
Things will be fine', she said;
I know', I mumbled
Honestly, I don’t
I finished my tea,
Hustled my used frame to the kitchen to wash up
As the house rules stipulates
[...] Read more
poem by Chika Nwokeoma
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Squalor & Chips
My angel of the night
came down the stairs of morning
his hair, brown locks of greasiness,
his mouth, those sweet lips, yawning.
He stopped three steps from earth that day
and gazed at trainers in his way
and then as I began to pray,
stepped over and ignored them.
He took four steps across the room
he missed the cloth, the pan, the broom
and squashed cold chips, bare footed
upon the kitchen flooring!
Alas my fallen angel there,
sat his bottom on a chair
and sweeping hand through tousled hair,
ate his breakfast without care.
[...] Read more
poem by Ruth Walters
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For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further
Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be, finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.
[...] Read more
poem by Anne Sexton
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Everyday Life And Chocolate
Everyday life and Chocolate.
A sweet shop in the middle of nowhere, I had bought a box of chocolate,
but had no money, the owner took my sack of hay given to me by a farmer
to make a mattress, as payment. Now I sleep on top of a big kitchen table
for fear of rats. When I get up at night to drink water, I can hear them
hissing under the floor board. The candy man’s daughter is dying, she has
always been in love with her image and can’t bear the thought of parting.
from her mirror. Last night I fell off the kitchen table, dreamed I was back
at sea and my ship was pitching and rolling, bet it gave the rats a fright.
The phone rang it was my mother, couldn’t hear what she said, bad line
between heaven and earth. Went to the candy man’s daughter’s funeral
the casket was decorated with colourful sweets and expensive chocolate,
the sermon was light hearted the priest looked as he was on a high. I don’t
eat chocolate anymore, but live on raw carrots. So slim you are fat people
tell me; my diet is carrots I say and the rush to the green grocer to buy some,
but they continue to eat sweets. Things are looking up the farmer gave me
another sack of hay and a rat catching terrier, and every morning it puts
the night’s catch on the kitchen table.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Kudos
Don't you feel a mess,
When you don't get those kudos?
Kudos.
Those expected kudos.
Kudos.
And don't you feel a wreck,
When those kudos don't come through?
Kudos.
Those expected kudos.
Kudos.
Then you find a life,
Watching mice eating cheese.
Sitting in your kitchen nibbling rice and beans.
While looking out a window hopscotching over dreams.
And there's no kudos.
No kudos.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Memorial
Summer
He worked nights, leaving as we climbed
the tall narrow staircase to our shared room,
up into the summer heat, the steel fan
in the hallway window
pulling cool, leafy breezes
from our waving trees.
We heard the kitchen screen-door
slap shut, the Pontiac roaring to life,
and watched as slowly he backed down
the dark driveway, and was gone.
And gladly we glided through our misty dreams,
flying over tree-tops, baseball games
and cool swimming pools,
when finally the robin’s enthusiasm
and the fresh morning sun
[...] Read more
poem by Steven Federle
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A Poet in the Kitchen
West Fifty-third was still Hell's Kitchen
the summer I first came to town,
Eleventh Avenue was boarded up,
the West Side Drive was falling down;
Jimmy Carter was still President,
though he'd become a running joke;
Abe Beame had recently been Mayor,
and New York City was flat broke.
I, too, was broke, the flat was free,
and so I landed in that place,
a walk-up three-room shotgun which
a gallery used for storage space
and where I could stay as long as I liked,
provided I kept an eye on the art . . .
but truth be told, it was hard to tell
where art might end and garbage start.
The premises hadn't been cleaned in years,
and clarity was not what the art was about--
there was clutter right up to the ceiling,
and I didn't dare throw anything out.
[...] Read more
poem by George Bradley
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