I couldn’t let poetry month go by with out posting at least one poem. Since I happen to be reading about wine recently I was particularly taken with this one by Pablo Neruda. Robert Louis Stevenson said “wine is bottled poetry,” and I couldn’t agree more. I hope you enjoy “Ode to Wine” as much as I do.
Ode to Wine
Wine, color of day, wine, color of night wine with your feet of purple or topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth, wine, smooth as a golden sword, soft as velvet, wine, spiral-shelled and astonished amorous, oceanic, never have you been contained in one glass, one song, one man, you are choral, gregarious, and at the least, mutual. Sometimes you feed on deadly memories, on your wave we travel from tomb to tomb, stonecutter of frozen graves, and we weep transitory tears, but your beautiful spring clothing is different,the heart rises to the branches, wind incites the day, nothing remains within your motionless soul. Wine moves the whole springtime, bursts through the earth like a plant, walls crumble, boulders, abysses close up, song is born. Oh thou, jug of wine, in the desert beside me, with the woman i love sang the ancient poet. Let the pitcher of wine add it’s kiss to the kiss of love.