Tea
Time
Advice From a Poet Father by Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
It's quite simple, really,
So my poet father said:
Scald the China tea kettle,
Swirl hot water inside.
Toss the water out.
Place tea leaves, fragrant, waiting,
In the scalded teapot.
Pour boiling water over,
Cover with a cozy, simple or fancy.
Leave it to rest
In reverie
In calming solitude for ten minutes.
Allow it to achieve magical fusion.
Meanwhile,
Enter the adjoining room,
Pen in hand,
Craft a poem,
Let words blend like steeping tea.
Return to the brewed serenity,
Sip at the kitchen table or
Stand by the spiral staircase,
Watch the cat, lazily sunning.
Gaze at the lemon tree,
Its leaves lush, green and yellow,
In the garden below.
Tea tastes better this way.
Return to your poem.
Revise line by line.
Tea and poetry, hand in hand,
Flavors mingling with imagery.
Now you have a good poem.
Patience, Poetry, Pottery—
Fine companions, indeed.
It's quite simple, really,
So my poet father said:
Scald the China tea kettle,
Swirl hot water inside.
Toss the water out.
Place tea leaves, fragrant, waiting,
In the scalded teapot.
Pour boiling water over,
Cover with a cozy, simple or fancy.
Leave it to rest
In reverie
In calming solitude for ten minutes.
Allow it to achieve magical fusion.
Meanwhile,
Enter the adjoining room,
Pen in hand,
Craft a poem,
Let words blend like steeping tea.
Return to the brewed serenity,
Sip at the kitchen table or
Stand by the spiral staircase,
Watch the cat, lazily sunning.
Gaze at the lemon tree,
Its leaves lush, green and yellow,
In the garden below.
Tea tastes better this way.
Return to your poem.
Revise line by line.
Tea and poetry, hand in hand,
Flavors mingling with imagery.
Now you have a good poem.
Patience, Poetry, Pottery—
Fine companions, indeed.
Adrak ki Chai (Ginger Tea) by Abha Das Sarma
Whistling train
vanquishes the night mist-
all of a sudden
there is light in the east
tearing past my window.
I totter to the kitchen,
hurry into washing the earth off
roots of ginger freshly bought
at a neighborhood market-
an extra inch in bargain.
Making of Adrak ki Chai begins
with grating, slicing thin or just pounding
of this earthy gem. Simmering the inner yellow
in water until whirling, rising like a swimmer
caught in current. Until the aroma fills the air.
Adding the tea leaves, a little crème
and a hint of sugar-
then waiting for the magic, a color of gold,
warmth and hope, brewed and sieved Adrak ki Chai
in my cupped hands.
I climb the stairs to large trees of palm,
leaves leaning over my roof,
a kite with spread wings, still buoyant from flight-
claws flipping fate of an unwilling prey,
uncertainty of another day.
The rising steam from the surface of
Whistling train
vanquishes the night mist-
all of a sudden
there is light in the east
tearing past my window.
I totter to the kitchen,
hurry into washing the earth off
roots of ginger freshly bought
at a neighborhood market-
an extra inch in bargain.
Making of Adrak ki Chai begins
with grating, slicing thin or just pounding
of this earthy gem. Simmering the inner yellow
in water until whirling, rising like a swimmer
caught in current. Until the aroma fills the air.
Adding the tea leaves, a little crème
and a hint of sugar-
then waiting for the magic, a color of gold,
warmth and hope, brewed and sieved Adrak ki Chai
in my cupped hands.
I climb the stairs to large trees of palm,
leaves leaning over my roof,
a kite with spread wings, still buoyant from flight-
claws flipping fate of an unwilling prey,
uncertainty of another day.
The rising steam from the surface of
the tea,
the only witness to my wet warm cheeks
First appeared in Silver Birch Press
the only witness to my wet warm cheeks
First appeared in Silver Birch Press
SWEET TEA by Lori Levy
Dirt under his nails, cigarette
between his stubby fingers:
hands that know the feel of a cow’s udder.
I watch those hands, my brother-in-law’s,
busy now under bloated bellies,
fitting teats to the cups of milking machines.
Beyond him, in the Negev Desert, time is a camel
standing still under a hot sun, or a Bedouin
on his haunches, sipping sweet tea in his tent.
Over the black and white backs of cows,
I ask my brother-in-law, pacing in high rubber boots,
“Wouldn’t you like to be a Bedouin for a while?”
My words drown in a sea of moos.
“Bedouin?” he shouts. “What?” He smiles, but doesn’t stop.
He’s got cows to usher in. Milk to deliver.
Dirt under his nails, cigarette
between his stubby fingers:
hands that know the feel of a cow’s udder.
