Another poem from my collection FACING THE HARBOUR. I hope someone like it and translate it to another language. Hope to hear from anyone out there.
The Frying Pan
A frying pan in the kitchen
Of the house where I was born
Was my mum’s best friend
All day long
The frying pan
And something being fried
The children with appetite
Was mum’s source of delight
The frying pan
Days and nights
On the fire
We did not count the years
The mother who cared for the frying pan
Hugged us lovingly
Did we ever look and realize
There were dust in her eyes
Feel her skin scraped by hot fries
Her hands darken by smokes
Her forehead touched by the heat
We were too sleepy after heavy meals
To hear her coughing, her rough breathing
Her painful chest being scratched
By smokes and ashes
We were not aware
And my mum did not care
She only know the joy
Of making us happy
Eating with appetite
And nothing pleased her more
Than to see us satisfied
That’s what happened years after years
The frying pan fulfilled its duty
Until we were grown up and live in the city
2
And now in my modern kitchen
There is no ugly black saucepan
Whenever I have the time to spare
And that is very rare
I cook for my children
In my non stick stainless pan
Shining and expensive
And after meal I wash it
Carefully almost like bathing a baby
With special soft detergent
Following every instruction
One day my mum came to stay
As usual made her self useful
Cook and serve my family
Her grandchildren enjoyed her cooking
And my mum was very happy
After the meal
She helped me tidied my kitchen
And as she used to do
To her frying pan
Scrubbed my expensive utensil
With a bristle brush
At once I cried
“You’ve ruined my saucepan
Do you know how much it cost?”
My mum looked very hurt
There were a few tears
I must have looked quite fierce
And now my mum had returned to her Lord
Leaving me in deep remorse
Regretting the way I priced a cooking utensil
Much more than a mother’s love
My mum is no longer here
Hang lonely on the wall of our old kitchen
Is the frying pan in her life
Can we give it a price?
The Frying Pan
A frying pan in the kitchen
Of the house where I was born
Was my mum’s best friend
All day long
The frying pan
And something being fried
The children with appetite
Was mum’s source of delight
The frying pan
Days and nights
On the fire
We did not count the years
The mother who cared for the frying pan
Hugged us lovingly
Did we ever look and realize
There were dust in her eyes
Feel her skin scraped by hot fries
Her hands darken by smokes
Her forehead touched by the heat
We were too sleepy after heavy meals
To hear her coughing, her rough breathing
Her painful chest being scratched
By smokes and ashes
We were not aware
And my mum did not care
She only know the joy
Of making us happy
Eating with appetite
And nothing pleased her more
Than to see us satisfied
That’s what happened years after years
The frying pan fulfilled its duty
Until we were grown up and live in the city
2
And now in my modern kitchen
There is no ugly black saucepan
Whenever I have the time to spare
And that is very rare
I cook for my children
In my non stick stainless pan
Shining and expensive
And after meal I wash it
Carefully almost like bathing a baby
With special soft detergent
Following every instruction
One day my mum came to stay
As usual made her self useful
Cook and serve my family
Her grandchildren enjoyed her cooking
And my mum was very happy
After the meal
She helped me tidied my kitchen
And as she used to do
To her frying pan
Scrubbed my expensive utensil
With a bristle brush
At once I cried
“You’ve ruined my saucepan
Do you know how much it cost?”
My mum looked very hurt
There were a few tears
I must have looked quite fierce
And now my mum had returned to her Lord
Leaving me in deep remorse
Regretting the way I priced a cooking utensil
Much more than a mother’s love
My mum is no longer here
Hang lonely on the wall of our old kitchen
Is the frying pan in her life
Can we give it a price?
