At first I was in a panic. Who the hell was my favourite poet? If that was the first question then what would they get us to do? Recite our favourite lines?
But it didn't happen like that. It turned out like any other writing workshop, only better. The teaching poet, Jean Kent, didn't stand and talk to us she sat and had a conversation. And I knew thing and learned new things. Yes we had to write a poem but it wasn't daunting, not like I expected it to be. What follows is my poem on the object, as part of the activity where we had to write about one of the things that Jean placed out on the table.
She knows I hate the floaters
in rose tea, but she makes it.
It’s an overwhelming sweet
stench. Pauporie. Grandmothers.
The steam escapes above the rim.
In cooling water the shrivelled
bob and flake.
The package of cream and green
with characters of meaning
sits on the counter, next
to the empty coco tin. She never
makes me a cup of watered
chocolate or even makes her
mother’s mother’s recipe of real.
Half filled desire, deep and rich needed.
Instead she asks “another before
Again I am not a poet.