You can take the girl out of the vineyards, but you cannot take the vineyards out of the girl. However, as much as I love it here, it was a delight to get out of Sonoma and spend time in San Francisco again. I miss the pulse, diversity, and culture of the city. Last weekend, my friend Max hosted a salon-style party at his to-die-for Pacific Heights apartment. His family was visiting from Paris. The other guests were from all over the world. Different languages flowed as easily as the wine and Zubrowka.
Max is a classical singer with many artistic friends, so his parties often include performances. Guests were invited to present songs (he hired a pianist for the occasion) or dance, read poetry--whatever they felt called to do. I am not so bold or so cruel as to subject anyone to my singing, but I did agree to read a poem. Feeling that reading something out of a book was a half-measure, I took on the task of writing it myself. But where to start? I looked to the vineyards for my inspiration and caught a glimpse of Dionysus, Greek god of music, wine, and ecstatic abandon. Perfect for a salon party, or so I hoped. Just in case it became too tedious, I made sure it was a drinking poem, with four rousing toasts in between verses.
I'll share it with you, should you be in need of some drinking poetry in a hurry. It's to be read with sass, wit, and a full glass.
Dionysus, the God That Comes
by Jaya Schillinger
First, a drink. You’ll need it to get through my poem.
Repeat after me: “To Dionysus, the God that Comes!”
Cultivation
Dionysus, that bad boy of the vineyards, took my youth in a back alley. Riding in on the wings of a Thunderbird. Cheap fortified wine. Rough. Dirty. With a fire like gasoline. He took me by my vulnerable throat, pressed my leather jacket up against the wall, and I drank of him. I wanted to cry and to spit, but he had his way with all of us underage girls. Don’t worry. We used protection--a brown paper bag to shield us from the law. None of us were spared when his angry father Zeus caught us the next morning. He threw a bolt of wrathful lightening into my head. A punishment for our scandal. Oh, but what good times we had.
“To Dionysus, the God that Comes!”
Blending
Dionysus joined us under the chuppah. Dressed in soft white robes, he wrapped us in his Tallis and sanctified us with his love. Intoxicating. Ecstatic. Holy. There is no sweeter wine than a kindred love. We drank his offering. Smashed the glass. Revelers were swept up into our dance of hope, promise, and spiritual community. Dionysus came to us, but that fickle philanderer did not stay. He whispered to me seductively about distant savannahs, unmet lovers, and the beauty that lay in wait for me down an unmapped road. I left and took his love on the rebound. Sure, he held my hand through the divorce, but now I walk alone.
“To Dionysus, the God that Comes!”
Aging
Dionysus came back to me in the vineyards. Scorching heat. Rocky soil. The leathered hands of migrant workers showed me how to harvest. Dionysus played hide and seek with me amongst the vines. My hands searching underneath lush leaves for his round, firm grapes. Juice running down my arms. Sticky. Sweaty. Abundant. The trick to making good wine isn’t in getting Dionysus to come to you. Believe me, that God gets around. The alchemy of it requires the infusion of patience. Put a cork in it. Be still. Ferment. Let the magic work on it’s own for a bit. For when the time is right, Dionysus will come back to you, bringing all his music, mirth, and madness. Drink deeply friends. Drink deeply.
“To Dionysus, the God that Comes!”
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