The nip of early morning air reflected on his brow scented with the aroma of freshly brewed tea untainted by impurities of city life, envelopes his lungs filled with bird song and gentle splash of water falls the incessant buzz of insects and coy of reptiles pervading the otherwise silent landscape man and nature unite, as they share in this resplendence
And as he meanders down misty mountains He observes … the figure of Varshi framed in the distance As she moves through the rolling hills of emerald green Adorned in a neatly pleated sari of many colors As if competing with the myriads of wild flowers A soft far away smile on her face lingers As she tips the tea leaves in to a sack with nimble fingers
Now, the villagers all jostled for his attention His Straw colored hair, so different to their own “Ayubowan sir" they greet him with glee And guided by undeniable curiosity They overwhelm him with their hospitality With humble offerings of …sumptuous sweets … and tea Sweet…. strong…. Ceylon tea
On passing the factory he notices Varshi again With her matted hair…her feet bruised and bare A full basket of tea buds bobbing at her back His eyes brim with awe…with fascination As she labors on sorting...stacking…shifting The tea leaves now left to wither and shred The statuesque figure retraces her steps Jauntily he hails her, “Good day miss” She nods shyly portraying a girlish demeanor
As the sunset descends with its many palette of colors the silhouette of the maiden looms before him… like so many of her kind she was resourceful although her earnings were far from plentiful With a heartwarming smile she extends to him A basket overflowing with tropical fruits Capturing the enduring power, beauty and spirit of true generosity.
Hiranya says about his life: “I am a visually impaired Sri Lankan with a Degree in Law and Management. I am a passionate writer and hope to publish a collection of poems in the future.”
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First day in the house, and the mice are confused their routines established by the previous family living here suddenly disrupted. There are rooms that were safe and almost always empty that are now full of new furniture and footsteps the scent and stalk of a cat excited at the prospect of new territory to mark and own.
First night in the new house and we can hear the mice tumbling through the rafters and walls squeaking in dismay at emerging into rooms unexpectedly full of people a fire burning in the fireplace, someone making themselves food in the middle of the night, in a kitchen that belonged to them every night after 9 pm.
Drive
We drove out of town in my dad’s old pickup truck so full of baggage I didn’t think we’d make it out of town. None of it made sense but it was so cool and exciting so stupid in retrospect. There was a whole weekend in a hotel room about 15 stories up with an open window with no screen so much alcohol I thought I was going to die.
I didn’t even have my license, barely knew how to drive just a few backstreet lessons practicing with the shift and the clutch in that old truck with no power steering and shocks shot to shit somehow got that truck back on the freeway in the middle of the night pointed it down the road back home teenagers all think they’re going to live forever.
Pulled into the driveway around one in the morning parked the truck about fifty times until I thought it looked right turned the lights off just in time to see my dad standing in the doorway, arms crossed, so much rage and terror and relief on his face there was really nothing we could say about the whole thing.
When the Nights Grow
The air grows colder and the sky grow clearer and finally we can see stars again from our back porch, huddled in our coats, hands in our pockets watching our breath pool and hover in the air. The world grows so quiet after the first hard freeze, as if all of the little birds and squirrels all of the creatures that rustle invisible through the trees and bushes all summer have been frozen as stiff as the blades of silvery grass crunching under our feet.
A few more snowfalls and I don’t know where I am anymore, all of my landmarks have been obliterated and replaced with brand new ones. It’s so easy to get turned around driving to the store, to work, to my parents’ house out in the country to check on them and make sure they have enough food, that the heater works that they’ve filled their prescriptions in time for the cold. Their dog might make it through one more winter, they might, too.
My daughter texts me to tell me she’s going out with friends after school and I tell her she can’t because it’s going to be too cold once the sun goes down for her to stand on a bus stop waiting for her ride home. I tell her I can’t drive in the snow, on all this hard-packed ice and she swears at me and I spend the rest of the day worrying she won’t come home at all. When she does come home, on time, after school, her cheeks are red and splotchy and as angry as she is with me, she takes the cup of hot chocolate I’ve made her just like I did when she was little and happy, asks for more marshmallows before stomping off to her room and shutting the door between us.
Hope
The world is burning, I tell the fat, green caterpillar as it ambles up the side of my garage. It stops for a moment, turns its head toward me as if deciding to listen to me for a moment. It’s true, I say It’s all on fire. I’m so sorry, but we really fucked things up this time. I hold a bit of birch leaf out for it, but all it wants to do is climb.
The next morning, I find a thick, white cocoon where the lunar moth has spun itself a safe place to pupate. I don’t know if we’ll be around long enough for this, I warn the sleeping moth this hopeful little creature that still dreams of growing wings and fluttering away.
The Woodchuck
The little woodchuck bounces down the alley dives into the hedges that hide my back yard. I take two, three steps after it, draw close enough to look over the short hedge but the little creature is gone, transported via woodland magic or just into some burrow it’s dug that I haven’t yet discovered.
Later, the same woodchuck, or perhaps another one trundles past my office window, its short, stubby legs moving it along more efficiently than one would think possible. It takes several attempts before it can climb out of the deep window well pulling itself up onto and over the ledge with its small black hands but it’s somehow still too fast for me to get my camera out in time.
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I’d been walking in the twinkling world left by last night’s ice storm when, at the edge of a farmer’s field, I glimpsed blue smoke.
Or so I thought.
Approaching closer, I realized that bushy bare branches, ice-encased, had gathered light from the late winter-early-spring sky, holding it like a glass globe, fragile and rare, for me to find.
Blue truth moved through me, breaking me apart like a ship’s prow, parting ice at the pole, leaving white shards afloat on azure waves.
