I am most honoured that the wonderful poet Christopher Thomas Schmitz has dedicated this to me and would love to share it with you.
Here’s Bacchus, god of revelry.
His garland autumns like a tree.
His basket holds a lesioned quince,
some shriveled grapes with tannish tints,
a pomegranate’s bursting pulp.
His goblet offers us a gulp
of violet, dark Abruzzo wine.
He’s just begun. We’re right on time.
His wide orbicular carafe
is still well more than at the half.
He’s had enough to rouge his cheeks,
to glaze his eyes, to give us peeks
at so much lambent, youthful skin.
One hand would lead us farther in.
It pulls his belt, the ripcord of
a parachute for those in love.
A bicep says he lifts hay bales
as do his dirty fingernails,
and his rich farmer’s tan is odd
for a mountain-dwelling Grecian god.
Was he the painter’s paramour
who shared a bed the night before,
a model in the morning sun,
a god on canvas when he’s done?
His “tunic’s” just a sheet I bet
pulled from a mattress gray with sweat.
The master sold him to the Church
then combed the lanes, renewed his search
for lonely waifs who by his paints
turn into angels, gods, and saints.