Self Indulgent Poem

 

for pure indulgence
of the word
on the white plate:
 –
the way it works,
tempting
my mouth to salivate.
 –
it’s a freshly cooked crab
still incapsulated red
but crackable
 –
and meat sweet juicy
as carnal love
and oysters’ tide
 –
and drunkenness
in the self indulgence
of the body’s desires.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Old Butcher

Unafraid of the white
Rind
Of sweet fat
Wound around the ham joint,
He cuts a handsome slice,
Layers it against a wedge of cheese
And closes the well buttered bun,
Offering it
Like it was a generous food,
As rich and fulfilling
As cream atop the milk
And the wheat’s
Golden milling
To finest workable powder.

He will die a good death
Before his mind
Thinks these precious gifts
Are otherwise
Or contra to
The land’s harvest
And man’s festival
In receiving its pleasure
And its goodness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Wine Maker – Being Mario Fontana

I don’t require an alarm clock to wake me in the morning. I rise with the eagerness of a child and the first twittering of birds. You know, there is nothing as fine as the dew sweet hours and no light so heavenly as the first born moment cresting deliciously: I am surely new with each turn of the world. My father toiled on this plot of Italian earth for fifty years or more. Those days were not good for winemakers. But for me it is joyous. Hard work, of course but I am greatly more for each moments focus. My land, strung with vines and decorated with Cyprus is the single most important place upon the earth. I walk it, each delightful day, noticing the minucia, the seasons play and the plants considered response. I do believe they are happy in their growth, flush with greenliness and health for all my careful tending and my gentle approach to the matter of their feeling: I greatly enjoy their being with this glad, succulent heart of mine. I wonder, am I rooted to this place, for I would not leave its ever calling pull upon my soul’s domain and would likely yearn with each terrible footstep into misadventure’s far away? I wonder too, if we are joined, my humanity yoked to the richness of this soil and all that is drawn so willingly? This is my home, among the vines: father to their needs, recipient of their riches, lover of the being we have become.

And the wine? Could it it be less the true wonderment, or measure less than joy, or be less than divinity made earthly? Well, I shall not tell what only a taste can convey.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Professional Barmen

They are masters of mixology,
Traders in cool.
They work
In the place to be: behind it.
They are it
With their controversial cocktails,
Fine wine wit
And work under loud rhythms.

The knife edge of fashion
Is theirs:
Firm hand shake
And contemporary hair,
Their tools
In the –  look good,
Play hard – life

Of those
Who shake and stiiir.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015