Asti

 April 8 Word of the Day: Asti 

The Barbera d’Asti flows uncorked on Easter Day into Waterford crystal and Bohemian glass, speaking the language of Piedmont grapes more fluent with each salutary sip as plates of roast lamb and bowls of best brussels sprouts and hot roast potatoes, parsnips and glowing Yorkshires do the serving rounds and the sound of voices quickens appreciably appreciatively appropriately, the Barbera calming us, stimulating the reward pathways, dampening threat signals, ramping up treat signals, intensifying the chinking of cutlery and volume of vocals, so the shape of the cat Saoirse is more lithe and the timbre and gusto of Claudio Monteverdi becomes more elevated, the soggy ferment of the purple mountain fruits making us think clearer or making us think we think clearer, transparency on the increase, picking aside the sprig of rosemary and maximising optimally the contents of the gravy-boat, and yet fairly, prompting memories of Turin from another decade and an Easter Spring spent lolling in Italy. And a dreamy orangey rosé from an obscure Grampians vineyard, cheers, and only one vineyard, The House of Muck, is that from Isle of Muck in the Inner Hebrides, or after Lord and Lady Muck lately of the region hereabouts with wallabies, best to ask the Laird of the Label who owns a modest collection of  ridiculous automobiles, wears a cravat, smoking jacket, monocle, and according to the wine’s website a Panama hat, since extracted from a cellar of like obscure nature managed by a friend of Bridie’s, sluiced into handmade flutes and rinsed Waterford  singing in the light like several madrigalists at once, as our collective gut-brain axis sways slightly as a pole glided by a gondolier of yore, remembering details of the Saturday vigil heretofore last even, the deep voiced alleluias and clashing bells of the thunderous glorias, as it were. And a Brown Brothers also, cheerful and unassuming, deeper cabernet sauvignon, you can’t go wrong with a Brown Brothers of Milawa as my Irish mother-in-law would say and not without reason our old joke and we toast her as we should, sparking up glutamates that fire brain cells to fast-track information with hilarious exhilaration and scrumptious exhalation, the air cheery with candlewax scent and autumnal flower cuttings including surprise tiny roses from climbers outside the French door, as we celebrate our gardening plans both front and back garden, the cerebellum not noticing particularly, celebrate the quiet and chattery afternoon at home with stories and our own opinions about everything under the sun, and everyone. Then a few chocolates, tea or coffee.

Sullen

 April 7 Word of the Day: Sullen

 

Re-reading In my craft or sullen art the personal declaration doesn’t sound like a revolution, or even just a reason for writing words, perhaps because of sullen, a word meaning resentment, moody, bad-tempered, morose, uncommunicative, a word that sets the tone. And though uncommunicative, the art or craft is not still or too moody but Exercised in the still night, a time When only the moon rages, giving credence to the claim that he is exercised though everything else, bar the moon, is still. Except, either in his mind or to acknowledge their certain presence And the lovers lie abed, as night will have it, though unexpectedly not with ardour or passion or mutuality but With all their griefs in their arms. The words, having set out their condition, then turn to a series of opposing purposes for writing words: I labour by singing light. Does he even sing for his supper? Apparently Not for ambition or bread, even if he’s doing a good job of keeping our attention while staying alive; Or the strut and trade of charms, which discounts the theatre in one go; On the ivory stages, and likewise universities and award ceremonies. How sullen can one be forgoing all of those avenues, and prosceniums? Instead, he turns and admits working in his own craft or art But for the common wages Of their most secret heart, thereby raising the drama of who are these lovers and who is he to them; and what is most secret? But for them and their love only the words are made, Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon, giving the sense that he himself cannot live separate from this turmoil, this exercise and grief, unnamed though it be. He writes: I write On these spindrift pages, spindrift a word meaning the spray that blows off waves, and therefore fleeting, transient, the slightest momentary crest of something far deeper. Nor for the towering dead does he write, never mind how aware he is himself of their towering beingness, nor how sullen they leave him, With their nightingales and psalms and all of that great readerly backstory. No, by his own admission he writes But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, though one hopes there is more to love than grief. Even the grief that is most secret cause of so much sullenness, cause of the words. These loves Who pay no praise or wages, any more than anyone else, it seems, Nor heed my craft or art. Thus leaving the maker of words alone in his sullen state, wrestling with pride and fame and loss, which he cares to share with us, not the lovers, the patrimony of twenty lines signed by a Welshman famous for writing the same twenty lines. 

Northland

 April 6 Word of the Day: Northland

 

Exiting cinema into daylight

Thick thud of Action in our heads

One question looms and envelopes:

Is Northland Smaug’s Lair

Or Smaug’s Lair Northland?

 

Jewellery strewn about, gems in profusion,

In corridor after corridor,

Coins in thousands shine,

Close to touch, impossible to take:

Mountains of slippery valuables.

 

And a dragon’s eyes follow us,

Closed circuit cameras

Ready should we think of lifting

The Arkenstone from its $2 Shop,

Prompting fiery wrath on us all.

 

Bell Street should be easier

But for these newfangled Euro cars

Death in their headlights

Orcs, Shelobs and the like

Charging across bedraggled vision

.

True, wizard carers are out there

And I am not telling you

The secret I carry on my person,

But is home home

Or another Lake-town of Unpredictables?

 

[February 2014, retrieved and reworked April 2026]