This poem was prompted by Potted Purple Mag‘s seventh issue’s theme, ‘Culture’. It’s a pretty weird topic for me, and one that I’ve considered before in my writing, since I often find myself wondering what my culture actually is–what it means to be British, in other words. For this poem, my mind immediately went to the age-old stereotype: tea. But I wanted to transform it through personal memories which are unironically ‘tea-stained’, showing the people behind the hot drink which might as well be a meme at this point. So, here are my thoughts on tea; I hope you enjoy reading them!
Tea
Tea. That’s all anyone knows. I could say
that the amount of times I heard my mum
say, “put the kettle on,” outnumber my
memories of her saying, “I love you,” but
that sounds too dramatic. So, tea stains
cling to the ashtray memories of my nan,
always old as I grew older, sat at the tiny
table with one wobbly leg, and a special mat
for the teapot. ‘God Bless This Kitchen’
printed on it, in red. Made to look like cross stitch,
but the real embroidery was upstairs.
Uncles and aunties appeared at Christmas,
put the kettle on, then vanished as quickly
as they’d arrived. Only used mugs, collecting
at the side of the leaky sink, were left behind,
and small presents, sometimes. A forgotten
Christmas present once materialised, in summer
time, confusing a five-year-old child. Me.
I didn’t like tea. Not until coffee tasted worse,
and I forced myself to pick a side, not knowing
that, of all things, tea mattered least. Not knowing
that the people who drank it, some gone now,
some not seen for months—years—actually
carved their ways into my memory, forging links
through that homely smell; the tell-tale steam.
Oskar Leonard 