Sunday, June 19, 2016

Kashmiri Kehwa



http://thelongestisland.blogspot.com/2015/07/downtown-brooklyn-journal-of-writing.html



“Hang on,” my mother says softly
                     “I am arranging the table.”



I look on while she pours Kehwa
to fondle the ceramic sides of the cup.

The saffron antennas of Kehwa
sleek nectar of saffron
twigs, gold rods/and coral/
a color yellow to orange



like a kaleidoscope, that alloys
the hints of cracked cardamoms
against their own amber

or taste as pomegranates
full and fine of the lilacs
sweet to tongue and sound to eye

 Or morsels like almond pearls
and beads of the rosary
film rising to the top

Or bamboo-like cinnamon sticks hazel with tinge
fresh from the vine.

                                                                     Its framework a glitter
                                                                                        of ashen-gold porcelain cup
                                                                                                                              over saucer.

                                                                      
 My father sitting across from me
                                             tips the cup up, sips the last of it.


                                                                It is the saffron vineyard room
                                                                                                                                                      
                                                                                    not far from red-gold fields
                                                                                     where ashen sparrows peck at cherries—



  their copious meal



a genteel wazwan in rose-water—
melted minced meat
flavor blown


that tastes
rista : coral lamb/ mini ovals.



                                                    It’s the seasoned vineyard field
                                                                   not far from our saffron room
                                                                   where the ceremonial gustuba lamb balls sizzle,

sheets of yogurt smoke soaring from it


everyday
            through the Sun that hangs at noon and sets at night  

everyday
            through a yoke of tangerine that soothes mingled flavors

everyday
            through a rising tide of fragrances that last and swell.


Everyday


      everything becomes a yoke of tangerine.

6 comments:

Huma Sheikh said...

Today is Father's Day and I dedicate this poem to my Father, Ghulam Nabi Sheikh!!

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Gurinder said...

Great verse! I read your poem about Kashmir. May the peace prevail.

Huma Sheikh said...

Thank you!

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