Two Poems
Closer to Assam, Like the Tea
Closer to Assam, like the tea, I say
Patiently. I have refined talk of my heritage to an art—
Not Sun-Tzu’s war, but Rabinandranath Tagore’s
Swadeshi rebellion: so hip even the English loved it.
No, I am not marked by Bengal stripes, but I confess,
There’s something oddly impressive in the
Dark straight of my hair. They eye it at once. Must know
Where are you from?
It’s never an accusation. Nor a way to note, unkindly,
Our subtle differences, though over here we are
A nation of officious, tally-swishers, I admit.
It can be a bit of a pest.
The younger ones treat it like a scar, impressed.
They all have histories just like mine. I am cool.
The elders, equally curious, nod sagely, as though
I’ve solved a mystery. Dredged a name from tongue-tip.
I had—decades ago—been honest with my line, which
Hides itself behind rich olive skin, only hinted-to by my
English: learned second-hand from a South African
Tutor. The withered trace of my accent belongs to him.
But Gomoh, my father’s home, means nothing.
I have a Nepalese nose and cheeks.
Strikingly few people know Nepal borders his India.
Much less that Jharkhand is the land of the forests.
So I must fly east, rove Bangladesh and trawl up
The pumping Ganges—sail precisely one thousand miles
From his village, where monkeys roamed and jeered,
And the heat was thick enough to see.
All to plant as close a flag I can on their mind’s map
Which provokes a nod, always approving,
So that my polite enquirers understand
My blood’s complicated journey to our pebbled shores.
So I tell them, patiently, that I travel from the place
Oak-skinned women pick the camellia sinensis leaves;
Everyone knows Assam. It’s a popular brand of tea:
So hip, even the English love me.
Other People’s Tea
Coffee. Push and shunt. The //hiss of doors// and heat as I press into the //concertina space// entombed morningly—carried on the fresh black //ELECTRIC-MULTIPLE-UNIT// fumes across London to clock in at a //job that I have// tricked myself into hating within barely tolerable bounds.
*
I see adverts splashed up the //tunnel—//walls curved like a perfect skater’s dream ramp up, or the polished slope inside a ceramic //boiled egg cup//. The people printed with //teeth// white as the tiles look at me with superior //smiles// from behind sly complexions and at this size print—their //pores// might issue steel Circle Line tube //carriages// like molten lead bullets splitting brown hen-shells.
*
Hours spent rocking against strange shoulders. Sometimes prop a //book// on a man’s shaved back-of-head. We used to live in fields with wild beards and husbandry //flocks of sheep// and it wasn’t until Dutchmen dreamed up //vertically integrated global supply chains// or in layman’s terms: of sailing not-our-seas and taking for the sake of //trade foreign// delicacies. Of plucking China’s fields of //cornrowed// tea—that our winters were our holidays and that our mornings didn’t run on capitalism, caffeine, and Other People’s Tea.
Kurt Van Ristell is a poet, author, and artist living in South London. He works in education, in Lambeth, which is a storyteller’s boon. Van Ristell writes––broadly, around his own life experiences––and digitally paints. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Bandit Fiction, Sledgehammer Lit and Shayel Magazine. Follow him on IG @kurtvanristell
Artwork by Noor Althehli