Excellent poem, Grassy.

kol tuv, Ryfkah

[more comments below]

In a message dated 8/26/02 10:35:51 AM, [log in to unmask]
writes:

<< Remembering the grapes [the reader wants to know what comes next]


A big, good-looking lad,

his arms and shoulders shaped

by working the Umbrian soil

when he was young, now he thinks   [this line a bit awkward]

of the vineyards and curses

the day he took up the sword

and the standard. Not that

it's any disgrace to uphold

the Pax Romana, but sometimes

he misses the smell of rich

damp soil in this parched land,

feels weary of an alien place

full of dark religions fermenting

like grain under the sun, the Zealots

and the priests all babbilng beardily,  [love the humourous ring in these two
lines with the "b" alliteration]

their eyes bulging like barrel-bungs.

He sucks his finger thoughtfully

running his tongue over fresh ridges

where briars snagged his flesh.

Tomorrow he will offer a pair

of pure white doves to Jupiter [clever use of the concrete here]

and ask to be posted back to Italy.

Who can feel at home in a land

where the sky grows dark in the eye

of a bright afternoon? He never wanted

the bloody execution detail;

the splinters were bad enough,

but the thorns crowned his discontent.

Leave them to it, he thinks,

and dreams of the burst of red grapes  [great ending]

in his mouth and the first draught

of the new vintage.


              grasshopper >>