An Invitation To Tea (A Dark Comedy) Part 2
(It is advisable you read part 1 first)
Charles Latimer broke up the slices of bread he brought and scattered them across the path. “You’ll never guess what Grace Forbes said to me this morning. She said that I would have made some lucky woman a wonderful husband. Of course, she doesn’t really know me. I mean, if she did she wouldn’t have said that, now would she? ”
The pigeons didn’t reply. They just moved about from one piece of bread to another and chasing off any sparrow who tried to snatch up a crumb.
“Of course she is a lovely woman her. I am surprised that she never married. There was talk that she was engaged once. It’s said that the chap ran off with her best friend, but at least she has her sister to keep her company.” His voice lowered to almost a whisper when he noticed someone coming.
Removing another couple of slices of bread from the bag, he broke them up. He scattered the pieces in a semi-circled at his feet. Several more birds landed. Squabbles broke out.
“Its all right fellows I have more bread, “he said and broke up another slice. “ Now where was I? Oh, yes. I was telling you about Grace and her sister. They are so lucky to have each other. Myself I was an only child. It can be lonely at times when your parents are gone. Of course you wouldn’t understand that.”
The pigeons moved about picking at the bread always watchful for a larger another might have. Several sparrows swooped in picked up a pieces and then flew off. Charles watched them scattering more bread until the bag was empty. Slowly the last pieces disappeared and the birds left.
Glancing at his watch Charles noticed it was nearly twelve. He must pick up his shopping and go home. He folded the bag he carried the bread in and slipped it into his pocket. He moved out of the park and towards the corner shop. The tiny doorbell chimed s he entered.
Grace smiled and lifted a brown paper bag onto the counter. “Your groceries Mr Latimer. How were the pigeons today? ”
“Their usual self. They can be bullies at times especially where the sparrows are concerned.” he replied. “How much do owe you? ”
“That will be five pounds and sixteen pence. I am sorry it’s so much, but everything goes up almost daily.”
“I know. It is dreadful.” He said opening his wallet and playing her.
“Mr Latimer, Charlotte and I were wondering.”
“What is that Grace? ”
“If you would do us the honour of coming around for tea one evening. As you live, alone you might like some company. Or dear Mr Potter would love to meet you.”
“Mr Potter? I thought you and Charlotte lived on your own.”
“Mr Potter was a friend of our late Aunt. That is the only reason why we agreed to have him here“
“Oh, I don‘t know.”
Grace put on he most disarming smile. “You know we would dearly love you to come.”
“Well, yes.”
“Good we will see you this evening. Let us say about six o’clock. How is that? ”
Charles forces small smile. “Yes I guess that would be all right..”
“We will see you at six then.”
To Be Concluded
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Invitation To Tea (A Dark Comedy) Part 1
Charles Latimer visited the corner shop run by the Forbes sisters Charlotte and Grace almost every day. He could have collected his groceries in one visit, but the short intercourse of words they exchanged broke the emptiness in his life. As he entered the shop, the tiny bell above the door chimed.
Grace Forbes stood behind the counter. “Good morning Mr Latimer, ” she said. “What would you like today? ”
Good morning, Grace. I’ve written out a small list. My needs are not many as you know.” He replied and smiled.
“I’m surprised you never married. You would have made some lucky woman a wonderful husband.”
Charles Latimer felt his cheeks warm. “Would it be all right to leave the list and pick up my groceries later? ”
“Of course. Why, have you got a date with someone? ”
“In a manner of speaking. I feed the pigeons in the park every morning about this time. I must be going now.”
“We’ll have your groceries ready by the time you get back.”
“Thank you, ” he said, turned, and left.
Grace watched him leave. A sad unpretentious man whose clothes always seemed a size too large.
“Grace who were you talking to? ” Her sister asked entering the shop.
“Our Mr. Latimer, Charlotte. He has left a list.”
“It is a shame he never married.”
“Yes. He wasn’t fortunate to be blessed with a brother or sister neither. Such a same.”
“Maybe we should introduce him to Mr Potter.”
“I don’t think so. Not after the trouble we had with him after Mr Armad’s visit.”
“That is because he wasn’t English. Mr Potter doesn’t like foreigners. He found Mr Small and Mr Cummings quite agreeable, didn’t he? ”
“Yes.”
“He is bound to like Mr Latimer.” Charlotte smiled. “Now we must put up his groceries for him.”
To be continued…
poem by David Harris
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An Invitation To Tea (A Dark Comedy) Part 3
(It is advisable you read parts 1 and 2 first)
Grace watched him for a few minutes, and then moved to the back of the shop. “He is going to come around at six tonight. I do hop Mr Potter like him.”
