V: Vietnamese Weasel


The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup.




Specific moments of deliberate enjoyment can be embodied in a scrumptiously eye popping cup of coffee. Still love a splash of Java Sumatra, and Guatemalan Elephant, but since the discovery of Vietnamese Weasel, Va Va Voom! The aroma of it sends me… back to my honeymoon (explaining the big love hit) back through history; into a place of hot fascination, a place that steps with me, out of time, into the construction of a personal mythology. Specific moments of deliberate enjoyment can perk up everything, even if you wake up too early.

My decision is to make coffee
And sit, watching the colours
Change, outside; the pink
Underbelly of mackerel cloud

Somewhere in the fridge is a tin
Of coffee. This week we are drinking
Vietnamese Weasel. I picture the sacks
Of beans on the quayside in a monsoon wind

Maybe this started as a practical joke
But whoever ground up the beans from
The weasel’s poo was on to a good thing
Although the flavour in this tin is synthesised

While coffee brews in the jug, I will
Be organised, drag the washing from
The lovely machine that undertook
Hard work for me as I slept

Whirl of wet fabric in the basket
Waits for me to locate some boots
And a mug for the coffee, and wonder
If it’s too early to wake the dog

Dog thumps her tail in a slow beat
I turn off the lamp we forgot last night
And gather up the glasses and appraise
The unfinished list of things to do

The washing up is waiting, is one of
Those little repetitions that marks out
Your life, this history in coffee rings, in
The medium of smeared food stains

Two boots located, the washing is brought
To the line, another confirmation of our
Continuing adventures, pegged item by item
Optimistic plastic fastens the corners

Occupational debris stuffs up the shed
This morning the light strikes a low
Wall of old car batteries, behind me
My shadow slopes on an old door

Close my eyes to focus on
The fusion, the notes of coffee
Dark cocoa musk, bituminous
Coal, tar, smoke, burnt sugar




Comments

Gossip_Grl said…
Nice posting I like coffee and your poem.
25 April 2012 at 15:02
Lynn Proctor said…
making me want to brew some myself--wonderful poem
25 April 2012 at 16:04
Laura S. said…
Hello, Lily! This is a beautiful poem. Thanks for sharing!

Have a lovely week and happy A to Z!!
25 April 2012 at 20:23
Lisa Southard said…
Thank you folks- I do love my coffee!!
25 April 2012 at 22:02
Stephanie V said…
Intriguing coffee source...sort of makes me happy I'm a tea drinker. Your poem is perfect.
25 April 2012 at 22:05
Teresa Cypher said…
I am never sure, lol...is this civet coffee you are writing about? People draw such arbitrary lines about they things they will and won't consume. :-) I am a tea drinker. Hubby and I just sat on the front porch, watched the sun go down--peeked through emerging leaves. Next week, we won't be able to see it from the porch. While on the porch, I had a cup of mint tea.

Your poem is lovely! It flows. :-)
26 April 2012 at 01:55
Lisa Southard said…
It is the same thing- the bean goes through the digestive system- at first it's the only chance the workers get to try the coffee, and then the rich people realise that workers' coffee tastes better. Is a bit weird! I like herbal tea too, nettle is my favourite :-)
And thank you!
26 April 2012 at 12:17
Suze said…
'Underbelly of mackerel cloud'

!

'Close my eyes to focus on
The fusion, the notes of coffee
Dark cocoa musk, bituminous
Coal, tar, smoke, burnt sugar'

!!

!
29 April 2012 at 14:05
Lisa Southard said…
The coffee helps! :-)
29 April 2012 at 19:59
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Never-Ending Shed Story: Part Two

Image
Day 8: We waited for cooler hours before loading up the van, intent on finishing the shed build. The Shed Saga finale! We were optimistically wrong, of course, though the roof felt was tacked down, and both the fascia and the perched diamond of finial were drilled in. The field grass was looking parched, it was the colour of wheat biscuits. Crickets chirped- they always sound merry. We were hot and sticky like two marinated chunks. ‘It looks like a shed,’ we observed, surprised. ‘We should get the doors hinged!’ But our stomachs were growling and we were clumsy-tired. The doors would have to be another adventure. Meanwhile, it was time for cooking burgers in the van, for getting our stable sofa bed ready for a well-earned sleep, for setting up one table and two chairs under the sweep of the ash tree, looking down across the lower field as the sun dipped behind us and the nearly-full pink-faced moon rose up from the tree line on the opposite hill. We fetched out our reclining chairs, im
Read more

Dear Autumn

Image
This year, here, the Equinox has slipped by: not shy, not overlooked, more elegant, understated. This year, here, Autumn steps quietly, her satin gown spun from late summer sun, nut-bronze, gold-stitched. Her jewels are hedge-fruits, her crown is copperleaf. Where she steps the earth is rich with mulch, and tree branches bend, weighted by their crop. She is kind and stern, for all of this should be enough. We are in the garden, licking blackberry juice from purple fingers, picking out thorns, reaching for apples to eat, picking up windfalls to brew, glad to be here, this and every year. In our fields we pluck sloes, and more blackberries. Logs are stacked for longer nights. We feel the sun, smoothly warm, and the crackle of cold in the air: it is more than enough.  It is the seasonal rhythm of life. Dear Autumn, we thank you for this abundance, we honour you by the work of harvest and stores. When winter treads in you will be with us in jars, in hot bubbles of fruit, in the rich f
Read more

The Importance Of Losing When Pounced By Hyenas

Image
Work continues on preparing the flat areas for seeding with grass and clover. We have a new routine of stopping at County Tyres to fill the van with their cast-offs, before getting to the land, unrolling one bay’s worth of weed suppressant membrane, weighing it down with one line of stinky rubber and one line of soil dug from the stony ground. By then we are overheated, feel like we’ve been dunked in vaseline, decide that will do for the day, and snort at ourselves for thinking all of this would be done in a few hours. Usually, we head home for a nap, but sometimes we have company. On this particular day, we are hosting a family picnic- the gazebo is up, some rudimentary furniture is brought from the stable, the cold box is unpacked, salad is chopped. Grandchildren 6 & 7 are here with their Mum, they are ‘helping’ which they are surprised to discover does not include rolling the tyres down the hill. Being made to attempt to recover the tyres does dampen their enthusiasm- G7 informe
Read more