A local paper, writing about soft cheeses, suggested that they evoked visions
of being rolled on the thighs of virgins in the moon light.
Apart from probably being confused with Cuban cigars,
such imagery demands poetry.
Ode to a soft cheese
Can love be any more innocent than this?
The sublime adoration of the pure;
Silken smooth, the essence of all we wish
To be ours: virginal, white, demure.
Heady aromas carry us a far
To where, moonlight awash, visions vestal,
Roll and squash, legs a tremble; thighs ajar;
Food of angels on a plate celestial,
Heavenly cheeses, to make someone swoon.
The ladies then wash, their work is well done;
In bathed innocence they dance in the moon
Oblivious to the magic they’ve spun.
Beneath the trees, with my glass of wine,
I enjoy at ease what cannot be mine.
---
No apologies. © J Cosmo Newbery.
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To The Virgins, To Make Much Of Wine
Harvest ye grape vines while ye may,
The fruit are not for keeping:
And this same vine that droops today,
Tomorrow will be sleeping.
The glorious wine of Heaven, the one
That’s made of Pinot noir;
The sooner is the harvest done,
The party can be start.
That wine is best, which is the first,
When taste and sense are warmer;
But being drunk, the worse, and worst
Wines, will succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but take your wine;
And while ye may, go drinking:
For having lost but once your mind,
...whatever were you thinking?
---
Apologies to Robert Herrick.
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Daft Idylls
I wanted only for a wine
That lifts me up and takes me far,
When all at once I saw a line,
of posts, of glorious Pinot noir;
Beside the lake, beneath the wattles,
Dreaming, but not dancing, of my bottles.
---
Apologies to William Wordsworth.
---
Vines
I know that I shall never think
A poem lovely as a drink.
A drink whose luscious taste presents
High praise to sweet earth’s nutrients;
For a drink that brings on thoughts divine,
You can n’er go past a good red wine;
A drink that may in summer bring
A maiden to your side, to sing.
Now, on a bosom, my head’s content;
The pillow of choice for the rhyming gent.
Poems are made by fools like moi,
But a damn fine wine is a Pinot noir.
---
Apologies to Joyce Kilmer.
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