Comment from Judge Joan Houlihan: “Simple, lyrical, lovely.”

COFFEE
      Janet Kenny
      (Blueline Poetry Forum)

This morning as I made coffee
I realised that I can trace
my life through coffee. I recall
my timid mother serving coffee
to my father's grand relations.

Even then I sensed her pain
as they poured their insincere
praise. “May,” (she hated being called that)
“always makes such first class coffee.”
The tall white pot's long slender spout
spewed forth a pale repulsive liquid
made from essence in a bottle.
“It's the chicory. That's the secret,”
said my proud tea-drinking father.
I was three but even then
I knew unhappiness when I saw it.

Coffee-shops swept student life
into a caffeine-sodden world
where jazz and painting,
sex and daring, all required
the aid of coffee.

Next my Viennese friends taught me,
always grind your coffee freshly.
Wooden grinder clamped between
my knees I calmly turned my prayer wheel's
handle. I had joined the chosen
few who always ground fresh beans.
Blue Mountain beans were cheaper then
so long ago in quiet New Zealand.

In London where decent coffee
never reached outside of Soho.
Our electric grinder whizzed
our morning brew of desperation.

My Italian friend instructed
me in how to order coffee.
“Un buon caffè, proprio un buon
caffè” I never dared insult
the man behind the coffee bar,
I trusted him to make
a fragrant frothy concentrated
brew. Her angry accusation
seemed to me a mark of deep mistrust.
I found these men were proud
of what they did and never
needed threats.

Now in Sydney, morning silence
makes me use a vacuum pack of
arabica fine-ground coffee.
Grinders spoil my meditation.
Birds and coffee are my morning.
Little sealed packs in the freezer,
taste the same and leave me silence.
Outside metal grinds on metal,
as the world impacts and hammers
threatens and erodes its surface.
Morning coffee with the birds
and sunshine makes me think of days
when mother's insecurity
was emphasised by gimlet eyes
of condescending relatives
and now I understand and love.

Comment from Judge Joan Houlihan: “Nicely sustained, quietly moving.”

TRENCH COATS & FRENCH TOAST
      PJ Nights
      (MiPo Zine & Board)

We blow smoke signals across
your rusty Delta 88
in exhaled tokes of winter air.
Frost fingers creep up my
bare legs and crystallize curls
wet with morning sweat.

Smells of slung hash leak from
the chrome diner. My coat echoes
caresses as I sashay past
regulars on silver swivel stools.
Smudged mascara and
puffy lips -- a jukebox mocks,
swallows my two-bits
for an Elvis serenade.

We thaw with gulps of French toast
and steam over chipped mugs.
Trapped in my trench coat,
tributaries of sweat join
in rivers between my breasts,
pool my belly button only to spill
over in a rush to join musky
reminders of you; your x-ray leer
adds the burn to my cheeks.

It seemed the thing to do, darling,
wanting to stay clothed in little
but you. Take me home, please,
peel me from my wrapper.
Lay me back in tangled sheets
surely cool now in our absence.

Comment from Judge Joan Houlihan: “Great images, surprises, assured voice.”

About the InterBoard Poetry Competition
Archive of IBPC Winners
First Place Winner, November 2001