Bacchus

 

 

 

                                Bacchus makes the transition

 

                        from wineskins to bottles

 

                        rather well

 

                                    all things considered

 

                        his black hair curls and glistens as of old                  

 

                        but his bowtie and red brass-buttoned vest

 

                        do not really become him.

 

                        Constrained and perspiring slightly

 

                        he wipes the bar snd sighs:

 

                                    City people!

 

Wine, for instance, should be drunk at sunset

 

in soft air, out of doors

 

to the lucky tune of plucked strings

 

and the glass held up to the dying sun

 

to catch its fire in the glowing crimsons of the grape

 

            the sea fine and blue far off

 

each savory swallow

 

should be followed by a glorious thought of friendship

 

of increscent foot-tapping dance

 

or a silky naked shoulder under idly stroking fingers

 

            with rosy joys to come

 

 

Grapes should be bunched and blessed and burst

 

                        for promise

 

                        mmmmmmmmm!  mmmmmmm!  mmmmmmm!

 

                        he kisses his fingertips

 

                        which have just filled an ice bucket

 

                        feeling grapes, nibbling grapes

 

                        dreaming, as well, the grapeleaves

 

                            curled around hot spiced rice

 

                                    currants and cinnamon

 

Ah! the round little breasts of young girls

 

glimpsed through the wine

 

            beautiful! beautiful!

 

or kissing the flushed globes of sweet apples

 

and plums like nipples, all the juices and rivulets dribbling

 

            of good dreams under an olive tree

 

with maidens bringing white exposed cheeses

 

            round and mellow

 

perfect with the wine!

 

 

            cool, with fish, lemon and fresh parsley

 

                        white wine, green-gold, dusted and dry

 

                                    with fragrance

 

            mmmmmmmmm! mmmmmmm!  mmmmmmmm!

 

Now, for the red - wet smacking happy kisses

 

of plump mothers full of laughter

 

            with warm gurglings of appreciation

 

as they dance slowly swaying the melons

 

                        la-la!  la-la!  la-la!

 

                                    top and bottom

 

            aaaaaaaaaaaah  mmmmmmmmm!  aaaaaaaaaah!

 

fiery, rosy, ruby, tongue-wafting, flowing, sluicing

 

                        rivers of joy

 

clear sweet sips of the living gods!

 

 

                        Bacchus leans on the bar, wistfully smiling

 

                        out over the maroon curtains on their brass rings

 

                        to the grey afternoon haze of the city street -

 

                                    a harsh voice interrupts:

 

"Double on the rocks. Hey, and hurry up, man,

 

I gotta plane to catch!"

 

                                                                                                a.o.howel