A Curious Girl: Poetica Collab: Tea

I'm stressed 'cause of exam stuff. Biology went Ok! But enough of that, because I when to check out Poetica Collab and decided to join the ring at last. And so, here is my poem about tea. (Better than the rubbish I've been writing lately).

"Write a poem inspired by the image posted: "Tea"

The poem can be funny, tragic, long or short. The poem can be written in any manner - whether haiku, pantoum, iambic pentameter, free verse, or any format you choose."

Rites

It's a bizarre ritual, an ennobled tradition
Whether the sweltering summer clung at us
Or the atmosphere is icy, I offered them tea.

Sugar, no sugar, sweetener? It's a spectra of choices.
They pick out which cup too, a plastic lipped beaker,
Or a vending cup-and-holder, or just plain cup and saucer,
In shades of pink and blue.

Some would rather have coffee milky, some water,
Some refuse and some don't even understand.
And some of them are picky, more or less milk
Some take the time to ask for their fruit, or their paper.

And I give them their tea, the ritual of the morning;
The nectar they drink from to make it worthwhile.
And the oldest ladies treat me like a visiting saint,
Or a distant niece, who, like their visitors, smiles and leaves.

And with the task that is the tea, I have seen them
The ageing women in their hospital beds, with their flowers
I gave them their drink of the bittersweet liquid
Watching the nurses with their strange high voices

They treat them like children, these younger women
Deaf ears are ears that do not understand
And unclear voices are those that do not know how to speak

But the patients are patient in their hospital beds
They sit with their cups and watch them at work
How much more respect they give the young tea-girl
Than all those younger people give back to them.

I think it's kinda odd that that poem came out of just thinking about tea. Made me think - there are other objects that hold stories. Not obvious things, either - actually, the more simple and everyday, the better. Some things, like books and paintings, and the periodic table, are already too meaningful alone - poetry is about what we do that gives things their meaning. It's personal, not universal.

Random word for today:

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