We are always humbled by those who have the ability to find the right words to express a thought, place, person or emotion. It's magical when a poet is able to capture an elusive thought in words or when a poem introduces you to a place you never thought existed. We hope to share some of our favorite poems and lyrics (music has always been a shared passion of ours from the moment we met), to give you something to enjoy and mull over while you're sipping our wine.
Brian has his strongest link to poetry through his heritage. His mother was from Ireland, and he has visited this beautiful country many times. In 1998, he took a summer off from work to study Irish literature and history at the National University of Ireland, Galway. This summer of study increased his passion for Yeats, Joyce, Kavanagh and other Irish writers, classic and modern. He'll share some of his favorites from these and other Irish poets, as well as other wine- and non-wine related poetry. His two selections below typify W.B. Yeats' ethereal side and Patrick Kavanagh's extraordinary ordinariness.
Jennifer's connection to poetry is deeply rooted in her combined passion for literature, history, and music. She grew up in a house full of books, with parents who were (and still are) voracious readers. It was also a house full of music, often played on antique radios and vintage phonographs. Jennifer's selections represent the eclectic cross-section of her poetic influences, from her mother's favorite poet Omar Khayyam to one of Jennifer's favorite poet-musicians Jim Carroll.
He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Inniskeen Road: July Evening
The bicycles go by in twos and threes–
There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn to-night,
And there's the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
Half-past eight and there is not a spot
Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
That might turn out a man or woman, not
A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.
I have what every poet hates in spite
Of all the solemn talk of contemplation.
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
Of being king and government and nation.
A road, a mile of kingdom, I am king
Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape,
Bearing a vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas—the Grape!
Poem
Alright,
Buddha gets
A backstage pass
But his friends have to pay.