LENNDEVOURS

Christopher Watkins' Book Now Available

I know that I should get cranking on all of the Finger Lakes-related posts that I have to write, but I wanted to take a moment to congratulate a friend on the release of his new book.

You might know him as the director of operations at Roanoke Vineyards. But, in addition to his duties as LENNDEVOURS' poet laureate, Christopher Watkins is a poet, musician and all around good guy.

So today, I'm happy and proud to announce that his book of poetry "Short Houses With Wide Porches" is now available for purchase.

Rumor has it that it's quite good and that he is also conspiring with a certain New York wine blogger on a project that will include some of his wine poetry.

"Harvest Memory" by Christopher Watkins

The first group places stacks
of plastic tubs at every row’s end
for the next group that’s approaching;
they’ll be grabbed up on the turn.

Remaining in the rows are the
full tubs loaded down with weighty
clusters, for collection by the
third group in the rear.

Most everyone is Guatemalan, and gloved,
clippers in their hands or in their pockets.
Low to the ground and broad of back,
the Guatemalan bodies suit their tasks.

The air crackles with the sound of water droplets
on a burner set to high; the clippers clipping
briskly in the crispy morning air. There is very little
talking. They’ll take 30 tons and more in just a day.

A young man has cut his left index finger badly
with his clippers. I take him to the barn, pour alcohol
on the cut, wrap his finger with a sloppy combination
of gauze and dried-out tape. He smiles and runs

back to the rows when I am done. My clippers
move at half the pace when I am working.
Partly I inspect the grapes too long,
nervous as a novice, and I’m clumsy too.

In less than ten minutes I am bleeding; the same finger.
In four years’ time, if your wine tastes strangely
of a strange initiation, then I hope it’s while you’re toasting
something serious as blood.

"Pruning" by Christopher Watkins

By Poet Laureate Christopher Watkins

 

Pruning

Early morning, and like middle-schoolers
chicken-pimpled beside a swimming pool,
the once-mighty vines stand humble, naked in their rows;
I swear they’re shivering—
a finishing school
of apprentice scarecrows
practicing on snowflakes...

I walk the morning-after battlefield — the fight
an ancient rite of deconstruction —
marveling at the meager
quintessence of these vines: arms thin
as antennae, slender trunks poorly mimicking
their elder’s muscularity;

reminded of a bubblegum
cartoon, I imagine Old Vines walking by
and kicking sand in all the little
vine’s faces, then stealing off their girls...

A long year ahead, and I have no song I can sing
to march them onwards, but like soldiers under clippers
weeping quietly, they may take heart
that hair grows back, all wars end,
and somewhere there is someone
short a glass of wine.

"The Persistence of Irritants" by Christopher Watkins

After Chris's last poem, a reader and fellow tasting room employee left a comment asking for a poem about fruit flies. Chris, ever ready to please his reading public, obliged with the below.

By Poet Laureate Christopher Watkins

 

The Persistence of Irritants

We began by just ignoring them, until
comments became too numerous;
we moved to disclaimers, explanations,
Yes, they’re everywhere, but they’re harmless—
Behind the scenes, we tried everything,
even resorting to very expensive dessert wine
left out for them to expire in;
In every sweetened dish they capitulated,
but they did so too in bottles, in decanters, even glasses!
How many times did we discreetly turn and re-pour,
no comment made, having spotted their dreaded sign,
their singular mark, afloat in our luminous liquids?
Too many to count. And still their numbers rose, the math impossible!
Once, I thought the wall itself was moving.
We moved to covered spittoons; they got in,
there they stayed, until cleaning time—
A mushroom cloud exploding into air,
a drunken woozy eruption of seasonal souses.
Finally, the harvest; no more sugar in the air,
no more crazed mating, no more sealing every single open bottle...
Still, a few remain, despite the cold. Stragglers, alcoholics,
the unmated, we are talking about fruit flies, right?

"December Sonnet" by Christopher Watkins

By Poet Laureate Christopher Watkins

December Sonnet
Now the corn mazes truly are frightening;
bedraggled hulking husks of a sinister thinness,
looming and swaying over the tamped-down paths
littered with their fallen hides —
ochre’d in the early winter darkness,
they rustle at the unsympathetic winds,
conspiratorial whispers
interwoven with the harsh hiss of the season.

 
What child now dares lose themselves
among these rasping ghouls, whose shrouds
come peeling off in leprous strips? What child now
dares enter this maze of death? What child? None!
For what they truly seek is not a fright,
but to be startled by delight.

"November" by Christopher Watkins

By Poet Laureate Christopher Watkins

 

November
Cold among the vines;
thin brown stems shod of their canopy
bristling in the wicked breezes;
so strange to see the far side of a row,
when only weeks ago sight lines
were choked with the opulence
of purple clusters pregnant with the future.

The Morning When The 'Never Look At Grapes In The Rain' Rule Was Broken

By Poet Laureate Christopher Watkins

       Wet socks and all, we trudge the rows,
black umbrellas breaking backwards
like the battered wings of jackdaws
in the winter.

