Tuesday, August 06, 2013

Making The Wine Sing


if you want the wine to sing
you must fill the glass

if you want the glass to ring
you must give it wine

if you want the eyes
of the child

to shine
you must have him watch

while you teach the glass
and the wine

and the finger on the rim
how to circle thin and

sing-g . . . ing-g-g . . .
ing-g-g-g . . . ing-g-g-g-g

(first pub. in Wine Song—A Festival of
Poetry and Prose, 1990)



two old ladies sing to the wine
they sing to the song
and they sing to the rhyme
and they laugh to the singing
and sing it again
and the wine keeps bringing them
extra words
and they laugh to the hours
and fill them with wine
and they sing together for old time’s sake
and they shout to the singing
and wail to the wrong
two old ladies all night long
singing their old nostalgic song



You brush
from white cake
onto the floor

then serve us
thin tea
in cups as thin

oily salad
pumpernickel bread

seed cheese
that bites my tongue

blue wine—


it is only
the glasses

or the songs you play
for me
on your cracked guitar

or the way I feel
because I am happy.

(first pub. in Voices International, 1970)


The page, half-purpled with spilled wine,
assumes significant design
for the poem.

And the pale, non-color of each word
transcends the shallow meaning, blurred
by truer tone.

And you, my clumsy reader, flush
and jump the blot the noisy hush
of your chagrin.

But words must wear whatever taste
our living spills on them—we waste
no metric stain.



This is me sitting on the couch
wearing vertical stripes so I’ll look thin.

This is me wearing a soft-folding
Muu Muu so I’ll feel thin.

This is me with my wet hair pressed to my
head so you can see the shape of my skull.

This is me with my mouth open, talking.

This is me with my hands to my face, crying.

This is me when I was young. I am too far
away from the camera.

This is me on one of my birthdays.
I was unhappy.

This is me holding a glass of wine.
I am out of focus.

This is me when I was thin again.
but I’m no longer pretty.

This is me not giving a damn.
See my wrinkled elbows.

This is me with my mouth open, laughing.

(first pub. in Red Cedar Review [Of Colorado], 1993)



I ate my life like a starvation.
It was not enough.

I was hungry for sorrow.
It was good.

Now hunger lives in me
like an addiction.

I taste the edges of tomorrow
and am obese with yearning.



somewhere the
endless sorrow
like a long, blue pain

moans my name
for it thinks
it knows me

and that I am
its reason to remain
a sorrow

(first pub. in Oblong Press, 1992)


Today's LittleNip:


We’re down to desperation wine
the old Rosé
we never drank
because we didn’t like it
well enough . . .

it was too sweet
for all those
Burgundy times of song and weep,
the hugging love
we tried to give away,
and keep . . .

(first pub. in
Brevities, 2002)


—Medusa, with thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poems and pix on last week's Seed of the Week: My Favorite Painkiller. Our new SOW is This is Me... I love Joyce's "Snapshot" poem, with its this-is-me device. Give that a try and send your snapshots, either poems or visuals, to kathykieth@hotmail.com  No deadline on SOWs.