A Litre Of Wine
A litre of wine
The wine in the glass is full the red liquid arches the slightest
movement and it will spill over and run down the stem like
a bleeding stomach wound trickling down a petrified leg.
I bent down and inhaled the wine no spillage and I wondered
why it is so many people, in fact more and more drink beer
that is no longer a natural brew is it because we are no longer
a part of nature and seek and feel more at ease with man made
products and we will soon have a diet that fits with the work
we are doing, say if you want a double cheeseburger with fries
you first have to work shuffling coal for twelve hours,
but if you only want to sit writing a simple poem about
the country side low fat yogurt for you; if you have written
the poem under the influence of a steak you will be censured,
made to walk in the park and tell everyone you’re a crock of
empty of gold empty of anything a modern society such as
networking banalities and get people to buy what they don’t
need; men get medals and titles for doing that. So what do
I care, but it annoys me that I end up buying a soap which
name I have seen on the television and smell like everybody
else, yeah…isn’t that just nice?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Lucky Break
The young Russian, who had ended up on the shores of Algarve,
was drunk, poor and miserable. He offered people to help unload
trolleys into cars, few wanted him to do so as he was a big man
and looked threatening. Cold shoulders of contempt, yes he did
noticed it ok and every arrow of rejection found its mark.
He approached me I gave him enough money to buy a litre of
wine. A litre of wine would bring some relief he would be able to
sleep for a few hours, but knew he would wake up at dawn, feel
wretched and ashamed full of hopelessness and thinking how to
escape this misery that only drink could assuage for a few hours.
Once I was drunk, skint and far from home, I went into a church
for warmth, found a big money note on the floor I put it in
the collection box and cursed. Hell it I could not take the note
back it would look like a theft. I don’t know what I feared the most
stealing or being caught stealing. The day after I got a job, no it
didn’t make me religious, but it made me appreciate the element
of luck in life.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Wine (Love Poem)
Wine is for laughing
Wine is for talking all night
Wine is for living life out loud
Wine is for making us beautiful
Wine is for all-night conversations
Wine is for getting together again
Wine is for ‘never again’ tomorrow
Wine is for sleeping like a baby
Wine is for telling the truth
Wine is food for love
Wine is friendship
Wine is fresh
Wine
Can
Be
The
One
Perfe ct
Companion
At the end of a long day
poem by Ian Beckett
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Our Last Dance
(Dedicated to Thorsten)
I see you crying,
Looking through your transparent face mask
And reconceptualizing your mimicry as a spatial captation.
The red liquid still trickles down,
The solid foam packing our feelings.
The cup spills out the wine
Into a heart shape.
I want to turn back the time
And go back again.
We need our infinite,
And want, once again, to dissolve in it.
Around, at the other tables,
People are just seemingly not thinking
As they are reflected in the broken mirrors,
On the walls.
They appear increasingly complacent...
I bring the cup up to my lips and I inhale
The wine, which is very cool.
This liquid seems to make the cup to be hot.
I continue inhaling until
All of the liquid in the cup is emptied.
I feel the yellowish liquid
Like it scrapes my esophagus.
I drink from the empty cup
The visible truth,
Our still untold truth.
I want to lift the spirit
And dance
Our last dance
In the chaotic rhythm of the last seconds.
Yes, I want you to hug me..
But the bar is full of hot human mouths,
When the windows steam up,
And anarchic noises
Freeze instantly my wish...
Steamed water is dripping down your mask.
Yes, I know, they are not tears...
We stand up straight for once
And go.
We break the output
Definitively and
Speechless..
...Words like
Could not be spoken
Or would not get them utter
Or would be exhausted....
I was heading in an opposite direction
To my side of life.
I do not look back.
I do not wonder if you watch me go.
I just know that I will love you
All the rest of my life,
When life no longer makes sense...
poem by Marieta Maglas
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A Drinking Song
It goes against my conscience
To drink a lot of wine,
But the wine will take care of my conscience
I've told you time after time!
So I think I'll have a skinful
And drown my mortal pain,
And though you may think me sinful
I'll do it over again!