       It’s early Fall, the grapes
show signs of tartness still, but sugar’s
on the rise. We chew the berries, macerate
the skins between our purpling teeth,

       and test the seeds for tannins, before spitting
out the soft purple masses on the thin, green strips of grass
between the rows; on the ground, clusters dropped
last week spackle the grass like tiny browning skeletons.

      The canopies look weary,
it’s a long and draining battle they’re engaged in;
vine life is an exasperating one, the man who tends
you thinks its best that you struggle.

     Inside, I hang my socks over a barrel,
procure a corkscrew, open up an ’04 blend,
splash the rich, garnet liquid into glasses
for myself and my companion,

and toast the coming harvest.

"The Dream In Which The Winos Find Their Morals, Draw A Line, And Take A Stand" By Christopher Watkins

The Dream In Which The Winos Find Their Morals, Draw A Line, And Take A Stand

By Christopher Watkins

In the dream we are sleeping in the last row of Merlot
to the west, before the Cabernet Sauvignon;
the air is weaving, lush and humid,
as if  we're on the highway making heat a noun, as in,
"Look, you can see the heat above the road."

Our feet are to the north, towards the buildings,
and there's a red bird chirping loudly at a brown bird
by my head. When I sit up, I see the raccoon scat,
pocked with tiny grape pips; he has stopped only a foot
before our feet. You're still sleeping.

Suddenly we have coffee and a tent,
you're awake, and we have just eaten breakfast:
campfire eggs and beans with stale wheat bread.
There is a tiny baby deer resting in your lap,
and the sky is shaping up to bring a storm.

I have a pocket-watch, and pull it from the pocket
of the seersucker suit that I'm now wearing--you're in jeans
and a crisp white tuxedo shirt--and say "They're coming,
I can feel it, time to go." I blink, big and slow; the deer baby's gone,
the tent is packed, the fire is out.

It will not rain, but the pressure's near intolerable,
we walk as if we're thigh-deep in a pool; I wipe your brow
with a cream-colored hanky; in the corner, woven black,
the letter G. We round the building, and the heat is even worse,
the sun was hiding on the north side, now it slaps us.

The parking lot is full, the grass is covered with cars,
there are even cars out on the street, everywhere
there are cars, and in each car are people sheened with sweat,
going nacreous as onions fried in butter; I can see through their
clammy melting skin to the dry dusty dust of their bones.

Then we're behind the bar, Aretha Franklin is playing,
everything is ready, you go to open the door, then you're on the floor,
they've run you over, ten, twenty, thirty of them, the bar is full, I'm moving glasses,
somehow you're beside me again, everyone has a glass, there is so much noise it's
unbearable, voices all saying the same thing in different ways, "It's so damn hot," "I'm

hot," "It's the humidity, I tell you," "Mom, I'm melting!" "Man, it's really warm."
Then, as if on cue, they all go silent, silent on a dime, and nothing moves.
Nothing happens, we're all a photograph, a moment caught in time.
Amy tells me later this must be when she woke, rolled over, and found me
roiling in my sleep, eyes frisking under eyelids, fingers twitching, mumbling
under breath; she tried to soothe me by patting my wet head.

In the dream, I'm at the bar still, it's still quiet. A woman in front of me
mouthes the words The Blush, and holds her glass out. The Rose?, I ask, and then
pour the wine. She looks down at the glass, then up at me and says, "Can you please put
some ice in?" I am her then, watching me, as I say, "I'll give you the ice, but you'll have
to put it in yourself, I don't want that on my conscience, I need to sleep at night."

"All Seasons Every Day" by Christopher Watkins

All Seasons Every Day
-or-
When You Have Mother Nature As A Business Partner
-or-
The Vineyard Manager’s Long Island Blues
By Christopher Watkins

In this hand I hold water,
in this hand I hold heat.

Call them rain and sun,
but never seasons.

I may call upon the wind
with dawn still percolating softly,
or raise it with the onset of the dusk –

But with a snap of practiced fingers
SHOT! Lightning, then the thump-tom-thump
of thunder;
count the seconds in between
counting one-one-thousand…then again, the thunder.

In my heart it is the solstice,
But my mind’s a melt
of many moving seasons.

"May" by Christopher Watkins

By Christopher Watkins

In a warm kitchen in Stony Brook,
above a heated stove,
a bearded chef keeps two eyes fastened
to a metal pot,
but the water doesn't boil.

On a platform in Port Jefferson,
dampened by the rain,
a small, young woman keeps raising
her jacketed wrist to glare again
at her watch,
but the train doesn't come.

On a grass patch beside the two-lane,
just past Wading River,
four young men in jeans and caps
sprawl around a bus stop,
trying to make their coffees last
until the bus finally arrives.

And in a vineyard off Sound Avenue,
as tractors hulk in silence in the first hues of the dawn,
a sturdy figure half-obscured by a flapping nylon poncho
rubs a nicotined thumb along a budless vine...