SubscribeThis song of mine
Is a Song of the Vine,
To be sung by the glowing embers
Of wayside inns,
When the rain begins
To darken the drear Novembers.
It is not a song
Of the Scuppernong,
From warm Carolinian valleys,
Nor the Isabel
And the Muscadel
That bask in our garden alleys.
Nor the red Mustang,
Whose clusters hang
O'er the waves of the Colorado,
And the fiery flood
Of whose purple blood
Has a dash of Spanish bravado.
For richest and best
Is the wine of the West,
That grows by the Beautiful River;
Whose sweet perfume
Fills all the room
With a benison on the giver.
And as hollow trees
Are the haunts of bees,
For ever going and coming;
So this crystal hive
Is all alive
With a swarming and buzzing and humming.
Very good in its way
Is the Verzenay,
Or the Sillery soft and creamy;
But Catawba wine
Has a taste more divine,
More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy.
There grows no vine
By the haunted Rhine,
By Danube or Guadalquivir,
Nor on island or cape,
That bears such a grape
As grows by the Beautiful River.
Drugged is their juice
For foreign use,
When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic,
To rack our brains
With the fever pains,
That have driven the Old World frantic.
To the sewers and sinks
With all such drinks,
And after them tumble the mixer;
For a poison malign
Is such Borgia wine,
Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.
While pure as a spring
Is the wine I sing,
And to praise it, one needs but name it;
For Catawba wine
Has need of no sign,
No tavern-bush to proclaim it.
And this Song of the Vine,
This greeting of mine,
The winds and the birds shall deliver
To the Queen of the West,
In her garlands dressed,
On the banks of the Beautiful River.
4.48 is the time most suicides take place. 4.48 Psychosis takes us into the mind of one of the most talented writers of the past decade. Bombarded with imagery, chaotic streams of thought collide with free-form verse. Dealing with a society trying to medicate her out of anxiety, ADD, Depression; a world that did not understand her love of another woman, and the absence of true friendship, Sarah Kane leads us to the edge of life itself.
Over-the-Rhine is the largest collection of 19th century architecture in the country.It's an anomaly. A strange juxtaposition to the shiny office spaces south of the old canal (Central Parkway). A foothill to the University of Cincinnati. But make no mistake, it's ghetto. The battle for gentry continues. I don't know of a declared winner, but that itself is of interest. There is flux. Anyone who enjoys being in the midst of a story can make a good day of OTR.
posted by fixedgear at 2:58 AM on February 15, 2005