As Baudelaire, my
father, my twin, my dearest
poet knew this drink
was fine; so shall I
proclaim: My sweetest love, as
my servant, as my
devoted, as my
slave; bringest thou me of the
sweetest Xerex grape
and I shall become
returnèd to that which thou
most admirest.
Remember thou, my sweetest love, that grape
Made manifest alloweth many forms:
A quick but fleeting ichorous escape;
A spirit with incalescence that warms.
The grape may yield up poison that would kill,
A draught that might embolden ones appeal,
A sedative to blight one of his skill,
Or potion, pray, infirmity, may heal.
Remember thou how fickle is the grape
So oft’ endowed, its yield, so commonplace;
But rarely, fine enough a thing to shape
Ones soul, aligned, unto a state of grace.
So may this sweet elixir slake thy soul;
And pray, my sweetest love, it make thee whole.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Remember thou, my
sweetest Love, that many forms
are yielded up by
the fickle grape: The
subjective grape might sometimes
yield up poison; but
it may also yield
up medicine that calmeth
and healeth thy Soul.
The way of this elixir is its balm,
So gentle; that, with artistry, would’ see
My mind and heart, my very soul, becalm;
As well it would, my sweetest love, for thee.
So gently should it wash away thy pain,
This gift of purest flavour doth recall,
As though it, soothing as a favoured rain,
Shan’t make distraught thy soul, that it may fall.
Forget thou not, my love, this cruel Earth
Gave art to elements wherewith may heal
Thine heart; which beat with sadness, yet with worth
And daunt, as doth an angel’s heart reveal.
Though haunted, all the lonely, even we,
May wash away our longing a degree.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
If this elixir
is the balm that, so gentle
and quiet, wouldst calm
my mind and my heart
nay, even my very soul,
my sweet love, for thee.
So gently shalt it
ease thy pain, as though a rain,
so soft, hath fallen.
This, of pure flavour,
shall not offer thee regret
and shall give but none
to thine heart; so warm
yet daunting as an angel’s.
Forget not, my love,
this cruel earth also
playeth host to elements
which may heal even–
in right proportions–
the loneliness, and longing,
we two have suffered.
If thou, my sweetest love, if thou, with me,
Wouldst share the sweet Xerex, that sweetest grape,
That loveliest of nectars, which may shape
One’s very soul, its very contours free;
That selfsame nectar I proclaim to be
The fabric, flowing as a fluid cape,
Which ribbons, over all creation drape,
Returneth me, my sweetest love, to thee.
Drink thou, this sweet elixir; know thou calm;
As will its magic sooth my restless mind;
Raise thou its crimson crystal to thy lips.
Drink we, such still, sweet, grape, such perfect balm,
And we have drunk the blood of lover’s, twined,
And conquerors who venture forth in ships.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Oh, my sweetest love,
share with me this sweet Xerex,
this, which I proclaim
Return’th me to thee.
Oh, my sweetest love, quiet
my restless mind with
the still, sweet, grape, which
is born of they who loveth–
they who conquereth.
David Emeron: Sonnets 