[John Riley]

Bad Wine

“I have just returned from a party of which I was the life and soul; wit poured from my lips, everyone laughed and admired me–but when I went away . . . I wanted to shoot myself.”
― Søren Kierkegaard, The Diary of Soren Kierkegaard

He knew before going to the party the wine would be no good. One man had told him to sniff the bouquet and wrinkle his nose, set the glass down on the immaculate white tablecloth and he need never lift the glass again. But that would leave so many things lost to him: moral solitude would make him no longer possible. The guilt of insult would lie too heavy. It never occurred to him, even as he sipped the bitter wine, to stand and walk out the wood-sculpted front door into a world full of grey flying rocks, there without a crashing sea, sitting beneath new buildings tilting in dust clouds, a suicide of feral cats circling, the last of the smoke from the collapse of everything he and the well-maintained guests had known. Nothing will come to replace all that is lost, this he would know, and along with the wealth, the chatter, the screams that fled, also gone would be accumulated names and the recurrence of curtains dragging across windows to hide the evenings, the chatter armed with pauses and sighs to push away what wanted to be said. The blinding joy of waiting for the approaching hole. This, of course, was never thought by him or even conceived as the bitterness of the wine soaked through the thin glass and the pain from his toes squeezed tight in his fine shoes shot up his legs

[James Midgley]

Hi John,

I liked this meditation on civility. Some rapidfire thoughts in passing --

The epigraph is amusing, if that's the right word, but not vital to the piece.

Some expected or unnecessary verbiage is propping up various objects: 'immaculate'; 'wood-sculpted'.

'would make him no longer possible' confuses as it currently stands.

You might withhold the wine's bitterness -- even its badness, as in the title -- until the very end, where it might more effectively make a mockery of all the meditation.

I'm not sure about 'grey flying rocks' (I can't find the referent) or 'a suicide' for the cats (which while poignant next to the epigraph doesn't seem to match a group of feral cats). I suppose this is a kind of apocalypse. Likewise 'that fled' seems a little slap-dash.

Anyway, I hope this is of use. Thanks for the read.

[Ashley Bowen]

Oh, John! I adore this. My only quibbles are:

1. "immaculate table cloth". I think you can find something better. "Neatly pressed"? Something like that.

2. "Suicide of cats." Seems too much on the nose, especially given the epigraph.

3. The epigraph. It's not needed, in my opinion. The poem itself gives us (or me, anyway) this feeling.

4. "Shot up". Maybe. I'm on the fence about that.

Thanks for posting.

[Matt Q]

Hi John,

I really like the poem. It's dark with slight comic touches, one of my favourite flavours. My main nit is the epigraph. I think the poem would work a lot better without it. The epigraph kind of offers an advance summary -- or hints too heavily at what's coming, how the poem is to be understood. I'd rather encounter it not having a clue and be surprised. I think "a suicide of feral cats" is a great phrase, but also that its impact is undermined by the epigraph. On the poem itself, having read it several times now over a couple of days, I don't really have any nits.

Along with the cats phrase, I also really liked "moral solitude would make him no longer possible". There are nice sonic touches throughout, too. For example the alliteration and assonance "the recurrence of curtains" works very nicely for me. "pauses ... and pushes". And so on.

Hmm, OK, I guess I do have a small nit: I wonder a little at "was never thought by him or even conceived". (Should that be "conceived of"?). And is there any difference between thinking and conceiving. Can you form an idea in your mind without also thinking it? Is there something that implies less thought, or less coherent thought, than "conceived"?

best,

Matt

[Jim Moonan]

.
For me, this really takes off beginning with "It never occurred to him..." What precedes it teeters on being prosaic/table setting.

It also lapses back, to a degree, into prose at the end, though the final sentence is nearly poetic. ("of course" throws it into prose, imo.)

I agree with the others about the epigraph, but do think the poem could benefit from a Kierkegaard quote.

But in the main this is a fantastic expression of quiet dread and self-loathing. We are living out the Kierkegaard perspective of existential dread. Ginsberg prophesied it's coming. It's here.

Imho, just as metrical poetry has guardrails defining it, prose poetry should, too. As poets, we should be vigilant of slipping into prose writing vs. writing poetry that is in the form of prose. (This is not a deeply considered thought of mine, but I wanted to mention it anyway because I'm wrestling with the thought that I would be a better prose poet than I am a free verse or metrical poet. I'm inspired by all forms of poetry, but I'm learning late in life that my authentic voice comes through better in prose poetry form.)


Apropos to Kierkegaard, this is an interesting take as it applies to modern societies.

.

[John Riley]

Thanks for the notes. I admit to being attached to the suicide of cats but that may change. I’ve copied the other notes for when I revise. I don’t often revise a poem once it’s posted for a while. It usually makes a mess if I revise too soon.

This epigraph doesn’t work. The issue is the idea came to me while reading Kierkegaard’s diary. He comments on a friend who complains of being miserable at all the dinner parties he attends. K., as his usual pleasant self, suggests he turn his nose up to the wine and he’ll not be invited to more parties. The man though isn’t able to do it.

I’ll have to find a better one or eliminate the epigraph altogether.

Thanks again for the help.