Today, April 28th, is Great Poetry Reading Day! There's no reason you should have known that — we didn't until a few minutes ago — but that makes today perfect for a tea poetry contest. Write us an original poem, however long, about tea, or just mentioning tea, post it in the comments here or on our Facebook page, and we'll pick a few favorites by the end of this week and send those poets FREE TEA!
In the meantime, we looked around for a suitable poem to post here about tea, but since we hear platitudes about tea all the time, we settled on just a poem that simply mentions tea, from one of our favorite poets. Here's "Snow Day" by Billy Collins, in which he makes a pot of tea and then listens to the school closures on the radio. Cheers!
By Billy Collins Today we woke up to a revolution of snow, its white flag waving over everything, the landscape vanished, not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness, and beyond these windows the government buildings smothered, schools and libraries buried, the post office lost under the noiseless drift, the paths of trains softly blocked, the world fallen under this falling. In a while I will put on some boots and step out like someone walking in water, and the dog will porpoise through the drifts, and I will shake a laden branch, sending a cold shower down on us both. But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house, a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow. I will make a pot of tea and listen to the plastic radio on the counter, as glad as anyone to hear the news that the Kiddie Corner School is closed, the Ding-Dong School, closed, the All Aboard Children's School, closed, the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed, along with -- some will be delighted to hear -- the Toadstool School, the Little School, Little Sparrows Nursery School, Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School, the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed, and -- clap your hands -- the Peanuts Play School. So this is where the children hide all day, These are the nests where they letter and draw, where they put on their bright miniature jackets, all darting and climbing and sliding, all but the few girls whispering by the fence. And now I am listening hard in the grandiose silence of the snow, trying to hear what those three girls are plotting, what riot is afoot, which small queen is about to be brought down.