Fall 2003
A Year in the Vineyard
For Li Po
In Ordinary Time
Joy's Grape
Judd's Hill Perfection
Justice
Ode
Ode to the Grape
Pungent Journey
Sweet Juice
WINE DANCE
A Year in the Vineyard
- Lushell Curt
Foggy spring morning.
Look close to observe pale buds
barely emerging.
Thirsty in the heat,
summer's work hangs heavy from
l eaf shaded shoulders.
Harvest moon reminds
morning will bring perfection.
We must rise early!
Sleeping naked vines
for years I will be waiting
to drink of your fruit.
The moon
The wine,
Myself;
These are not
Three different
Things.
In Ordinary Time
- Joan Maiers
Larch needles stitch
tawny in October
when vineyards turn
green to bronze.
Coils of pinot stagger
the ground with musky braids.
Fermentation devices
measure the indoor yields
while random tasters
grow light around brooding barrels.
Mounds of mash push ochre and mauve
currents in wave roadbends.
Pungency invades
inner geographies
sets up a marker
upon the tourists who browse
unfettered and anonymous among
the country wayside stands.
I pick ripe grape globes
stuffed full of juice, sun sugared
swollen and warm. Bunches hang
from my hands sticky between fingers
which grope under leave layers
of fine lobed green just veining gold.
Snip the thick stem that curls down
from the cane, disappears among
tight bundled berries. Cabernet grapes
dusted blue-black. A fine foxy flavor
heightened to heady smell.
I come to a slip soft skin in my mouth
and crush bursted flesh on a tongue
thirsty for all autumn ripeness, this
sour-bitten sweet and tannin of seed.
Like the rising spring or round days
of summer I want this never to end.
Judd's Hill Perfection
- Theodosia Zeleznik
Just a drop passes my lips
A voyeuristic prelude to magic
Teasing me, beguiling me.
I imagine each ruby crystal
Coalescing with its mate
Dancing across the palate
On its journey to ecstasy.
I was wrong
to believe
the sun is impartial
Among the fields
undulating
within wine country
the sun lingers
on the slopes
then peaks
of hills and knolls.
It traverses
lightly
and quickly
upon the flatlands.
Is this not justice
at work-
that gnarled vines
working harder
on steep terrain
amid gravel
receive more attention
than placid recipients
of earth fertile
with natural nutrients
and easily accessible
to water?
Thus, a glass of wine
answer many questions:
What are the taste
and bouquet
of an embrace
between crushed rocks and sun?
How might one feel
a sunbeam
wink against
a stone?
Perhaps gods
exist
and are not indifferent?
Perhaps gods
after all
are not always cruel?
At arbor shade I begin
the delicate concatenations
twisting up the terrace paths
rushing down, a man
with cloven feet & fast
mad hands on the women of
coupling and generic
only so much one thinks
before the ground wobbles
and the edge rushes to
splash their naked bodies
casting for an anchor
Thesis: Wine & Poetry
work similar effects
upon the brain
Antithesis: out of Control
consumption of wine or
poetry ends in Dionysic
madness and frenzy
Stand: Both Drinker and Writer
committed to narrowness
end with a world blossoming -
their lips aglint, their hands
covered with inky stains.
Ode to the Grape
- Daniel O'Connell
I first knew you as a child,
Tasted your tiny shriveled body
In mother's oatmeal, sugared and milky,
As if a presentiment of the age
That would wrack my teeth and bone.
Next, I drank the pink Chablis
Like water and just as cheap, wild
With backseat love and never home.
I had much to learn from the grape
As life's ledger filled blank page to page.
Skipping the route and sordid detail
From guzzling soul to connoisseur
I retire finally with a full, full glass
And, on an evening reflective and red, drink
To you, vino, wine, le vin, great sage.
Pungent Journey
- Erline D. Goodell
Wondering how these dull dry twigs
standing sterile-gray in winter mist
trimmed, stubby, gnarled
can possibly produce orbs of stimulating flavor by fall.
Where will they pull juices and sugar from
in time to burst full and fragrant by September?
Amazed by the bulk of heavy fruit dumped in gondolas
dripping, squashed together
traveling to the crush
those precious individual grapes
lost in the dark,
pungent mass
bouncing along toward
vats that will turn them into liquid pleasure.
From vines, dark stained hands, bins and casks
the grape's journey to the glass is arduous
but rewarding.
Aged oaken barrels, the winemaker's gifted touch
and time
create time heartwarming nectars
An Estate Cabernet
A Juliana Merlot
Judd Pinot Noir or Syrah
Ahhhh
Sweet juice trickles down
A strong arm lifting hope to
Daydreams - a stemmed glass
cabernet sparkle, breathing clear.
Thrill of a vintage prime source
Cask to barrel to bottle, then rest
A test; thirty-four years aging
Neck down, subtly reclined
So alive in stillness, best full body
he has anticipated the celebration
with her among shaded valley oaks.
Where did the years go to wait away
from wild thoughts and restless youth?
Now the aroma, bouquet, graceful
Swizzle, then the airy sip
Tiny explosions of the fine
Prize wine on their tongue.
WINE DANCE
- Pearl Stein Selinsky
A day without wine
is a thirst-hole
in the calendar...
So bring the cup,
sweet Ganymede
who serves the gods...
Let us sip the nectar-
spell
tripping on the tongue
traveling down
through lightened breast,
pathed
through carefree limbs
to dance
the dark of night
to dazzle-day.