(I like to sup a glass or two,
It is the drinker's folly,
It stops him being sad and blue,
In fact it makes him jolly!)
So get thee to a nunnery
And curse the demon drink,
A life of wine will suit me fine
Whatever you may think! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Other Side Of The Pillow
Cool as the other side of the pillow
Smooth as another glass of wine, oh yes sir
Im so glad ure my baby, oh yeah
Im so glad that ure mine
Bad as bonny when she ran with barrow {clyde}, yeah
When u kiss me, feels like Im committing a crime, oh yeah
U use furniture in new ways, yes you do
I cant find the adjectives enough to say
Im so glad ure my baby...okay (yeah yeah yeah yeah)
Cool as the other side of the pillow (oh baby)
So smooth theres another glass of wine (bubbly, bubbly)
Im so glad ure mine, ure my baby (oh yes I am), oh yes I am (oh yes I am)
Im so glad ure mine
Cool as the other side (ure my baby) of the pillow
Smooth, I wanna drink u all out
How did u learn that trick with the ... chair?
I dont care
Just as long as u do it again
Cool as the other side, cool as the other side, cool as the other..
Cool as the other, cools as the other side...
As the other side of the pillow, baby
Cool (cool),
Glas of wine
Ill get tipsy and I ... {whistling}
Cool as the other side of the pillow
Cool
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Computer
"what?" they say, "you got a
computer?"
it's like I have sold out to
the enemy.
I had no idea so many
people were prejudiced
against
computers.
even two editors have
written me letters about
the computer.
one disparaged the
computer in a mild and
superior way.
the other seemed
genuinely
pissed.
I am aware that a
computer can't create
a poem.
but neither can a
typewriter.
yet, still, once or
twice a week
I hear:
"what?
you have a
computer?
you?"
yes, I do
and I sit up here
almost every
night,
sometimes with
beer or
wine,
sometimes
without
and I work the
computer.
the damn thing
even corrects
my spelling.
and the poems
come flying
out,
better than
ever.
I have no
idea what causes
all this
computer
prejudice.
me?
I want to go
the next step
beyond the
computer.
I'm sure it's
there.
and when I get
it,
they'll say,
"hey, you hear,
Chinaski got a
space-biter!"
"what? "
"yes, it's true!"
"I can't believe
it!"
and I'll also have
some beer or
some wine
or maybe nothing
at all
and I'll be
85 years old
driving it home
to
you and me
and to the little girl
who lost her
sheep.
or her
computer.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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The Attraction Of Drink
It calls to me every night,
Come, drink, let the liquid flow
Like magic down your throat
And it will take you to places
That only it can know.
So once again I lift
That glass to my lips,
And hear again that seductive voice
And the promises it makes,
And feel again that gentle glow
As it courses through my veins
'Til once again it shows me
The contents of my soul.
I don't know why
I need its liquid touch
But I know when it calls
I'll reach for it again.
So here's to excess and to wine
And sod the doctors orders.
When that wine calls out to me
My hand is on the glass.
poem by Paul Anthony
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Whippin' Piccadilly
Once upon a time, not too long ago, we took a day out in manchester
We all fall down, there's not enough hours in the day
Played a bit of football, fell into the union
Barged our way into the toilet with the kung fu king
There's not enough hours in the day
I remember seeing someone dressed in a suit, looking like a lunatic
And we all fall down, there's not enough hours in a trip
Well, academy cogwheels breaking your hand
But we got lovely posters for sale
And we all fall down, there's not enough hours in a day
We like loving, yeah, and the wine we share
We like loving, yeah, and the wine we share
Finally made our way back to the train, rolling into sheffield tonight
And it all falls down, there's not enough hours in a life
So try and guess my weight, waiting at the station
Whippin' piccadilly tonight, and it all falls down
There's not enough hours in a life
We like loving, yeah, and the wine we share
We like loving, yeah, and the wine we share
song performed by by Gomez
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Tear-Vase
Other vessels hold wine, other vessels hold oil
inside the hollowed-out vault circumscribed by their clay.