“I’m sure he will. Grace.”
“I can’t help feeling bit concerned after Mr Armad.”
“It was the curry Mr Armad insisted on making. Revolting stuff. I felt queasy as Mr Potter afterwards. Anyway Mr Potter always prefers Englishmen, even when Aunty had him staying with her.”
Charles checked his watch, and then knocked the door. The lights appeared in the shop and the silhouette of one of the sisters grew large in the glass panel of the door. Charlotte smiled.
“Do come in Mr Latimer.”
Charles entered and followed Charlotte through to the back of the shop. As they entered the room, Grace turned from the oven with a tray of freshly baked scones. She smiled.
“Please have a seat, Mr Latimer. Tea is ready.”
“Call me Charles, Mr Latimer seems so formal.” he replied as he sat where Charlotte directed. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but where is Mr Potter going to sit? ”
“Unfortunately, Mr Potter prefers to eat alone. You will meet him later. I have told him you are coming and h I looking forward to meeting you.” Grace replied and brought forward the tray if scones. “Please help yourself Charles.”
Charles waited until the sisters were seated before starting.
“I think these are your best scones, Grace.”
“Thank you Charlotte.”
“I will second that. These are best scones I’ve ever tasted. I hope that Mr Potter will appreciate them.”
“I’m sure he will.” Grace replied and watched with satisfaction as the scones disappeared from the plate.
“Another cup of tea Charles? ” Charlotte asked holding the teapot poised.
“Thank you.”
As Charlotte poured out the tea, Grace collected the dishes from the table. “While Charlotte and I do the washing up you sit and enjoy your tea.”
“What about Mr Potter? ”
“We’ll collect his dishes later.”
“Charles drank his tea slowly. He wondered how he could thank the two women. He would have to think of a way later.
Grace and Charlotte smiled and nodded to one another. Mr Potter would enjoy Charles. They dried their hands and placed the dishes into the cupboard.
“I see you have almost drunk your tea. I presume you would like to see Mr Potter now? ”
“Yes please.”
“If you will follow us.”
Charles followed the sisters out of the room and into the garden.
“Unfortunately we have only one pair of stairs leading to the basement.”
“Basement? ”
“Yes, Mr Potter is not one for coming into the house. He is a bit eccentric.”
“Oh.”
2Grace dear, would you put the light on? You will have to watch the bottom step Charles. It can be a bit slippery at times.”
“Aren’t you ladies coming down? ”
“No. Mr Potter does not like women that much. “She said and smiled. “I will close the door behind you.”
Charles descended the stairs. A peculiar stench rose around him. Just as he put his foot on the bottom step, it tilted and he fell forward.
Charlotte heard the splash followed by the thrashing of water. She closed the storm door and called to Grace to switch the light off. Grace joined her there a few moments later.
“How did Mr Potter greet Charles? ”
“His usually noisy self. I do not understand why crocodiles have to make so much noise when they eat. At least with Charles he won’t get indigestion”
8-9 September 1987
poem by David Harris
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Today... 'Bread
Manna of Heaven coming from God
walked with us and earths pathways trod.
Come let's taste and see that the Lord is good
and not just settle for plain earthly food
There is Bread that God to mankind did give
So that we might all eat of it and live.
The Body of Christ is that Bread given
The Bread of Life that came down from heaven.
This Bread was stricken and smitten of God
when up the hill of Calvary He trod.
He was wounded and broken there for me
bore the price of sin that I might go free.
I've been to communion with You Lord
Broke the Bread in accordance with Your Word.
No bread of earth tasted so sweet and fair
as the bread I broke supping with You there
Such a feast was set by God before men
sweet Bread and wine laid upon the table then.
Bread broken for iniquities of mine
and into the cup poured the blood red wine
As I broke the bread Lord, I heard You say
'This is my body broken for you that day.'
Then I closed my eyes and I saw You Lord
hanging for me upon the cross of wood.
I heard You cry in pain and agony
Shout 'My God why have you forsaken me.'
Then 'Father forgive them ', I heard You say
for those that drove the nails in deep that day.
Your body bearing the sins of mankind
was wounded for these transgressions of mine.
Bowing Your head becoming Broken Bread
as You bore the wrath of God in my stead.
Broken for me was that Heavenly Bread
for my sins You suffered and You bled.
Wondrous love has been shown my God to me
for I'm saved by Your death at Calvary.
Praise God for the Bread that came from Heaven.
Praise God for the life that He has given.
Grace and mercy He lavished upon me
when the Bread was broken upon that tree.
