Robert Louis Stevenson once said, Wine is bottled poetry, and John Keats said, "Give me books, French wine, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know."
To the masters, I would defer. It seems alcohol and poetry go hand in hand. As a tribute to the intoxicating power of poetry, dVerse (the poet’s pub) has asked us to write a poem about our favorite drink or one with a drinking connection, whether alcoholic or nonalcoholic, to live up to the pub's name and spread some cheer. "Drink to the goodness of words flowing," says our hostess. So, bottoms up!
Olive Aficionado
I’ve been found out.
I knew I was in trouble
when he started counting
the beers in the refrigerator
and I started hiding the empties.
He roots through the garbage
like a pig after truffles.
He doesn’t know how lucky he is
I don’t drink martinis.
I only wanted the olives.
We once had a row at a family reunion—
the grand dame sipping
her martini all afternoon,
shading her complexion
and saving the olives
plump and replete.
Me, on the fringe of conversation
waiting for the distraction,
the sly sleight of hand.
Anticipation is everything.
Martinis aren't my favorite, but they were my dad's. "Gin," he said, "is the world's best painkiller."
I will end with a Bukowski quote the Pub served up because it made me laugh, and I think that's the next best thing.
"That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen."
Happy
Thanksgiving!