Awake now, I walked back down the empty bike trail, sight restored. At the pond, I observed tiny gleams in the trees, like the last remaining Christmas strings, winking, whispering, “All’s the world’s blue for you.”
One Step
How can death be so alive? I ask, striding through coppery leaf-rot to pass through the portal of woven branches into the darkness of the gorge. After last night’s rain, we step carefully, the deciduous canopy diminished, its evidence everywhere underfoot, silence and solitude the beating heart.
At the fork where yesterday we turned back at the threat of storm, today we go on, cliffs on our left, sun-striped bank to the right. When it looks as if we can go no farther, we descend rain-slick wooden steps to stand at last beside singing stream.
Ahead we see a dappled bank. Treed on either side, it’s no less a door than the boughed arch at the glen’s other end, openings to another world that tells a story of an earth without humans and their explosive emotions.
Between water’s murmur and dark clefts’ deep listening I envision it all without us and am one step closer to letting it all go.
Ed Davis has immersed himself in writing and contemplative practices since retiring from college teaching. Time of the Light, apoetry collection, was released by Main Street Rag Press in 2013. His novel The Psalms of Israel Jones (West Virginia University Press 2014) won the Hackney Award for an unpublished novel in 2010. Many of his stories, essays and poems have appeared in anthologies and journals such as Sky Island Journal, Write Launch, The Plenitude and Slippery Elm. He lives with his wife and three cats in the village of Yellow Springs, Ohio.
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Little Jesalee finally shucked her first shell. For months, the preteen was only allowed to shovel empty oysters, crunching loud into the pail. The broken bits smelling like hot streets she'd left in Baltimore across the bays before coming to Bivalve, NJ.
Her family shack was some way in the marsh; though no shore seen there, the shuckers owned the air.
The knife was heavy, but her mommy held the wood handle steady in her hand, showing just how to break it open and get the meat for frying.
Jesalee held the smooth inside, as mommy rushed back to work. Shells fell on and on and, for the girl never stopped, long after she'd left.
Matthew Sorrento is editor of Retreats from Oblivion: The Journal of and Film International Online. His poetry has appeared in The Five-Two and The Ekphrastic Review, and he has contributed reviews and essays to the Los Angeles Review of Books, CrimeTime, and Noir City Magazine, with introductions forStark House Press Crime Classics and booklet essays for Arrow Video. He teaches film studies at Rutgers-Camden, and his edited collection, Becoming Nosferatu: Stories Inspired by Silent German Horror (co-edited with Gary D. Rhodes), is forthcoming from BearManor Media.
Matthew says about this poem: “The poem reflects the experiences of late-19th/early-20th-century Delaware Bay oyster workers in South Jersey, many of whom came from the Chesapeake. I have provided a link about their history, in case it’s of interest. “
Please share this story to give it maximum distribution. Exposure is our authors’ only pay. You can also help our contributors gain exposure by linking to them and to RFM’s homepage.
Christmas Eve, a scatter of snow. Cold, very cold as only the mountains can be.
Darjeeling, midnight, bells ringing, ghosts of the Raj dream in cold tombs of lost Indian summers.
Kanchenjunga, the sacred mountain Her five peaks the five treasures of snow.
Salt, gold, jewels, sacred scroll, impenetrable armour, guarded by demons of old
Delightful to Meet Earl Grey
Delightful to Meet Earl Grey Who was the first, original Earl Grey? People ask in a quite careless way. He was a British Prime Minister Always charming, never sinister.
Bergamot was mixed with a black tea. The citrusy flavour was the key. This is very much a royal brew, But humbler folk can purchase it too.
Bergamot oranges flavour the tea which grow mainly in France and Italy, a hybrid of oranges from Spain and lemons grown in South Asian rain.
A Chinese mandarin made the tea Blent it with bergamot for no fee, but as a free gift to my Lord Grey. So, the famous blend was on its way.
Grey lived away in the far North East. Limescale in the water never ceased. But the Bergamot redressed this flaw, which popularised the tea much more!
Its fame quickly spread throughout the world. The banner of ‘Earl Grey’ was unfurled. Yet few knew who he could really be, as they chatted and drank this great tea!
Note; The reason for the mandarin’s gift is disputed. It is said it was in thanks for Grey’s rescue of the mandarin, or his family.
A Nice Cuppa
Walking through the gardens in the cool of the morning, above loom the mountain peaks, Green leaved tea bushes wash against the skyline, waiting to be picked.
Bright dots of colour, the pickers are scattered, on their heads, conical hats of neatly plaited straw. On their backs baskets bags, full of loose leaves.
Behind the tea gardens, like a scene from a Bollywood romance, rise the five peaks of the mighty Kanchenjunga, mysterious, snowcapped sacred, home to a fearful mountain monster.
Early morning mists drift through the valleys. In the East, a pale, orange banner waves across the lightening sky. Ghosts of the Raj linger among the hills, lie in the churchyards, dreaming of sipping tea beneath Indian skies.
Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who has also lived and worked in India and Tanzania. Her work has been published in twenty countries from Australia to Kazakhstan. It has appeared in over 200 literary magazines and anthologies including ‘The New English Review’, ‘ Moss Piglet’, ‘Songs of Eretz’, ‘Quail Bell’, ‘Waywords’, ‘Cosmic Daffodil’, ‘Dorothy Parker’s Ashes’, ‘Hooghly Review’, ‘Meat for Tea’, ‘Rural Fiction’ and many others. This year she has been nominated for Best of the Net’ and a Dwarf Star’.
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Image generated by AI. Please let me know if you find cultural inaccuracies.
