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Posts Tagged ‘tea’

One More Lesson

 

 

 

while pouring tea for failure,

I forgot to add the tea—

we drink the hot water together and laugh

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Damn Thirsty

 

 

 

Scent of Darjeeling

escapes through

the poem’s cup—

from miles away

you smell it,

twist of citrus,

muscatel—

try telling your thirst

it’s just words,

the delicate

flowering in the air,

the warmth

of the cup,

the fruit

making merry

on your tongue.

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That Dry Feeling

 

 

 

In his heads, he swirls

the dark loose leaves

of his thoughts,

lets them boil

and steep too long,

then offers the tea

to others to drink,

but it spills before

the tea reaches the cup,

and he fumes,

throws in more leaves.

 

 

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Ritual

 

 

We should have each other to tea, huh? We should have each other with cream.

“Lovecats,” The Cure

 

 

Perhaps you don’t like tea.

Perhaps you don’t like cream.

It’s not what’s in the cup that matters,

though of course there’s the lovely

unfurling of leaves and the way

that the water accepts what

it’s been given. But no.

It’s not about the tea.

It’s the ritual of the pouring that matters.

It’s the sharing from a single pot

and the all that is said and

the all that is seen as we sip.

We can fill the pot with water.

We can fill the pot with wine.

All that really matters is

that we take the time to sit

together and slowly drink—

we, two separate beings who

are choosing at the same time

to accept the same thing into ourselves.

It’s a little bit like love.

 

 

 

 

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That’s Right

 

 

 

I’ve shown up naked

to tea. I know it’s not

the proper thing to do.

In fact, I am a bit surprised

myself to be wearing

nothing more than a pink scarf.

I was wearing more

when I left the house.

At least it is soft, the scarf,

and at least it is warm,

the tea. You don’t have

to pretend you don’t notice

and I’ll not pretend

either. No, let’s go on.

Yes, that’s right,

it’s a bit uncomfortable

I suppose, as all things are

at first. We’ll get used to it.

Who knows, maybe

by the time we pass the cream

you’ll have slipped off

your own button up shirt,

your embarrassment, your belt.

Maybe by the time

we get to the bottom

of our cups we’ll wonder

why we ever spent an afternoon

any other way.

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Tasseography

is this a poem
about tea, how it burns
when the lips are too eager

*

fennel, chicory, cardamom—
it always smells sweeter
than it tastes

*

the bottom of the cup,
the bottom of my thirst—
these are never the same

*

Darjeeling, Darjeeling—
ask me if I’d like some so
I might tell you yes, yes

*

tell me the truth
I say to the tea leaves, but
I don’t ask my real question

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Tsuyu no yo wa tsuyu no yo nagara sari nagara

The world of dew —
A world of dew it is indeed,
And yet, and yet . . .
—Issa

Thank you for this world of dew,
for dew enough to fill a cup,
to fill my small cup to brimming,

though some mornings all the dew’s been spilled.
It matters not the hand that spilled it,
though there is a tug toward blame.

In the story, the Hindu master pours the cup
too full, and when the tea begins to spill
the scientists appeal to him in shock.

You are too full, he says to them.
Come back to me when you are empty.
Then we’ll talk.

World, thank you for emptying me.
And thank you for my cup, for this
fragile cup with it’s long thin cracks.

Thank you for my thirst,
this thirst so deep sometimes
I beg for one more sip.

And thank you for these lips
that beg, thank you for the empty cup,
and thank you for the sometimes dew.

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