to the dance of life
I’m up today at The Master’s Artist.
A sneak preview:
One by one, the fourth graders approach the podium, perhaps praying to
Erato, the muse of poetry, to offer their poems. Chins tucked,
microphones held precariously in the general vicinity of their mouths,
half-whispering, they rush through their pieces. Half of the works are
entitled “I Am.” The others are acrostics of their names, their
favorite things, and in one case, a dead sister.
Read the rest here.
The Man in the Front
The boy swings the red velvet rope
first rising to his tippy-toes
then peeking around sets of parents and children
to catch a glimpse of the bearded man in the front.
The boy sees a gold throne, an elf in green,
and an arm in red robe.
He jumps but still cannot see
the full image of the man in the front.
He doesn’t have a long list:
a pair of hopalong boots
and a pistol that shoots.
He’s afraid he’ll never get to tell the man in front.
The smell of peppermint
and the weight of his mom’s hand on his shoulder
cannot squelch his excitement
of sitting on the knee of the man in the front.
The mother leans down
and adjusts his sweater.
She made him promise to stay neat and tidy
for his picture with the man in the front.
The boy hears a "Ho, ho, ho"
and a "Merry Christmas"
and moves a step closer
to the man in the front.
And then–oh, the magnanimous joy!
The desire of nations!
O, holy night! O, star of light!
He’s there on the knee of the man in the front.
The boy whispers his secret in the ear
of the man in the front in his gold throne.
The man whispers a secret back,
then holds his finger to his lips–"Shh, don’t tell."
The boy hops down,
and with head down and arms pumping,
he runs through the mall and out the door,
the true anticipation and preparation to begin.
He has cookies to bake, and, oh! the carrots, for tinsel’s sake!
He’d better not cry and better not pout–
he knows someone will come on a silent night,
for he has met the man in the front.
The woman tips the wine bottle enough to fill our glasses with a few ounces. "This one is a blend of Merlot, Cab, and Sangiovese." She has a English accent.
We swirl our glasses, dip our noses.
"Is that plum I smell? It reminds me of summer vacations at the lake." I’ve learned to distinguish smells from memories. We gourded ourselves on plums at the lake every summer of my childhood. We threw the pits in the lake, and every year, I expected to find a seedling peeking over the surface of the water. "And vanilla," I add.
With a slurping sound, we take our first sip, aerating the wine more by sucking air in through our teeth and holding the wine on our tongue. I swish it around, feeling it on every tastebud.
"Strong oak flavor," Cindy says. We met Cindy and her husband, Tom, at the first winery. By this one, our third, we know each other’s tastes, we’ve discussed Sideways and Bottle Shock and the possibility of a new movie coming out that better features Mike Grgich–the winemaker of the award-winning Bottle Shock vintage, though he wasn’t mentioned in that movie–and we’ve shared our wine-tasting dream tours (Spain, South Africa, or Argentina? France or Italy?).
In other words, we’ve connected, if only for the day, over this art. And that is one of the many things I love about visiting vineyards. Like meeting someone on the beach or standing under a Chagall, it matters not from whence we came or to where we go. At this moment, our shared love joins us in a salza.
Wine is poetry for the tastebuds. I may have seen that on a sign in one of the wineries. It’s an acquired taste, we tell those who don’t understand it. You must sit with it, let it open up. You must explore every facet of its flavor, the sweetness at the front of the tongue, the sour flavor as it moves further back, and the final bite. You must feels its weight and enjoy the lingering whisper long after its been swallowed.
But don’t worry about the correct way to describe it. Whether you waltz, salsa, or swing, dance with it. Some notice the body, others the flavor. I taste memories.
Don’t worry about what’s hip to drink. Some prefer the dip of sweetness of a Reisling, others the smoothness of a Merlot. I like the sour bite of a Tempernillo or Shiraz.
As long as we all dance.
At first, I didn’t
see you, as I
strode
down the hallway
reading a report about a marketing strategy
or something
like that.
Then, aware of
a presence,
I stopped and
looked up.
You said, "Do you want to try N’Awlins Shrimp for lunch?"
into your phone.
We both
moved aside to let
the other
pass–that hideous ficus tree blocked half the hallway.
Then we both
started forward at
once. As
one.
You pushed the phone away
from
your lips
and said, "I’m better at salsa."
Then you flattened against
the wall like
a painting
–your periwinkle bowtie matched
the crinkles rainbowing at
the corners of your eyes–
and you bowed. And I
walked by.
Whenever I come to
that hallway now,
I fix my hair and
my blouse
and look up
from my reports and notes.
But you’re never
there.
I don’t consider myself a poet–my love of words and images nestles in my stories–but I indulged myself for Barkat’s latest poetry prompt–halls. I couldn’t resist this one.
Is life
meaningless without
form? Or
formless without
meaning?
We know not
when to break
the lines.
We know not
how to dance
to the rhythms.
We know not
where to begin or when
to end.
We know not
when to create new and
when to develop old.
We know
not.
Eat, drink, and be
merry.
Image Journal is now posting on their website monthly audio poetry. This month’s is Scott Cairns’ poetry.
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us–don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
–Emily Dickinson
Note: I’m having a contest next week. Someone out there will win a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble.
Evergreen
Verdant, Jolly
Living, Dancing Delight
Celebrating, Joy, Peace, Life
Timeless
I tell tales--tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones. Some call it compulsive lying. I call it writing.
