'After Dinner' and Other Poems, by Craig Kirchner
After Dinner
It’s tight at our table,
unknown parts of the same group,
face to face, and she wants to
teach me to drink Cognac.
The waiter brings snifters and a bottle,
she mulls it over hot tea –
sets the pear-shaped bottom on its side -
pours like time has stopped slowly,
the amber liquid into the heated glass.
Small deft hands stroke the aged decanter,
as warm zephyrs intoxicate,
the narrowing space between us.
Sip and swirl, don’t swallow,
let it slide down your tongue,
ease into your throat.
You have to get past the alcohol,
and taste the fruit.
Great tasters can tell the grape,
the region, the exact plot of ground.
My ground is sinking around me,
my face and limbs like embers,
as the slick silk glides
as she has instructed,
…. and then she does hers….
the French would be proud.
She circles the rim of the glass,
discovers a drop of the nectar,
with the slightest of smiles
and mink eyes stuck to mine,
puts her finger to my lips,
and asks me again to taste the fruit.
sifting through the nuts
I’m sitting here on a humid
August Sunday afternoon
sifting through a can of mixed nuts,
wanting to write about
sitting on humid afternoons
and worrying about plagiarizing
writers, old and new,
who have done similar.
What could I say that hasn’t been said,
or how could I know or not know?
Can I be content with,
I haven’t said it before,
at least on paper,
at least on a Sunday afternoon,
at least not in my underwear
with a mouthful of pecans,
waiting as I seem to be
for evening to fall,
to produce something incomparable,
something so clearly original
that it will make the Planter’s man
tip his top hat, perhaps,
even remove his monocle.
Roomful of Navels
You moved in next door. I introduced myself.
You hugged me, and adjusted your cap.
I watched the awed crowd at the Acme,
as you mimed DeNiro in ‘Taxi’ -
and was with you when you u-turned your
VW at a yellow light instead of making-a-decision.
I was the only neighbor who knew
you let the dog out and got the paper,
in bra and panties, explaining over coffee,
that you didn’t leash Lassie either,
and besides no one’s up that early.
Pickles and milk for breakfast,
mescaline for lunch.
Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,
by the way it’s best with jazz.
Sat bewitched watching,
‘Once upon a Time in the West,’
read all of Kafka,
Kierkegaard and Sartre.
And then there was the room.
Three boulders and a sheet of slate
coffee table where you studied
your round rock collection
and hung hundreds of drawings of navels -
covering the walls and ceiling,
self portraits,
you said, but no two were alike.
They boarded up your house when you disappeared,
the neighborhood pretended you never happened.
I’m working now and have my own place.
The drawing you gave me is on the door to the freezer,
and I think of you, like getting-a-beer often,
or when someone mentions bellybuttons or conformity.
There are polished stones in the fridge on the shelf,
next to the pickles.
Interview with Metaphor
You have been quiet of late, but I understand you’re
looking to come back strong.
Even in your dead period, going unnoticed as it were,
you have been described as a matchmaker.
I have introduced many a first object to second objects,
often bringing out the best in the first. No question.
You are of Greek lineage. Is that correct?
The early Greeks philosophers were the first to define me,
and discussed me often, but I can trace roots to cave paintings.
I was tight with Aristotle.
How was he to hang with?
It was exhilarating. He and the Sophists put me on a pedestal,
called me master, genius. They would introduce me as
one thing that can’t be learned from others.
You are called by many names and confused with many others.
Do you have a favorite?
Yes, I’ve heard allegory, figure of speech and of course,
everyone thinks of me as being like a simile.
I prefer trope, it sounds primal, a bit risqué in a guttural way.
You have been described in certain journals as having,
a bit of a split personality.
Well, I am always juggling between tenor and vehicle,
but never in a destructive way.
I think of it more as being comprised of two parts.
Speaking of parts, you have had some great ones,
but never won an award.
I’ve been in almost every award winner and you’re right,
I’ve had some classic roles.
Some of my favorites have been the Heart,
where I basically play the moral code of all humanity.
And of course, Plato cast me as the Sun,
where I was the source of all ‘intellectual illumination.’
Have you enjoyed your life in entertainment,
and would you change anything if you could do it over?
Well of course and after all, the world is a stage,
and we are merely players. We all have our exits and entrances.
If I could do it over, I’d make more entrances.
What was it like working with Shakespeare?
I think he was an alien, next question.
What are we going to compare today?
As you pointed out I’ve been somewhat dormant lately,
carried away by sub-literacy, so to speak.
I’m thinking I want to do something active and personified.
I haven’t done a planet in a while, or perhaps something sub-atomic.
We certainly wish you luck with that.
Thank you for your time and your insight.
Craig Kirchner is retired and thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Poetry Quarterly, Decadent Review, New World Writing, Neologism, The Light Ekphrastic, Unlikely Stories, Wild Violet, Last Stanza, Unbroken, The Globe Review, Skinny, Your Impossible Voice, Fairfield Scribes, Spillwords, WitCraft, Bombfire, Ink in Thirds, Ginosko, Last Leaves, Literary Heist, Blotter, Quail Bell , Ariel Chart, Lit Shark, Gas, Teach-Write, and has work forthcoming in Cape Magazine, Scars, Yellow Mama, Rundelania, Flora Fiction, Young Ravens, Loud Coffee Press, Versification, Vine Leaf Press, Edge of Humanity, Chiron Review and the Journal of Expressive Writing.