Coffee For Poetry

I’m looking for a magic bean. The final ingredient in a potion that will, when sipped, unlock a maiden’s lips and allow her to utter the poetry of her heart.
That is not what I ask for when the slumped and obsequious figure of the shop keeper asks me how he can help: It’s what I want to say, but he is a purveyor of coffee, albeit the finest beans, and unlikely to understand why a fusty academic like myself has charged myself with such a quest.
‘Ah. Well, perhaps you might make a recommendation for a blend of coffee for a poetry group?’ I suggest.
‘A poetry group? Something strong to keep you awake through the boring bits?’
I regard the man with my sternest gaze, the one I usually reserve for students who ask for an extension on their assignment. ‘Certainly not. The group is a spirited one, and the material is engaging.’ Honesty then makes me impugn myself, and I add, ‘Usually.’
The sessions are, generally, very interesting, at least in my own not so humble opinion. I set the group up to satisfy the requirement for Professors to reach out into the community to be ‘Ambassadors’ for their subject area. A little poetry group on a Wednesday evening in the hall of the village where I lived seemed like an ideal way to fulfil my duty in a manner that was comfortable to me.
I flatter myself that it was my name that ensured a good attendance from the very first session, in addition to being a Professor I have enjoyed some small success with publication myself. The group was mostly made up of my own generation; retired or close to it, their children had flown the nest and suddenly reading and expanding the mind became desirable again.
We met each week, to read work from a particular poet and sometimes share our own. It soon became the highlight of my social calendar as I watched enthusiasm for a well turned phrase grow.
Confidence in each other, and in the group, had grown; when Penelope arrived one night we were all delighted at the thought of adding another to our number.
I’ve never had the gift of appraising a woman’s age, but she couldn’t have been more than 30. Tall, willowy, with fine, mousey brown hair that fell to her waist when she didn’t have it restricted into a plait, or pinned up off her face. She was softly spoken, doe like in her hesitant apology as she arrived at the meeting just over five minutes later.
I was immediately struck with a desire to know more about her; not out of physical attraction of course. No, she was what you would call, I suppose, a muse. I was fascinated, I had to hear her speak. I surmised that she had been put off from sharing this week because of her tardiness; she didn’t seem the type to be late without good cause, so I presumed she had a commitment she could not avoid. Of course I divulged none of this to her, or the rest of the group; I simply asked if we could start fifteen minutes later next week.
‘Coffee blends are generally made from the two main types of beans; Arabica and Robusta,’ the shopkeeper’s words returned me to the present. ‘Arabica varieties are grown at higher altitude, have less caffeine and more delicate flavour profiles. Robusta beans are cheaper, have more caffeine, and have a more astringent flavour.’
I realise that I am blinking, owlishly, at him. I’m waiting for him to make a point.
‘Italian blends are usually created using more of, if not completely Robusta varieties, they produce the strong, gutsy flavour that is useful in Espresso.’
I shake my head, ‘No, no. Nothing so…assertive.’ My mind takes me immediately to the second week that Penelope had attended, how she had sat in a chair with no neighbours. How she had flinched when Mrs Dennison had taken the chair beside her and struck up a conversation, playing devil’s advocate and heavily critiquing the poem we had just read. If we were to persuade Penelope to speak, it would need to be done as delicately as my request to Mrs Dennison that she no longer attend.
‘Tell me more about the Arabica, then?’ I suggest.
‘Of course. As I said, Arabica beans are grown at high altitude and are some of the most expensive in the world. Most people know of Jamaican Blue Mountain, or Australian Skyberry?’ I feel the weight of his expectation on me, and shake my head. I have heard of neither.
‘Arabica beans make a smooth, aromatic drink. They’re perfect for sipping whilst reading the Sunday papers.’
Once more, my mind transports me to the prior week when we had all taken our places. My heart was filled with hope that we might hear something from Penelope because she had, for the first time, brought with her a journal. It was clearly much loved, the brown leather case was scuffed and worn, the pages thickened from turning. There was a pencil, sharpened to about half its original length, secured in the cords that bound the volume closed. Her work book.
I had struggled to concentrate on the meeting, to get around all those who wished to speak with my usual care and consideration; I wanted to race straight to Penelope and beg her to recite! We broke for coffee just prior to her turn, time turned to a snail’s pace as I watched her bring a drink to her lips. I saw the bitter liquid hit her taste buds, the slight grimace at the flavour, and the careful putting down of the still full cup.
Her journal was secreted back inside her bag, and she simply waved me on when I asked her to read. Oh, the agony!
My forehead creased with thought as I recalled myself to my task; choosing the perfect blend of coffee, the final accommodation of Penelope’s needs that would enable her to speak. What would she say, I wonder? Would she utter exquisite notions of romance, like Elizabeth Barrett Browning? Would she inspire like Maya Angelou? I could not imagine a delicate creature like Penelope challenging the world, like Carol Ann Duffy; perhaps she would give us puritanical lessons like Anne Bradstreet? Or uplift us like Emily Dickinson.
What was true of all these great female poets was that they were able to provoke a reaction, no matter how smoothly their sentiments were expressed. It seems the shop keeper had been right all along, nothing but a blend would do.
I considered Penelope, I knew that Arabica must be the most predominant bean. The coffee must be smooth enough that it made her feel comfortable, and yet with a little punch from the Robusta to stimulate, to challenge.
‘Do you have a blend that is…let’s say, three quarters Arabica to one quarter Robusta?’
‘Yes, Sir. Our Bologna blend is just that ratio, and has pleasant overtones of cocoa against a backdrop of biscuit.’
I nod enthusiastically and order a packet, relaxing enough to inhale a deep lungful of the nutty, warm flavour of the shop as my selection was packaged, labelled and handed to me.
I regarded the plain brown paper bag, paid the shop keeper and thanked him warmly for his time; all the while hoping that I hadn’t placed too much expectation on a humble bean. This was no fairy tale, but I had to hope the brew would finally unlock the lady’s lips.