Slow Cellar Door Poetry Challenge--Poll 3

[The Poets]

Please vote for One of the following poems in this poll. This is an open poll, so readers will be able to see which poem you've selected. You have until

Sunday, July 3 at 8 pm EST

to cast your vote. There are three polls--you may vote for one poem in each poll.

 

[The Poets]

Poem 9

This is an illustrated poem. Please open the attachment to view the poem.

 

[The Poets]

Poem 10

Sloe Seller Dor

I see her in
my mind as
easily as I saw
her at the
fair last fall.

Green and brown
dress, leather apron
bedecked with the
same purple-black as
her fingers.

She is standing
among the tables and
makeshift shelving that
fills most of the
space in the brightly
coloured pavilion serving
as her shop.

She has bottles
everywhere. Some are
empty, but most are filled to
some degree by
berries and gin
or by berry-tinged
gin waiting to be
strained pure.

And the tinkle of
dangling silver forks in
the late-autumn breeze
mixes with the soft
music of her voice
as she offers up
her wares.

 

[The Poets]

Poem 11

Slow Cellar Door

To hold your gaze, I drink from the chalice
of dormant tears.

The salt.

That is why I built a shelf in the unknown cellar.
I uncover its silence every time I am there.
It is an empty cellar, with an ebony shelf.
Without furniture, or memories, and, because I leave the doors open
the air goes on in its journey without obstacles.

The shelf is of ebony.

When I go there during the day, I take a suede cloth
and a box of wood polish.

The air goes on in its journey but does not stop by the shelf,
it passes by with a slight whisper. It is what I feel
every time I am standing at the back.
I slowly chew on exotic candy that I unwrap
in a timid silence, not to awake the mosquitoes and wood fretters.

I gaze at the shelf for hours.

And every day when I am there, I take from my pocket, with extreme care,
another bottle. Minuscule.

They are bought on a store in Paris,
at the top of Rue Lepic.
The shop girl has Amelie's eyes,
and even after three months she always recognises me
and folds the meticulous package, without anyone noticing.

I do not spend money on anything else.
I stopped going to cafés or the movies, buying newspapers or fashion magazines.
I only borrow money from friends without explanations.
After three months, I check in and enter a plane,
calmly have lunch and order a coffee
and a port.

The sun.

The shelf in the unknown cellar expands noticeably
and invades every alcove.

The air goes through its journey without obstacles.

Yesterday, I counted thirteen bottles.

It is my domain.

I have no books, no paintings, no posters, no mirrors.

When on that distant Thursday I first saw you
I breathed in so deeply that the corners of my lips felt torn.

My design is to cause suffering, as if it were meaningless
an act.
That happens every time you shrug off your blouse
and it is with immense care that I let the liquid pool
by the corners of your lips.

The shelf is of ebony.
The bottles are white and minuscule.

In sepia, in lime tree.

Rue Lepic leaves me at the top of Montmartre
and I look at Paris through the half-light and the fog.

[Tears run down my face. Sweet, acidic.]

To hold your gaze, I drink from the chalice
of dormant tears.

In truth, my domain consists
of minuscule empty bottles
set along a shelf of ebony
that fills the unknown cellar
and the air that goes on through its journey without obstacles.

The rictus, the door.

The key.

 

[The Poets]

Poem 12

Cellar Door

Cellar door swing heavy
the whitened bones
of ancient necromancy
buried ‘neath the floor
pennies cover sightless eyes

The rooms above
may roil with love
and lust
from room to room
the many threads of charm
weave tapestries
of trust
among the players
knotted webs of hope

“Ooooh but love is grand
Another dance my dear?”

“I’m out of breath
so take me
take me
somewhere quiet
just for a moment”

“It’s quiet in the cellar
we could uncork
a private bottle
just you and I”

Tipple
down the stairs
it’s lip to lip

One candle
guttering
in cool stale air
bottles chained with cobwebs
waiting in their crypt
for the screw
to slowly
turn their corks

Cellar door
swing slow
then close
so heavy
darkness as
pennies cover
vacant eyes