I, as smaller measure, and as the slimmest of all,
humbly hollow myself so that just a few tears can fill me.
Wine becomes richer, oil becomes clear, in its vessel.
What happens with tears?-They made me blind in my
glass,
made me heavy and made my curve iridescent,
made me brittle, and left me empty at last.
Translated by Stephen Mitchell
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Green Eyed Lady
On my wine glass
there is an eye the
color of green,
like the oceans
where the mermaids
dream.
I almost broke
this wine glass
with my bike,
making the
hairs on my
arms begin
to spike.
The bar handle of the
bike did miss,
the Green Eyed Lady
without a glitch.
Shelly, who,
painted the
Green Eyed Lady
did confess
She blessed
this wine glass
like all the rest.
Now I know
Why,
Green Eyed Lady
is still by my side
whenever I want
to drink my red wine.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on April 4,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Green Eyed Lady
On my wine glass
there is an eye the
color of green,
like the oceans
where the mermaids
dream.
I almost broke
this wine glass
with my bike,
making the
hairs on my
arms begin
to spike.
The bar handle of the
bike did miss,
the Green Eyed Lady
without a glitch.
Shelly, who,
painted the
Green Eyed Lady
did confess
She blessed
this wine glass
like all the rest.
Now I know
Why,
Green Eyed Lady
is still by my side
whenever I want
to drink my red wine.
Written by Christina Sunrise on April 4,2011
poem by Christina Sunrise
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This Is A Poem Written To Escape Doing Something Else
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN TO ESCAPE DOING SOMETHING ELSE
This is a poem written to escape doing something else
Perhaps in a way all my poems have been written to escape doing something else
Some lifetime work I never wanted to do?
Some hard business task?
Some duty of life I felt myself not up to yet?
Some meeting some personal confrontation?
But this poem
A small poem indeed
Is written because I fear the longer work I have to do
Will not be alright-
But then don't I also fear this poem too and all the poems
Will not be alright?
All my life I have been escaping into poetry-
Why in my old age how in my old age
Should I
Change this now?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Irritation Is Not The Best Feeling To Begin A Poem With
IRRITATION IS NOT THE BEST FEELING TO BEGIN A POEM WITH
Irritation is not the best Feeling to begin a poem with
But the great heat, the great humidity
The slowness of my mind on Motzei Shabbat
The many errands that must be done tomorrow
The inability to begin true work,
The news of another anti- Semitic utterance by the Nobel Prize winner Gunter Grass
Above all the worry over the health of a family member
All these irritate and disturb-
And I can at best write a few plain lines
Begin to work
To make myself feel better
But not really influence what is outside myself-
And too the irritation that my poem and my words
Will reach a few at best
While the mendacious former Waffen SS member's poem
Has already made its hateful way to headlines in the world-
Oh it is wonderful to be an obscure nothing in writing
When it is only my own name and reputation which are involved,
But when it means I cannot really help the people I care about
This irritation this frustration anger so-
Oh how I just pray that my loved one
Will be after the doctor's visit
Better tonight.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Glass Of Wine
'What's in a glass of wine?'
There, set the glass where I can look within.
Now listen to me, friend, while I begin
And tell you what I see-
What I behold with my far-reaching eyes,
And what I know to be
Below the laughing bubbles that arise
Within this glass of wine.
There is a little spirit, night and day,
That cries one word, for ever and alway:
That single word is 'More!'
And whoso drinks a glass of wine, drinks him:
You fill the goblet full unto the brim,
And strive to silence him.
Glass after glass you drain to quench his thirst,
Each glass contains a spirit like the first;
And all their voices cry
Until they shriek and clamor, howl and rave,
And shout 'More!' noisily,
Till welcome death prepares the drunkard's grave,
And stills the imps that rave.
That see I in the wine:
And tears so many that I cannot guess;
And all these drops are labelled with 'Distress.'
I know you cannot see.
And at the bottom are the dregs of shame:
Oh! it is plain to me.