(see also the additional information below in the Poet's box)
The Rook And The Sparrows
A little boy with crumbs of bread
Many a hungry sparrow fed.
It was a child of little sense,
Who this kind bounty did dispense;
For suddenly it was withdrawn,
And all the birds were left forlorn,
In a hard time of frost and snow,
Not knowing where for food to go.
He would no longer give them bread,
Because he had observed (he said)
That sometimes to the window came
A great black bird, a rook by name,
And took away a small bird's share.
So foolish Henry did not care
What became of the great rook,
That from the little sparrows took,
Now and then, as 'twere by stealth,
A part of their abundant wealth;
Nor ever more would feed his sparrows.
Thus ignorance a kind heart narrows.
I wish I had been there, I would
Have told the child, rooks live by food
In the same way that sparrows do.
I also would have told him too,
Birds act by instinct, and ne'er can
Attain the rectitude of man.
Nay that even, when distress
Does on poor human nature press,
We need not be too strict in seeing
The failings of a fellow being.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Music I Heard
Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.
Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.
For it was in my heart that you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,
—They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Your pocket
Keep your pocket untouched
As the Wiseman said
You are the only one to touch
To earn and maintain your bread
You cannot leave it untouched
Since though bread rhymes with bed
You can have it attached
And even your back pocket occasionally
Many times by a credit card penetrated
And as bread once had raisins for poor children to smile, bread and cards and pockets are also nowanights,
pleasure and delight.
Men are most fortified
When approximately forty-five
Children smile, today, through pockets children cry
poem by Chrysostomos Tsiailis
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Poetry as bread - In the spirit of Rumi 28
Poetry is like bread – daily bread,
like ‘Irish’ soda bread, best eaten on its day:
In the bakery of the heart and mind,
the baker’s woken early before dawn,
refreshed and clear of purpose, full of the day’s promise;
brings air to flour, moulds and shapes;
as the sun rises, so the bread.
Here it is, warm from the heart,
smell it – this is the smell of goodness, isn’t it?
Touch it, both crisp and soft by turns;
taste its goodness, beauty, truth, its very being;
this is not yesterday’s bread, with which you toy
while waiting between courses, your head’s straying mind
in a thousand other places; this is here and now;
coming warm from the heart; eat it with your heart;
this is the heart’s nourishment; tomorrow it may serve
tomorrow’s mind; today, it is your daily bread,
your nourishment – this poem, warm from heart to heart.
And when you've eaten it - the bread has disappeared -
only your satisfaction remains, beyond all sense;
as these words, already staling on the page,
exposed to all the wanderings of the mind;
only the love that they were made with, still remains;
this, is your daily bread.
[from a metaphor in Rumi's writings]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Bread Hair
Im a wigged-out daddy with bread on top
I dig an easy-bake granny with a whiskey mop
If you love me, you neednt the whole wheat crop
cause they had a useless battle andll never stop
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Im a pumpernickel-do for you, dough you do
Use a yarmulka of hallah bread if youre a jew
I belong to cayope*, I be the wheat for you
Yeast and flour, bake an hour, its annoying shampoo
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Drivin all my hope away
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Thats a gone rug, buddy
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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City Pigeons
Around my boots where I am sitting crumbs of bread they happily eat
The cheeky and colourful City pigeons so at home on the city street
Their cousins the rock pigeons of the Northlands in Town would feel so out of place
They once were the very same species though now quite a different race.
Introduced by humans to cities all around the World in busy towns they feel at home
Beyond the borders of suburbia the city pigeons seldom do roam
They build their flimsy nests of sticks on building ledges their young they hatch out in the Spring
Like their ancestors on trees they do not roost or nest Nature is such a wonderful thing.
Some people they like and feed the city pigeons whilst others do not like them at all
Though Nature cares for all of her children from the very great to the small
And wild-born things can be so adaptable in noisy environments they they've learned to dwell
The city pigeons of this one example in cities they do very well.
By the street seat around my boots they eat bread crumbs like house sparrows they are almost tame
They were born and raised in the city to be good at surviving their one claim to fame
Liked by some and disliked by others but that they are good at surviving none can deny
They are born and raised in the noisy city and in the city they do die.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
poem by Billy Collins
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A Picture Of Greed
on one hand
he carries a
big loaf of bread
on the other
he carries a
basket
of the same
loaf of bread
on his head
is another
basket of
the same loaf
of bread
a little child
spreads his
hands for
a loaf of bread
then he speeds
his way
as he bites
a loaf of
bread in
his mouth
the little child
follows him
and there he
is closing the
door of his
house all
made of bread
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
Anonymous submission.
poem by William Taylor Collins
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Bread is wiser
Butter is richer than bread
But can’t replace bread.
