A few weeks ago I posted a poem on Instagram about how much I love tea. At the time of me writing this, it has over 800 likes. It's far and away my most liked poem and I can hardly believe it; I remember publishing it and thinking it was a sweet but silly little piece that perhaps a few people would take a liking to. You guys have proved me wrong, again.
I got the idea partially from a prose poem by Leila Chatti, in which she writes 'five times a day, I make tea. I like the warmth in my hands, like the feeling of self-directed kindness. I’m not used to it - warmth and kindness, both - so I create my own when I can.’ I find the piece very profound and painfully relatable; simply turning the kettle on alleviates stress from my shoulders. There's an art in the holding of the mug, it's like a hug for your hands. Picture me, both hands on a porcelain mug, cocooned in the biggest cardigan I own as I inhale the ginger and cinnamon I have stirred into the beverage. It's better than any roll-on essential oil Holland & Barrett can offer, though I love those too.
The below poem was written after I read Chatti's piece and considered my own experiences with tea. I actually remember the first time I ever tried some; being a sickly child, I've encountered every Asian home remedy you could imagine. My lovely Nani mum came to live with us for six months when I was ten. She lives with my mum's family in New Delhi, but came over when my parents first became self-employed to help look after us. This is probably too much information, but after seeing how torn up and dry the skin around my nails was, she told me she knew how to cure it within an hour. I thought she was joking. I had very sore nail beds and the skin around them was so dry it was peeling. My Nani mum filled up a tub of warm water, added some grey powder which she had contained in a lookalike Johnson and Johnson bottle, and asked me to put my hands in for ten minutes. I did what I was told, telling myself that this was a waste of time.
Later in the evening, she asked about my hands. I'd forgotten about the weird treatment, but after looking down, I realised my skin was completely healed. I still have no idea how she did this. She also made the best tea, I've yet to have another cup top it. Her combination of ginger, cinnamon and whatever else she chucked in there is at a pinnacle no one can touch. I was particularly unwell one afternoon and she made me my first cup. Now I drink about three a day.
My Nani mum, heartbreakingly, has been very unwell this year. The cancer she suffered through in 2016 has returned, and what's worse, she's so far away from me. I've tried very hard to stay positive, and I hope and pray for the best outcome. The below poem is dedicated to her.
At least once a day, I make a cup of tea
Some days I’ll have two
On Sundays, I’ll have three
The process reminds me of my mum
Dancing around the kitchen in the winter
Pouring the drink into my favourite mug
A porcelain hand warmer
makes a loving hug
Tea is a love language
A friend that sits on my bedside drawer
Returns the colour to my cheeks when my troubles
wash up on the shore
When they say ‘be kind to yourself’
I respond by making tea
The experience of dipping in the shortbread
It calms down my sea
Hi everyone! Happy October.
I love this poem and I'm so so proud of it, I'm so glad you like it as much as I do. <3
See you soon!
Karisma
xxxx