Happy National Poetry Month! Please enjoy this poem about our shadows that I wrote in a frenzy yesterday while composing cocktail recipes inspired by poetry. Adjacently, Absinthe has inspired poets for centuries. And while much of the world’s Absinthe related art is full of sexist imagery, every now and then I find images and poems I enjoy. Of special note: I’m getting excited to bring back 5th Column Thursday from pandemic oblivion! Stay tuned on my events page. And if you’re feeling edgy, this should help dull the pointy bits: The Earthquake Cocktail, re-mixed.
And the wormwood penetrates the air, For this hour is all emerald. - Charles Cros (1842 - 1888) Green Hour
Ask yourself, why did I just do that?
Monkey see, do, daddle
An unconscious ape
Breaks a mirror while dreaming
No witnesses
Shadow figure
Undetachable it would seem
A part of us built behind our backs
Feeding our feet and fingertips
Growing, receding
Most of the day
Neatly invisible
Tucked below, out of sight
Rarely acutely aware
The seemingly endless moments
We stashed thoughts, feelings, reactions
Into its faux void
An empty comfort
A bad habit
The sound of a purr
Vibrating hypnosis
Paws without claws just lightly scratching
Crazy talk
Discussing morality with your shadow
Co-conspirator in the great lie
Denial, the long wait in pretense of action
An ageless Dorian drinking Absinthe
There is romance there
The great gale of a deceptive storm
From zero to sixty
Brakes removed to better practice steps
A few bruises, scrapes, leaving marks
When we mask the pain
But not our face
An illusion breaks
A blood moon howl
Wolf befriends deadly porcupine
No story ever
And now our hands, upturned
A self in sunlight
So clearly sees the shame
Vivid mistakes
Corked bottle
Started off with such innocence
When does taint begin?
Is it then?
Is it now?
Icarus falls
Another Peter loses himself
And forgets
Old Bay aftershave
Roasting marshmallows
Deep dark licorice realities
Absinthe, I adore you, of course! It seems to me, when I drink you, Smell the soul of the young woods, During the beautiful green season! - Raoul Ponchon (1847 - 1937) Absinthe