And there are woes too terrible to name:
Now drink your glass of wine.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Glass
Words of a poem should be glass
But glass so simple-subtle its shape
Is nothing but the shape of what it holds.
A glass spun for itself is empty,
Brittle, at best Venetian trinket.
Embossed glass hides the poem of its absence.
Words should be looked through, should be windows.
The best word were invisible.
The poem is the thing the poet thinks.
If the impossible were not,
And if the glass, only the glass,
Could be removed, the poem would remain.
poem by Robert Francis
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My Head
My head is 'whirring',
A poem is 'stirring',
Inside my mind
Which is resigned
To producing nothing
Except some 'cussing'.
My head is 'clanging',
A poem is 'hanging',
In mid-air somewhere,
And Oh, I do care
To get it out.
Without a doubt!
My head is 'lifting',
A poem is 'shifting'
About, and ready
To come out steady,
And with some luck,
Will not get 'stuck'!
My head is 'clearing',
A poem is 'nearing'
Completion now,
And now somehow,
I feel a conclusion
Is no longer an 'illusion'.
My head is 'delighting'
A poem is in 'writing',
Clearly written,
And now I am 'smitten'
With composing again.
Can I be 'SANE'! .
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Wine, Women, and Song
As I walk through the stifling heat,
with no shoes upon my feet
I search for wine, women, and song
as I tread hopefully along.
Sweat is pouring and my face is sore
I don’t know if I can take much more.
Where is the wine, women, and song
something’s missing, something’s wrong?
It’s so oppressively hot around here
surely by now I should be getting near.
I can sense the wine, women, and song
I do hope it won’t be long.
I’ve caught a whiff of Chanel perfume,
a sure sign that I’ll be arriving soon.
But where’s the wine, women, and song
that I’ve been searching for so long?
For days I’ve followed the confusing smell
and its made me realise that I’m in hell.
Sadly there is no wine, women, and song,
and this road I walk is eternally long.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Poem That Perhaps Never Should Have Been Written
THE POEM THAT PERHAPS NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
Not the poem of yesterday
Nor the poem of tomorrow
But the poem of today-
What gives life meaning now.
Not the poem as it is read
But the poem as it is written.
Not the certain poem
But the poem that does not know
If it truly is a poem.
The poem that gives hope only when it is written-
The lesser poem-
The poem that perhaps never should have been written.
The poem I am writing now,
Perhaps for myself alone
The lesser poem
The poem that perhaps should never have been at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Red, Sparkling Wine
I Have Seen A Sight
Of a Man Falling Down …
… it wasn’t for a Fight
… but it was due to what He’d Found …
… Red Sparkling Wine… Does It Every Time
Red Sparkling Wine… She Should Be A Crime …
Red Sparkling Wine…
She Starts out – Flowing – Smooth
Gets in Your Blood – Then You got Somethin’ to Prove!
You Chase Her Intoxicating Perfume
… must be Brand X … or Lady-Doom …
… Red Sparkling Wine… Does It Every Time
Red Sparkling Wine… Feeling So Sublime …
Red Sparkling Wine…
… Sweet from the Vine, but She ain’t Vintage
Make You Loose Your Mind and Your Hard-Earned Wages
Her Cheap-Thrills… can’t Heal a Heart, that’s Bruised …
You ain’t in Love! … just in a Bottle of Booze …
of Red Sparkling Wine… Once in awhile is Fine
Red Sparkling Wine… Know the Warning Signs ….
of Red Sparkling Wine…
She’s Beautiful, as She Pours
Your Problems – Passed-Out, on The Floor
She’s Crystal-Blood in an Hour-Glass
Her Pity-Promises… just don’t Last…
Red Sparkling Wine… Does It Every Time
Red Sparkling Wine… She’ll have You begging for Dimes …
… to buy … Red Sparkling Wine…
She’ll leave You Broke, You won’t be able to Think
She’s ‘Madam Dope’ … if You Need One More Drink
… of Red Sparkling Wine… Just a Matter of Time
Red Sparkling Wine… Have Another… ‘ Cause I’m …
… Red Sparkling Wine …
poem by MoonBee Canady
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