My newest writing friendship is with Violet.  We met at a morning ladies gathering at our church.  She was introduced to me as a writer.  I immediately took note, but was cautious – what kind of writer? – I thought.  And then she said she had read my Toward Christmas blog and I stepped closer.  This wasn’t just because it feels good to have someone read your blog, I was intrigued that she had found it, it doesn’t get a ton of traffic.  Finally when she said she was a poet — and I wondered – what kind of poet?  – I had enough questions that I desired answers to that we exchanged emails, promised to share some poetry with each other and swapped blogs.

I can tell you that I was a wee bit intimidated.  Violet has had published: fiction, articles, editorials, volumes of poetry, poems,  she has several active blogs and is active on several streams of social media.  A writing friendship still has to click, like any friendship.  You don’t have to write the same way or be at the same stage, but there has to be an openness and an ease.  I feel this with Violet and I’m grateful to be learning all sorts of things about writing.

This last month we chose to write poems about a mutually agreed upon photo prompt (or Ekphrastic Poems).  Our two pieces illustrate our difference in perspective.  We chose a photo from The Boston Globe: The Big Picture Series, Shadows and Silhouettes, picture # 20 (if you don’t have time to visit the site, picture a sunrise over a river on the edge of Kabul, Afghanistan with a Tea Wallah preparing the morning brew for his customers).

Here’s my poem, a duet:

To the River

This morning you flow sluggishly
or is it my tea stained vision
too muddy sweet to separate
more than one or two stolen moments
between customers, moments that etch
this landscape onto my retina so I see
its eerie opposite when I close my eyes – and dreaming
return here, combing your shores
for burnable jetsam, stoking the fire
as the smoke snakes about my aching
hands polishing the brass kettles
so they sparkle like you do
in the sun…

The first cup is for us, looking toward
the east, warmth seeping into my hands
as they cup the honey mulled pungency
that somehow braces me for the day.

Half I swallow with gratitude and half
I toss as libation to your good friendship.

To the TeaMaker

This morning you move sluggishly
or is it just that my muddy waters
have passed here so many times you inhabit
your tea making tasks all at once – a snapshot.
After all, your presence is the flash of sun
the shoots over the mountains in the morning.
You will disappear into my long flowing memory like a dream
I will want to remember you:
combing for fuel and then crooning
a soft low song that kindled fire
and smoke, spicing the air hovering
over me, those gleaming kettles, your eyes
mimicking the sun…

The first cup is for us, as I flow eastward
where the sun rises, warmth
streams back to me and from your gaze
that somehow braces me for the day.

I receive your offering each morning, mingle it,
layer into sediment, your memory.

© 2016 Laurel Archer

Here is Violet’s poem:

Tea dialects

I flick on electric kettle
and offer chamomile, peppermint
Red Rose, Earl Grey, or green
pour steaming water over gauze pouches
into clear mugs that show off
emerging jewel colors.

Recall the ceremony of biscuits
and creamy English Breakfast on a tray
served in porcelain by an aunt
before breakfast in a Winchester cottage.

Dream of spicy chai, bought outdoors
just after sunrise from an Afghan tea-wallah
water heated over his smoky fire
poured from a copper teapot into a glass
and sipped through lumps of sugar.

Know that wherever I am
the warm, fragrant
steeped-to-perfection
language of tea
needs no interpretation.

© 2016 by Violet Nesdoly (All rights reserved)

You may view more of Violet’s poetry on her blog