Si non sei ebbro, non sei vivo
Found out the name of the god who I mentioned in the prior post (here is a the info for the picture). His name is Silenus, a son of Pan, and he was the teacher of Bacchus, god of wine. It is not surprising that Bacchus turned out to be the god of wine, considering that Silenus reportedly was drunk most of the time as well.
My friend Ginger also just sent me a lovely poem on wine by Pablo Neruda which you can find if you read on.
Have been rediscovering wine myself. Used to drink white wine a lot when I grew up in Germany, but then switched to beer living in the U.S. (Californian wines are too heavy for me, too much Sulfur and it was hard to find simple French/Italian wines for cheap until I found Trader Joe’s).
Since coming to Switzerland, I have rekindled with red wine. Apart from the purple lips and mouth one gets after a bottle or so, it’s a rather delightful thing…
Ode To Wine
Day-colored wine,
night-colored wine,
wine with purple feet
or wine with topaz blood,
wine,
starry child
of earth,
wine, smooth
as a golden sword,
soft
as lascivious velvet,
wine, spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder,
amorous,
marine;
never has one goblet contained you,
one song, one man,
you are choral, gregarious,
at the least, you must be shared.
At times
you feed on mortal
memories;
your wave carries us
from tomb to tomb,
stonecutter of icy sepulchers,
and we weep
transitory tears;
your
glorious
spring dress
is different,
blood rises through the shoots,
wind incites the day,
nothing is left
of your immutable soul.
Wine
stirs the spring, happiness
bursts through the earth like a plant,
walls crumble,
and rocky cliffs,
chasms close,
as song is born.
A jug of wine, and thou beside me
in the wilderness,
sang the ancient poet.
Let the wine pitcher
add to the kiss of love its own.
My darling, suddenly
the line of your hip
becomes the brimming curve
of the wine goblet,
your breast is the grape cluster,
your nipples are the grapes,
the gleam of spirits lights your hair,
and your navel is a chaste seal
stamped on the vessel of your belly,
your love an inexhaustible
cascade of wine,
light that illuminates my senses,
the earthly splendor of life.
But you are more than love,
the fiery kiss,
the heat of fire,
more than the wine of life;
you are
the community of man,
translucency,
chorus of discipline,
abundance of flowers.
I like on the table,
when we’re speaking,
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.
Drink it,
and remember in every
drop of gold,
in every topaz glass,
in every purple ladle,
that autumn labored
to fill the vessel with wine;
and in the ritual of his office,
let the simple man remember
to think of the soil and of his duty,
to propagate the canticle of the wine.
Written by Pablo Neruda
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