I watch those hands, my brother-in-law’s,
busy now under bloated bellies,
fitting teats to the cups of milking machines.
Beyond him, in the Negev Desert, time is a camel
standing still under a hot sun, or a Bedouin
on his haunches, sipping sweet tea in his tent.
Over the black and white backs of cows,
I ask my brother-in-law, pacing in high rubber boots,
“Wouldn’t you like to be a Bedouin for a while?”
My words drown in a sea of moos.
“Bedouin?” he shouts. “What?” He smiles, but doesn’t stop.
He’s got cows to usher in. Milk to deliver.
Sipping Grace by Kelly Sargent
My mother sipped
steeped
tender white tea leaves
from a 24-carat gold-rimmed tea cup
that I bought on holiday.
I wanted royalty
to touch her lips,
still parched from those dusty years
she had languished in The Camp.
When the rim chipped,
she spun it slowly,
and sipped a second cup
from the other side.
First appeared in One Art: A Journal of Poetry
My mother sipped
steeped
tender white tea leaves
from a 24-carat gold-rimmed tea cup
that I bought on holiday.
I wanted royalty
to touch her lips,
still parched from those dusty years
she had languished in The Camp.
When the rim chipped,
she spun it slowly,
and sipped a second cup
from the other side.
First appeared in One Art: A Journal of Poetry
My Grandmother’s Tea Set by Judith Waller Carroll
Here in this wicker chair with its view
of the woods, I sip tea from a delicate cup
and remember the summer I turned thirteen
and took the bus to Idaho from Billings,
my luggage left behind in Butte.
No clothes to wear for days but a trio
of housecoats gaily printed with flowers
or birds, selected from my grandmother’s closet
and belted with a long, bright scarf.
Each afternoon, we sat on the plump sofa
with doilies on the arms and back, Mockingbird
Hill or Catch a Falling Star on the Victrola,
Cadbury biscuits on a milk-white plate,
a fanciful girl in an oversized kimono
tied with a crimson sash, my deep-bosomed
grandmother with her halo of braids
pouring tea that came all the way from China
into a cup of soft pink petals, silver along the rim.
From The Consolation of Roses
Here in this wicker chair with its view
of the woods, I sip tea from a delicate cup
and remember the summer I turned thirteen
and took the bus to Idaho from Billings,
my luggage left behind in Butte.
No clothes to wear for days but a trio
of housecoats gaily printed with flowers
or birds, selected from my grandmother’s closet
and belted with a long, bright scarf.
Each afternoon, we sat on the plump sofa
with doilies on the arms and back, Mockingbird
Hill or Catch a Falling Star on the Victrola,
Cadbury biscuits on a milk-white plate,
a fanciful girl in an oversized kimono
tied with a crimson sash, my deep-bosomed
grandmother with her halo of braids
pouring tea that came all the way from China
into a cup of soft pink petals, silver along the rim.
From The Consolation of Roses
Aunt Tillie’s Silver Tea Set by Jacqueline Jules
“Take it,” Aunt Tillie insisted.
We sat side by side, our bare legs
sticking to her plastic-wrapped couch
in that hot apartment on 34th Street.
“An heirloom,” Aunt Tillie said,
shoving the ornate tray in our laps.
“To pass down to your children.”
Who had absolutely no interest
forty years later, to waste even
a minute with a polishing cloth.
So Aunt Tillie’s silver tea set
goes to Goodwill
along with my vintage china.
Aunt Tillie had been so sure
generations would treasure
the chance to entertain in elegance.
But she spent her life, like I did,
accumulating things that would one day
be dumped for a tax donation.
Unloading my car, I see I am not alone.
So many others my age, discarding
knickknacks we once thought we needed
but now wish to unstick from our skin
like the plastic on Aunt Tillie’s couch.
First appeared on Your Daily Poem
“Take it,” Aunt Tillie insisted.
We sat side by side, our bare legs
sticking to her plastic-wrapped couch
in that hot apartment on 34th Street.
“An heirloom,” Aunt Tillie said,
shoving the ornate tray in our laps.
“To pass down to your children.”
Who had absolutely no interest
forty years later, to waste even
a minute with a polishing cloth.
So Aunt Tillie’s silver tea set
goes to Goodwill
along with my vintage china.
Aunt Tillie had been so sure
generations would treasure
the chance to entertain in elegance.
But she spent her life, like I did,
accumulating things that would one day
be dumped for a tax donation.
Unloading my car, I see I am not alone.
So many others my age, discarding
knickknacks we once thought we needed
but now wish to unstick from our skin
like the plastic on Aunt Tillie’s couch.
First appeared on Your Daily Poem