Night comes early in winter and the heat indoors feels unlike a summer heat. Not even of wooled autumn. Sitting alone, a waiter fills my glass and I watch the pouring of wine, this blooded grape, taking the shape of my crystal, from waterfall to pond, holding chandeliers like stars. I order, forgetting of what, before the waiter is out of sight, just staring at my wine, at my dear vinaceous tulip. Do I do that to him? Do I fill his image full of me? Do I know even not of what he tastes? Questions impossible to answer as I ask for another and then another, bottle.
Night comes early in winter and the heat indoors feels unlike a summer heat. Not even of wooled autumn. Sitting alone, a waiter fills my glass and I watch the pouring of wine, this blooded grape, taking the shape of my crystal, from waterfall to pond, holding chandeliers like stars. I order, forgetting of what, before the waiter is out of sight, just staring at my wine, at my dear vinaceous tulip. Do I do that to him? Do I fill his image full of me? Do I know even not of what he tastes? Questions impossible to answer as I ask for another and then another, bottle.
12 comments:
Hitting me in a number of very soft places - thank you as I try to slide into the end of my day. Clink (gently).
I have a question. Why did you pair this image with this piece? It is so striling. I can't help but see the female body spilling herself. It makes me read the poem so androgenously. Your work reminds me a bit of Jeannette Winterson. It's like biting into ripe fruit.
Limes, I'm about to slide into the end of my day too, with the help of a little screwdriver to return your gentle clink. {clink}
ConverseMomma, this image has always been a wine glass for me, although my FB friends are educating me on a few different views (bikini, necklace, etc.) As a wine glass it fits the post. At least as I saw it. Haven't heard of Jeannette Winterson. Off to Google. And thanks for the very kind words. Always appreciated.
I've added the original image I created a few years ago (the one on the bottom).
Tree-it's weird how wine and a table can make one thoughtful of things he would not think of any where else. almost like a recipe for thought. Great writing. ~rick
Ummmm, yes. I saw what ConverseMomma saw but then we see what we look for too. This piece has thick sides, fecund, rich red. It's comfortable. I slide into it. (How the hell is it possible that you have 18 pieces I haven't read? Prolific you.)
Rick, very true. Lots of thinking happens over bread and wine. Always bring a notebook to dinner. :-D
Erin, you know the light is always on for you. Dinner's in the fridge and help yourself to a cold one or two. If you're nice, I might even read to you while you eat. :-D
Wonderfully intimate, reading it feels as though a, more than rare, an exclusive opportunity has been granted, of momentary insight into an unfettered train of thought, loosened by alcohol second, anguish first. Concurrently complex and simple, random and inevitable, demonstrating the workings of mind and heart in pain, and the boundless arch of your understanding. Brilliant!
Ms Storm, last fall I was in San Antonio, in a bookshop, and I remember passing by the current events shelf and it was filled with political bios, the kind rushed out to market to promote more than reveal. Each book had a full color picture of the candidate in question. And I remember, for some odd reason, stopping and staring at those pictures and the thought occurred to me that I didn't know any of these people and that no one around me knew any of these people; yet, we all had opinions, strong ones about who they were and it just hit me that each of those candidates were as a empty vase, and we filled them up with ourselves, and they became whatever we wanted them to be. I think Mary just had that same epiphany. :-D
Tree, you would read to me while I eat? My god man, I'll never leave. Be careful what you offer to hungry women who love words.
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