Time Travel with Tea

Today’s inspirational prompt comes from Pablo Neruda, the Chilean-born poet and Nobel Prize Winner. He wrote more than two hundred odes and had a penchant for writing sometimes-long poems of appreciation for very common or mundane things. You can read English translations of “Ode to the Dictionary” at the bottom of this page, “Ode to My Socks” here, and “Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market” here.

Our quest for the day is to write our own ode celebrating an everyday object.
I chose one that evokes many memories and allowed me to follow some of Neruda’s style in his composing of descriptive anthologies and analogies about his subjects.

Freely they came to me
In packets of fragrant loose-leaf tea,
Stained with incense of camellia sinensis
Shipped from far-off exotic places,
They’d travelled over many seas
From worlds I knew I’d never see.
Slips of fragile, painted paper,
Invitations, written just for me,
To board the Mauritania,
And sail the mighty seas,
From the worn step of my front door
To ports in Zanzibar and Ecuador.
I could lace my borrowed football boots
And then play for Alf Ramsey,
At school I was never picked to play,
But here I could lift the Jules Remay,
And glory then, would fill my day.
I could have tea with a dancing Dame,
Or with artists whose work brought them fame,
Or Generals who knew camels’ names,
And learn of things that would remain,
Long after Granddad’s tea was drained.
When he and I and the insurance man,
Would gather round the table tan,
And barter for the Space Race man,
Or the dinosaur, or the Olympic great,
As the china cup rattled in its plate,
My mind would slip its anchored grip,
And board a Roman sailing ship,
I’ve lost the count of all the trips,
I took while Granddad took a sip,
Of the steaming brown Indian drink,
Made orange by sterilised milk
Of which, thank God, there’s now no ilk,
For pasteurised is pure cow silk,
Which into my cup, these days is spilt.
These painted cards they still remain
And tie me to those wondrous days,
When the opening of a brand-new box,
Would leave my feet bereft of socks,
And my imagination would leave the docks,
To travel time and be unlocked,
And now they tie me to those days,
Of open fires and ready-rub haze,
And the simple pleasure of being amazed.

Bosom Pals

I was challenged by my partner to respond to this, her prompt – how could I not?

From training days, hiding buds of May,
Made of elasticated cotton,
To southern swinging sways, hiding dismay,
When things fall from top to bottom.
In the field of bodily conflict,
Our battles will not be forgotten.

Your underwires, should be retired,
Your hapless, strapless ones expired,
I don’t know who, invented the peekaboo,
But they are not to be admired.
You’re in pink, black and blue, and every other hue,
But well-worn white seems to be the leader,
On or off, what gets some folk cross,
Is removal to become a feeder.

Silk, satin or lace, no one can replace,
The end of the day sensation,
When you are taken off, and they naturally drop,
Now THAT is pure elation.