Posts Tagged ‘tea poetry’

A toast to the grace of the pot,
ready at all time
To give up its emptiness
for the tea

~The Minister of Leaves

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Over the balcony the cool moon shone bright
The fence gate was still ajar in this young night
Strolling lantern through the woods ushered my guest
Rising smokes from the bamboo bush responded to my tea request
Scattered dog barks accompanied falling meteors from the Autumn sky
Whiffs of wind carried melancholic tune from distant flute
We sat and talked long and deep till dawn crept upon us
The green moss was full with cold dew crimsoned by aurora of twilight

~Zhen Ban Chiao
Painter & poet in the Ching Dynasty

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Whisper in my ear


Tell me your thoughts

What hidden things stir your viens,

on the tree in the still of night.

Fragrant watery breeze blowing from nearby stream

Teasing you with fingers that never touch.

But that is the language of nature

Touching without limbs

Seeing without eyes

Breathing without moving

Singing without a song

Secrets told in invisible languages

Leaf to leaf

Harmonies sung without words.

Your pulse quickens

As lush days turn into fecund nights

To those without ears, the sound

Is impossibly beautiful.

Finally you are picked,

Leafing aspirations

To join your world to the human one,

For a bowl of tea.

~ Paul Rosenburg

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A friend presented me
With tender leaves of Oolong tea,
For which I chose a kettle
Of ivory-mounted gold,
A mixing-bowl of snow-white earth.
With its clear bright froth and fragrance,
It was like the nectar of Immortals.
The first bowl washed the cobwebs from my mind –
The whole world seemed to sparkle.
A second cleansed my spirit
Like purifying showers of rain,
A third and I was one of the Immortals –
What need now for austerities
To purge our human sorrows?
Worldly people, by going in for wine,
Sadly deceive themselves.
For now I know the Way of Tea is real.

~Chio Jen (Tang Dynasty)

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Steam rises from a cup of tea
and we are wrapped in history,
inhaling ancient times and lands,
comfort of ages in our hands.

~Faith Greenbowl

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I beheaded our 15-year-old
organic roses,
chopping off old doddering faded heads
along with matronly full blossoms, 
saucy nubile blooms,
and just-split-lip sepals revealing babysoft 
reds and pinks underneath.
I lovingly tore
their petals from their peduncles
and scattered them on drying screens,
dreaming of steaming
cups of black tea 
steeped with roses.

~(c) Karen Suriano 2009

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The first cup moistens my lips and throat;

The second cup breaks my loneliness;

The third cup searches my barren entrail but to find therein some thousand volumes of odd ideographs;

The fourth cup raises a slight perspiration-all the wrongs of life pass out through my pores; At the fifth cup I am purified;

The sixth cup calls me to the realms of the immortals.

The seventh cup-ah, but I could take no more! I only feel the breath of the cool wind that raises in my sleeves.

Where is Elysium? Let me ride on this sweet breeze and waft away thither.

~Lu T’ung

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