Patrick Hilyer's Blog, page 3
April 11, 2012
A Case of You
Just before our love got lost you said
“I am as constant as a northern star”
And I said “Constantly in the darkness
Where’s that at?
If you want me I’ll be in the bar”
On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada
With your face sketched on it twice
Oh you’re in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I’d be on my feet
oh I would still be on my feet
Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I’m frightened by the devil
And I’m drawn to those ones that ain’t afraid
I remember that time you told me you said
“Love is touching souls”
Surely you touched mine
‘Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time
Oh, you’re in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
And I would still be on my feet
I would still be on my feet
I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
“Go to him, stay with him if you can
But be prepared to bleed”
Oh but you are in my blood
You’re my holy wine
You’re so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh, I could drink a case of you darling
Still I’d be on my feet
I would still be on my feet
© 1970; Joni Mitchell
March 24, 2012
Wine Reading – Competition
Love French cuisine? Grand Cru Bordeaux wine? Think you could do a short voice-over? Visit my other blog “French Vineyards” here for competition details. Good luck!
March 8, 2012
Wine Snobbery alive and well in Edwardian England
Hector Hugh Munro ‘garnishing’ a perfect paragraph with winey wit…
“The earlier stages of the dinner had worn off. The wine lists had been consulted, by some with the blank embarrassment of a schoolboy suddenly called upon to locate a Minor Prophet in the tangled hinterland of the Old Testament, by others with the severe scrutiny which suggests that they have visited most of the higher-priced wines in their own homes and probed their family weaknesses. The diners who chose their wine in the latter fashion always gave their orders in a penetrating voice, with a plentiful garnishing of stage directions. By insisting on having a bottle pointing to the north when the cork is being drawn, and calling the waiter Max, you may induce an impression on your guests which hours of laboured boasting might be powerless to achieve. For this purpose, however, the guests must be chosen as carefully as the wine.”
- Saki (Hector Hugh Munro), The Chronicles of Clovis
March 4, 2012
Château Fontloube
A fictional wine château in Saint Emilion, a vineyard, a winery, a dream…
Prologue from Broke the Grape’s Joy
I’m standing on a roadside verge, facing a vast vineyard. Behind me is the D936. The road is busy, but the stream of traffic flowing past is silent. Each car, each truck, every bus and motorcycle, buffets me soundlessly. I stare at the wreckage. The van is there, lying on its side, crushed and distorted. A stream of diesel fuel trickles into a pool of spilt red wine from a consignment that will never be delivered. Someone has opened the door. The cab is unoccupied. I take a couple of steps forward and see a woman kneeling on the tarmac holding a limp, blood-soaked body.
I hear the policeman’s voice. ‘It’s alright,’ he says. ‘He’s not dead.’
I move closer and see that he’s right. The man is gazing up at the woman’s face, smiling. Gradually – following the dream’s absurd logic – it dawns on me that I am the woman, and the man is my husband, Olivier. I cradle him in my arms, staring into his shining eyes. At first I think: oh, thank God, it’s all been a big misunderstanding; then: Jean, you’ve always been a sucker for a smile.
‘Yes,’ I call out, ‘these are vines wrapped round his head, not thorns!’
I try to untangle a knot of coarse vine shoots that start to sprout from his hair and beard. But the stems tighten, biting into the skin on his forehead, cheeks and jaw, binding and constricting his throat. His eyes show fear. His breathing becomes restricted, as though he’s sucking at his breath through a straw. I panic, and tug and snap the creeping vines that threaten to suffocate him. I use my secateurs to prize out the tougher stalks that only bite deeper into his flesh like tensioned wires on a rotten post. In my haste, I injure him. The blood, at first only a trickle from the cuts on his head and neck, begins to flow and spurt. His mouth fills with red froth – a gory, bubbling ferment. The fibrous tourniquet grips harder, the garrotte’s loop tightens.
He is dead.
Read the rest for FREE from the 4th of March as part of Read an eBook Week here
