19 December 2011

Dinner with Strangers and the Old Choko

We dined, that dinner,
on onomatopoeia soup
sweepstakes with gravitas
gamuts of carpathians
sautéed appalachians
fricasseed aspirings
currant fool and sleaze.

The tabletalk — delicious!
heady splenetic methelglyn
barnacle-fed blue comfits
shocklit cake and feacle tart,
apoplectic mead.

A gong, those houri'd hours
of pipes and pans — anon now
as who is you.
The question is:
to me, to you, to meet you,
the plural and the singular —
Friends for a lifetime? once in a lifetime?
Not could we, but should we
break meat at table anniversaring?
Well, I will chance to greet you
dressed for anniversaring,
meet you for the gamuts and onomatopoeia soup,
for tabletalk and catchup.

Let's meet up in the middle of the
corner of the street.
Let's meet on a night like this one,
with darkness as unplumbable
as our deepest friendship,
when black as eye's pupil
the moon drowns
deep as murder in the marshes of the fen.

Let's meet up, my festal friends
deliciously anticipant,
I'll meet you
at half past when.


Lucy said...

You're on, your place or mine?

anna tambour said...

Lucy, that would be wonderful. Seriously, I can count the people I'd love to fest with on little more than the thumb of one hand--you are one. And one very special one. For how many others could say, as you just did, "I disembowelled the last of the medlars listening to Radio 4's dramatisation of Rabelais' Gargantua and Pantagruel, which proved to be hilariously appropriate in a predictably gross-out kind of way."

Not only that, but I was just going to rhapsodise about gateau breton, but you have even made it.
What can I say but, to everyone else: Go here, to Lucy's post Staycation. As for Mol coming down with the vapours at such an inopportune time, maybe they have an internal calendar. We don't even celebrate Christmas, but Rosie managed to time her crisis as if she'd been crossing off the days and hours. 10 pm, Christmas Eve. And the vet actually came. The next year I think he came out of sheer incredulousness. 10 am, New Year's Day. Both were serious nerve attacks, very alarming to see for everyone including the vet, but nothing anyone could cure. Anyway, it's good that Mol only has the type of illness that gets her more attention, but doesn't preclude her tucking into her delights.

Best wishes for a wonderful holiday season, dear creative and thoughtful artist in all senses, and joy-of-a-human-being.