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12/02/2017 10:54 am
Margaux
It’s a 1967 estate-bottled Margaux, a Chateau Siran “grand cru exceptionnel,” laid down by my father twenty four years before he died, to save for a very special day. Under the red lead crimp, wax seals the cork, with leaked deposits like birdlime. As I twist in the screw there is no squeak. The cork crumbles. I knew it.
No light shines through. It is muddy as the Solent’s sewage churned by storm and speedboat: you lean over the scuppers - millions of hanging brown – that’s what I drink, thick as blood, stinky.
Oh daddy!
your exquisite ambition
tastes like...
dregs, perhaps, but that would be unfair. I also lived his literary ambition. I was intoxicated with it. It’s not his fault the bottle corked. But I know now that I must reverse Christ’s magic, turn wine into water, to simplify myself, these few drops, clean as ice: daddy, you are dead. And these: I am not a writer.
12/02/2017 3:40 pm
Wow! But you are a writer 😉
Great images here and a lovely let-down in the wine 'muddy as Solent's sewage'. The haiku is good but I'm not sure about the last line. I prefer 'your exquisite ambition' as a last line. Final. What about Oh daddy! / I taste /your exquisite ambition /? or sometime similar?
This is an unusual and wonderful topic. Nice fusion of visceral and abstract.
Topic starter
12/02/2017 11:11 pm
Thanks Heather. Good suggestion for the haiku.
20/03/2017 11:22 pm
I love this but I did not understand this sentence:
But I know now that I must reverse Christ’s magic, turn wine into water, to simplify myself, these few drops, clean as ice: daddy, you are dead. And these: I am not a writer.
By drinking the wine are you turning it into water ... as in pee? I would be inclined to finish with ' Its not his fault the bottle corked.
21/03/2017 11:38 pm
