Monday, July 25, 2011

The 13 Ways, with infinite respect to Mr. Stevens

Among twenty snowy vineyard rows,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the partridge.
I was of three minds,
Like a cover crop
In a vineyard owned by three wineries.
The bordeaux whirled in the decanter.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a burgundy
Are one.
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The champagne poured
Or just after.
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the pruners
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cordon.
O thin men of Hong Kong,
Why do you imagine golden bottles?
Do you not see how the bocksbeutel
Compliments the eyes
Of the women about you?
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the barolo is involved
In what I know.
When the vintage grew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

At the sight of barbaresco
With egg and truffle,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For bergerac rouge.
The river is moving.
The cork must be pulled.
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The madeira sat,
In the cellar-limbs.

1 comment:

james said...

absolutely awesome, one of my fav stevens poems, I'm a som too and this made my night!