I have come back to this in the light of my remarks on 'layering'.
For me this is an excellent poem in many ways.
First there is the denouement of the poem when we realise or are allowed to
know exactly who the central character of the poem is and with the
realisation the poem fans out, as it were, to show a wider picture and all
the earlier references take on another broader meaning or rather are
understood better.
Now there is that second layer available and not just a layer of better
understood references but rather the brutish lumpen nature of the persona
who has taken a key role in history but can only fret over the minute pain
his pricked finger, his blood shed and has no concern for the larger agony
in his presence and now he wants a drink. Thus it seems may be the nature of
many at historic moments, ignorant, unaware, insensitive, selfishly
concerned for their own physical well-being.
Of course we look deeper for new layers now and find them in the final lines
where we remember wine is the blood of Christ in the communion, Rome is to
be the home of the 'new religion' and ' new vintage' suddenly means far more
than just wine.
This is the sort of layering that parallels the simple narrative of the
piece and gives the poem a rich texture that I revisit for pleasure.
I was going to hope that all this was intended but really that is not the
question, is it? It is what I find in my mining of the piece as a reader. My
contribution , if you like. And doesn't the reader contribute?? Should he??
Regards Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "grasshopper" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Monday, August 26, 2002 6:33 AM
Subject: New sub: Remembering the grapes


> Remembering the grapes
>
> A big, good-looking lad,
> his arms and shoulders shaped
> by working the Umbrian soil
> when he was young, now he thinks
> 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,
> 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
> 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
> in his mouth and the first draught
> of the new vintage.
>
>               grasshopper