Click to see the following: (1) my web page, (2) my publication list in Judaic studies and literature, (3) my publication list in mathematics.
Beer Poems from the Winter of 2002
by
Richard S. Ellis
Every Friday
afternoon my colleagues and I meet at a pub called Rafters to discuss the past
week’s events over beer. In conjunction
with this custom, during the winter of 2002 I wrote five beer poems. The first is a ditty; the second celebrates our favorite brew, Otter Creek Copper Ale; the third is postmodern; the fourth and best poem,
entitled "Brewed in an Abbey Near Antwerp," is based on true events;
and the fifth is a verse-cum-quiz.
Beer is a drink
That won’t help you think.
Nor will it open your eyes
To what is true and wise.
Beer is a brew
That helps you get through.
Drink, and you’ll rise
Above UMass to the skies.
Forget the true and the wise.
Isn’t this your deepest desire:
To rise above the muck and mire?
If so, join the guys.
The Origin of Otter
Creek Copper Ale
During the Biblical Week of Creation
On day six, when God did man create,
God sought for him the perfect mate.
Soul, flesh, heart, bone God did
interweave
To form the woman man called Eve.
On day six, when man did celebrate
The gift to him of the perfect mate,
Joyously man did crown the week
With the perfect nectar, Otter
Creek.
It’s
Friday. Throat dry.
Chalky
hands. Why do I
Work
so hard? Email overflowing.
Where
am I going?
The
world is rushing past
At
the speed of light.
Did
last week last
An
hour? It’s nearly night.
Ah.
Escape is here.
Rafters.
Friends. Beer.
Brewed in an Abbey Near Antwerp
The beer danced on my tongue.
But the mussels were rancid.
Their jagged hook of nausea
yanked me from sleep.
After a few hours it passed.
The beer, brewed in an abbey near Antwerp,
danced on my tongue like light on ice.
But the mussels were rancid.
Their jagged hook of nausea yanked me from
sleep.
I lay in bed. My wife read to me from The New York Times.
After a few hours it passed.
The beer, brewed in an abbey near Antwerp
that harbored 3 Jews and a Communist during the war,
danced on my tongue like light on the ice
thawing from my window.
But the mussels were rancid.
Their jagged hook of nausea yanked me from
sleep.
As I crouched over the toilet bowl puking,
my wife held my hand and stroked the back
of my head.
I lay in bed. She read to
me from The New York Times.
After a few hours it passed.
That afternoon, just before the movie began,
a man wheelchaired into the theatre
a woman, all bones, no hair, coughing.
His mother or his wife - it was too dark
to see.
He lifted the woman, her arms clinging to
his neck,
and placed her on the seat in front of me.
And kissed her.
That too is love.
How
many times does “beer” appear in this poem?
Before I write another verse,
expressing, via beer, the universe,
everyone forgive me. I must
rest.
But Bach arouses me from slumber,
expressing, in e-flat minor,
episodes of my secret life.
Rapture.
Emptiness. Strife.
Before I write another verse,
expressing, via beer, the universe,
excellent Bach, I rejoice with thee.
Rejoice in discord and in harmony.