Coffee

In an earlier post – “Plums and Croissants” – I spoke about the relative scarcity of poems celebrating the simple pleasures of food and drink.  In my own small way, I am doing my best to remedy this deficiency, and the following short poems on the subject of coffee are examples.

Coffee is vitally important for me, at the start of the day – and I mean real, good quality coffee, not “Instant” (although I am advised that you can get quite good Instant Coffee, these days).  In the second poem, there are allusions to coffee having almost magical properties, and its transformative effects do tempt me, at times, to regard it as a magical potion.

The Day Begins:

Some talk to trees, or flowers.
I talk to my coffee machine.
I give it thanks for its daily duty:
ushering me from insensibility.

The blackness of the liquid is befitting.
From darkness came light, in the beginning.
Consciousness is stirred, unwilling,
to awareness vibrating with meaning.

Air resonating with my blessing,
the day begins.

Coffee – the Morning After:

My coffee is black.  I pour it
slowly, slowly, jug to cup.
Slowly, slowly, never looking up.
Slowly, slowly, mesmerised;
how it oozes, how it slides.

Black as treacle, black as coal.
Black as a death star in a black hole.
Black as Tartarus; as a cancer cell.
Black as the deepest pit of Hell.

But as I sip it, slowly, hot as I dare.
Slowly, slowly, with infinite care.
It works its wonders.  It banishes night.
Oh!  Its benison, burning bright!
Oh!  Its spirit, its soul, is white!

 

 

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