Vintages

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#CanadianPoet, Elaine Stirling

When the grapes speak,
how soon do I listen?
The pinot noir who traveled
from the crumbly soil of a vintner’s legacy,
the subtle oil of tending hands
upon the fruit, picking up the whispers
of Etruscan poplar groves
passed down through generations;
hungry snuffles of the truffle pigs,
their handlers sharing tales
of honeymoons and fruitful traipses,
decades past.

Do I hear the symphonies
and feel the grace of wine amazing me—
or are numbness and escape the goal?

Obliteration’s all the rage, you know,
to wit, the Snapchat photos of the drunken wit
who, next day, wishes still she could be free
of it, whatever it may be.

Let’s not begrudge,
the vintage sings to me,
the excellence of depth humanity
provides to any mind who minds
her business and allows the rest
their rest or muddled conflict.

Nothing good will budge
or come of kicking at a wine
before its time.

A greater yield surrounds
with equanimity each comprehensive
soul contributing to greater wholes.

In this abide,
proclaims the pinot noir
abundantly.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

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Pot Belly Stove

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, narrative poetry, villanelle

~~a villanelle~~

In the center of my kitchen sits a pot belly stove
made for cooking and for heating, just like every other.
My appliance has no cause to think and nothing to prove.

I gather wood from an apple grove,
buy yesterday’s news from a friend’s big brother.
In the center of my kitchen sits a pot belly stove.

Last night, a troubled neighbour drove
into the lake to get even with his mother.
My appliance has no cause to think and nothing to prove,

so I shall not comment on their familial love
or lack thereof. Too much of anything will smother.
In the center of my kitchen sits a pot belly stove.

Earlier this morning, an acquaintance shot a dove;
its peace, apparently, disturbed him. He could use a lover.
My appliance has no cause to think and nothing to prove.

Peddlers of corrosive fuel and cheap vitriol move
daily through our village. They are of small bother.
In the center of my kitchen sits a pot belly stove.
My appliance has no cause to think and nothing to prove.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

One Quick Word Before You Go

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#LeonardCohen, Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling

What a time you chose to disentangle, friend,
to leap when plummeting’s the rage. Cassandra’s
wailing everywhere with tolling bells, beware,
beware, by millions multipled, through fingertips
and tongues behind their masks of facial books
and other social casques.

I wouldn’t mind so much if all these prophets—
most well meaning, to be sure—were quick as well
to praise when praise is due. Alas, I seldom find
that to be true.

I grew beneath the concave dome of a catastrophist
and did not like it much. Direness shrinks heights
and dulls the taste of sweetness and of life.
Who lays the mat of strife unasked at doors of friends
and kin is fevered, yes, but this I learned and learned again—
contagion is a choice.

And so, the doom prognosticated by the people
I care deeply for and others not so much, I shall ignore.
The oaths they hurl, their smoke bombs, will not break
or cloud my stride. I shall abide content, believing hope,
convinced by you and all you’ve sung to us that death
is but a clearer set of eyes.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2016
November 11, 2016

These are my current events

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling

To eat outside at a long table in Tuscany
is not available to me today, but I did find
money on the beach two blocks from home
and five happy dogs named Basil, Bessie,
Daisy, Rowf, and Magog orbiting
their walker and my feet like a wet-nosed,
furry galaxy, alive and eager with the possibility
of treats. None of us, clearly evident to each,
was interested in argument, debate, in victory
or defeat. We’ll save that, maybe, for a day
that isn’t sunny or worth living.

And then came Leonard, toddler,
with curls like an Athenian athlete, who
deemed me worthy by holding out his little red
football. For one long and happy stretch along
the boardwalk, he and I, we scampered, laughed,
allowing Nonna to catch up with his stroller now
and then. Only eighteen months upon this planet,
my new friend used two words—“ball”, meaning,
let’s play some more, and “no”, I’m not yet ready
to say goodbye to you. An honour it was to be
selected from a world of big, anonymous—be
careful of them!—strangers to partake
of Leonard’s day.

Giddy with the joy of things, I came upon
and bought an Australian cabernet named
19 Crimes with the stark and vivid label of
a convict from the transportation days when
Australia was a prison, and to be hungry in
the British Empire was a grave offense.
Homeward, with a pause at the Little Free
Library where fresh books from neighbours
sprout like alfalfa every day. These are
my events, my currency, and they suffice.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2016