He is John, man in ragged overcoat
Long to withered knees
Manbeard made of clipped leaves and twigs
Man with face of rough bark
John who walks Saturday-night stupor
Through sibilant rings
Of maple, elm and linden leaves,
Swiftly satyr-dancing
Into crackling flower of fire
In peripatetic permutations, cough
Of dry staccato vespers, leaf to stone,
Each skeletal ballet whispers
He who is barrowed by mottled stile,
Stilled and waked in copper kettle,
Kegged and bunged for cooling cellar
In hoarse tones violent riots of autumn
Become seasonal rites trans-
Corporeal, quiet in slow burn
He is John of the demijohn
Bottle god of good folk,
Fanatic familiar of flagon, flask and firkin
His limber limbs are all consumed,
Sap-drunk as wasp and hornet
Dry and empty as cracked bobbin,
His spirit tumbles leaves down empty lanes
And empty well; he is spirit in wind,
He makes spirits from color, heat and motion
He is tall shoots and thick roots,
A shock of fruited stalks between
Breaks from his loamy scalp.
His anatomy taps boot heels,
Claps coarse palms. He, mate of dance,
Husband of hilarity, spouse of song.
Brittle brown leaves, fallen angels
Dancing down cold swift winds
Hymns that scrape, swirl and click
And always he must come along,
Always feed fire’s fermenting flower –
He empties nectar from his eye
He is John, and John must die.
That was great. I like the double-meaning of “stilled,” and also the use of “vespers.” I would read this poem after a bender. Brilliant,thanks.
“After a bender” – I call that the object larger than it appears in the rearview mirror waiting to fade into the distance with a few extremely dry martinis…
Thanks, Big Jon.
(smiling emotocon).
Blogging rocks!
There’s a bit of John Barleycorn in each of us.
But very few of us have a poem like that …