Posts Tagged“wine poetry”

“Pruning” by Christopher Watkins

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By Poet Laureate Christopher Watkins   Pruning Early morning, and like middle-schoolerschicken-pimpled beside a swimming pool, the once-mighty vines stand humble, naked in their rows;I swear they’re shivering—a finishing schoolof apprentice scarecrowspracticing on snowflakes… I walk the morning-after battlefield — the fightan ancient rite of deconstruction —marveling at the meagerquintessence of these vines: arms thinas antennae, slender trunks poorly mimickingtheir elder’s muscularity; reminded of a bubblegumcartoon, I imagine Old Vines walking byand kicking sand in all the littlevine’s faces, then stealing off their girls… A long year ahead, and I have no song I can singto march them onwards, but…

“December Sonnet” by Christopher Watkins

By Poet Laureate Christopher Watkins December SonnetNow the corn mazes truly are frightening;bedraggled hulking husks of a sinister thinness,looming and swaying over the tamped-down pathslittered with their fallen hides —ochre’d in the early winter darkness,they rustle at the unsympathetic winds,conspiratorial whispersinterwoven with the harsh hiss of the season.  What child now dares lose themselvesamong these rasping ghouls, whose shroudscome peeling off in leprous strips? What child nowdares enter this maze of death? What child? None!For what they truly seek is not a fright,but to be startled by delight.

The Morning When The ‘Never Look At Grapes In The Rain’ Rule Was Broken

By Poet Laureate Christopher Watkins        Wet socks and all, we trudge the rows, black umbrellas breaking backwards like the battered wings of jackdaws in the winter.        It’s early Fall, the grapes show signs of tartness still, but sugar’s on the rise. We chew the berries, macerate the skins between our purpling teeth,        and test the seeds for tannins, before spitting out the soft purple masses on the thin, green strips of grass between the rows; on the ground, clusters dropped last week spackle the grass like tiny browning skeletons.     …

“The Dream In Which The Winos Find Their Morals, Draw A Line, And Take A Stand” By Christopher Watkins

The Dream In Which The Winos Find Their Morals, Draw A Line, And Take A Stand By Christopher Watkins In the dream we are sleeping in the last row of Merlot to the west, before the Cabernet Sauvignon; the air is weaving, lush and humid, as if  we’re on the highway making heat a noun, as in, "Look, you can see the heat above the road." Our feet are to the north, towards the buildings, and there’s a red bird chirping loudly at a brown bird by my head. When I sit up, I see the raccoon scat, pocked with…

“All Seasons Every Day” by Christopher Watkins

All Seasons Every Day -or- When You Have Mother Nature As A Business Partner -or-The Vineyard Manager’s Long Island BluesBy Christopher Watkins In this hand I hold water, in this hand I hold heat. Call them rain and sun, but never seasons. I may call upon the wind with dawn still percolating softly, or raise it with the onset of the dusk – But with a snap of practiced fingers SHOT! Lightning, then the thump-tom-thump of thunder; count the seconds in between counting one-one-thousand…then again, the thunder. In my heart it is the solstice, But my mind’s a melt of…

“May” by Christopher Watkins

By Christopher Watkins In a warm kitchen in Stony Brook,above a heated stove,a bearded chef keeps two eyes fastenedto a metal pot,but the water doesn’t boil. On a platform in Port Jefferson,dampened by the rain,a small, young woman keeps raisingher jacketed wrist to glare againat her watch,but the train doesn’t come. On a grass patch beside the two-lane,just past Wading River,four young men in jeans and capssprawl around a bus stop,trying to make their coffees lastuntil the bus finally arrives. And in a vineyard off Sound Avenue,as tractors hulk in silence in the first hues of the dawn,a sturdy figure…

Ballad of the Pour Man and the Well-Known Wine Reviewer

By Christopher Watkins As if, in opposite corners, our trainers had just told us to “Go out there and get ‘em,” we square off, I on the wine side of the bar, you on the other. What, I wonder, is there in your armor in the way of a weak spot? I speak slowly, but the grim cast never leaves the set-in hardlines of your lips. I move precisely, careful not to tear the foil or break the cork or spill the wine. I marvel at your nose, how it reaches, like a hand, into the deep crimson bowl. I…

One Last

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As winter slows and we look to spring, LENNDEVOURS’ Poet Laureate, Christopher Watkins presents a piece about what this time means for grape vines that have been sleeping during the cold months. One LastBy Christopher Watkins One last hurl of winterfor the sleeping vinesto unknowingly withstand; One last morningof vivid, blinding beauty—sunlight caroming off snow slicks—and the dirty days that followas the oily trucks tattoothe banks built upalong the salted roads; One last fire for warmth; One last reminderthat the world’s not at our mercy,that our mercy’s what we plead forat the door of Mother Nature’s busy home—darkened by our…

Introducing Christopher Watkins, LENNDEVOURS’ Poet Laureate

It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to LENNDEVOURS’ newest contributor, and first poet laureate, Christopher Watkins. Chris is a poet and songwriter. His chapbook "Short Houses With Wide Porches" is forthcoming from Shady Lane Press, the publishing arm of The Kerouac Project. His poems are appearing or have appeared in The George Washington Review, Euphony, Talking River, Red Rock Review, and the anthology In Our Own Words: A Generation Defining Itself (MWE Press), among others. He was the Fall 2006 writer-in-residence at The Jack Kerouac Writer-in-Residence Project of Orlando. As a songwriter, he has released five albums…