When all the balls are up in the air
that is when the juggler chef feels free
He knows each arc will land
where the recipe intended,
the kitchen and the act, one motion
The first ball in the air is customer satisfaction
Time slows as the customer relishes
a mouthful of spice he cannot stop eating. Joy.
The juggler chef sees without looking,
places water beside the customer, wordlessly
A satisfied man never notices the hands that caught him
The second ball in the air is the preparation
Phone down. Ringing incessantly.
Eyes blindfold, the juggler waits for the alarm
When it rings, he tastes what the fire has made,
still without looking, the way a juggler
practices blind, so he never misses. A smile appears.
The third ball in the air is the struggle
The phone keeps ringing and does not stop
everyone looking up, waiting, needing
The man who juggles fire wonders quietly
if he is feeding the world
or if the world is eating him alive
The final ball is the origin of the chef
All balls return to the hand at once
But he finds himself in a hospital bed,
both arms injured, the hands that will feed the world, still
His mother feeds him from a bowl she prepared,
Joy arrives, and he knows what he wants to give to the world
So when the juggling irritates him
he realises this is what he has been throwing
into the air all along
the joy of feeding and accepting
the juggling that comes with it
Day 3 NaPoWriMo prompt – In his poem, “Treasure Hunt,” Prabodh Parikh brings us a refreshingly different view of what being a poet is like – that is, if you grew up on the cultural notion of poets being wan and ethereal, or ill and doomed. Parikh’s boisterous pirate of a poet might be an “unreliable” character, but seems like he’d be the life of any party, and quite satisfied with his existence. Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is considered to be. Perhaps your poem will feature a very relaxed brain surgeon, or a farmer that hates vegetables. Or maybe you have a poetical alter-ego of your own, who flies a non-wan, treasure-hunting flag with pride.
Smoke words every day. 
10 responses to “[568] Hands that Juggle are the Hands that Feed”
Your poem resonates, Rahul. As I have got older, I find it harder to cook, to juggle, and I wish each arc would land where the recipe intended. I love the way you captured the joy of the first mouthful of spice, that time slows. These lines stood out for me:
‘The man who juggles fire wonders quietly
if he is feeding the world
or if the world is eating him alive’.
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Thank you so much for taking the time out to leave such honest thoughts 💫
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You’re most welcome, Rahul.
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What a beautiful and layered poem, Rahul. I love how you’ve woven the act of juggling with the art of cooking—each ball carrying a different weight: satisfaction, preparation, struggle, and finally, origin. The image of the chef blindfolded, trusting his hands and the fire, is so powerful. And that closing realisation—that joy and struggle are both being tossed into the air together—feels deeply true. Thank you for sharing this. It lingers like a good meal. 👍🏻🤝
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Thank you for your thoughtful comment. So much gratitude that you read my poems with such care!
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this juggling is an art. How lucky to be able to enjoy it. Hope he recovers timely. We love our jugglers. Thanks Rahul.
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He recovered and started a food business. The poem is in a reverse chronological order. So he’s alright now haha
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Happy for that update
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A lovely poem, Rahul. I thought of me juggling between work and cooking and the phone ringing incessantly. Thankfully, no hands burnt and no feeling of being eaten alive, yet. I hope the juggler heals and slows down a bit.
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That’s amazing that the poem resonated with you. I tried to do a reverse chronology poem here. From the first stanza till the last we’re going back in the juggler’s life. So the juggler chef in the hospital is actually the origin story of how he became a chef.
Thanks for your thoughtful comment 💫
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