But butter is better with bread
For which is not sad the bread.
Wives are not wiser than bread.
05.02.2000, Palakkad
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Critical Notebook 1.
in the small shop
adult people
they are doing
the shopping
on a graph-paper
exercise book
owner lightly
is smiling
he will
sometimes add
the free slice
of bread
this bread
is tasting
best with tears
when quietly you
are cutting with
the sharp knife
...
poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Feathers on head
The one who sings on God does so for one’s bread.
The one who spells gospel does so for one’s bread.
The one who serves God does so for one’s bread.
You give them bread and keep them on your head.
16.01.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Japanese Wife
O lord, he said, Japanese women,
real women, they have not forgotten,
bowing and smiling
closing the wounds men have made;
but American women will kill you like they
tear a lampshade,
American women care less than a dime,
they’ve gotten derailed,
they’re too nervous to make good:
always scowling, belly-aching,
disillusioned, overwrought;
but oh lord, say, the Japanese women:
there was this one,
I came home and the door was locked
and when I broke in she broke out the bread knife
and chased me under the bed
and her sister came
and they kept me under that bed for two days,
and when I came out, at last,
she didn’t mention attorneys,
just said, you will never wrong me again,
and I didn’t; but she died on me,
and dying, said, you can wrong me now,
and I did,
but you know, I felt worse then
than when she was living;
there was no voice, no knife,
nothing but little Japanese prints on the wall,
all those tiny people sitting by red rivers
with flying green birds,
and I took them down and put them face down
in a drawer with my shirts,
and it was the first time I realized
that she was dead, even though I buried her;
and some day I’ll take them all out again,
all the tan-faced little people
sitting happily by their bridges and huts
and mountains—
but not right now,
not just yet.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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This Bread I Break
This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy.
Once in this time wine the summer blood
Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine,
Once in this bread
The oat was merry in the wind;
Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.
This flesh you break, this blood you let
Make desolation in the vein,
Were oat and grape
Born of the sensual root and sap;
My wine you drink, my bread you snap.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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Grave who was my great grand ma
She was good woman she bring
us grace to the family
She was great friend and mom and sister
and great grand ma
She bought everyone in the family Grace
Grace was strong woman and nice and kind
and loving and caring and sweet
When she came in to our life she was
great in our life
She love me and everyone else when she
and ma say both love me
It was like Grace she bought me was in
my heart and soul
Grace was good woman and good person
who went to church
God needed my great grand ma to have things of
Grace be bring up their to everyone else like she
did here
God bought a good person in this world and to everyone
hearts Grace is my family and friend
Grace was strong and she was leader all of the family
She was great leader and good friend and family and
she was love and everyone will miss her and wish she
was still here with us
But Grace is with us and she live in us she a hero just
like my aunt is
We love Grace and my aunt and great grand pa and we
always will love these three strong people.
poem by Kristina Riggs
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Nice clever lady
A lady pulls a big bag
on a cart..
She stops at one corner
of the park.
A cat appears from nowhere
and rubs its body and its head
On woman's legs
from right to left, and then reverse.
The lady takes out of the bag
One cat's food can and yellow plate,
a table on the ground is set
in seconds matter, the cat happy ate.
While cat with the food keeps busy
the lady reach inside the bag again
And here comes some bread.
Breaking small pieces
throws them on the lake:
-Quack quack
the sleepy ducks awake
making the water
in many circles, dance:
-Hurry! Let's eat the treat.
Splash splash
some fishy fish quite big
also happily eats some bits
then jump around and sing:
Sweet bread~ sweet bread~
~for your great kindness ~
sweetest lady, Thanks!
Would you have a wish please?
-Oh that's alright,
no need for any prize
Coming here, I got rid
Of all my loneliness,
could you believe?
-But you must say a wish, please!
Say a wish please please! !
Well..Then.. If you.. Insist..
OK! ! No sorrows..
My wish shall be for you
to come and ask same question
starting tomorrow,
every single Day.
poem by Elena Sandu
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Sonnet XIII:The light that rises from your feet to your hair
The light that rises from your feet to your hair,
the strength enfolding your delicate form,
are not mother of pearl, not chilly silver:
you are made of bread, a bread the fire adores.
The grain grew high in its harvest of you,
in good time the flour swelled;
as the dough rose, doubling your breasts,
my love was the coal waiting ready in the earth.
Oh, bread your forehead, your legs, your mouth,
bread I devour, born with the morning light,
my love, beacon-flag of the bakeries:
fire taugh you a lesson of the blood;
you learned your holiness from flour,
from bread your language and aroma.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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