Love's Labors Found

When I was a child, I delighted in writing poetry. As a matter of fact, I was fairly prolific between the ages of 12 and 17. My poems were short, unrhymed, and – as is generally the case with adolescent poetry – sometimes embarrassingly emotive. I took my cues from Cummings, Pound and Williams, with a bit of Morrisey thrown in for maudlin measure. They were my first lessons in complex language, a way to get my teeth around words and explore their evocative contours. Poetry is a form of inner dialogue made public that allows you to compress time and inhabit wicked thoughts.

I shared these little compositions with everyone – friends, teachers, pen pals; I entered competitions and published in school journals. I was careful, however, to keep them from my parents, who labored to unearth autobiographical subtext in each line.

“What does this mean?” they'd ask, clearly worried.

“Nothing, it’s just an image.”

“Why were you standing so close to a fire? I don't want you going to any parties where there are fires.”

“I’m not standing by any fire. The character is standing by the fire.”

“Where was this party? Was Devi there, too? Does Mrs. Dutta know about this?”

Silent consternation.

I was too young to understand postmodernist theory so couldn’t counter with the death of the author and “I” as a construct. Even if I had, it probably wouldn’t have stopped them from saying things like, “Why can’t you write something happy?” to which I would respond with my usual roll of the eyes.

When you are 15, there are many, many things you do not wish to discuss with your parents. Your personal writing is definitely in the top 5.

My fledgling career as a poet ended long ago, some time between college and adulthood, but a story about modern love poems on NPR inspired me to give it another go.

A Sensible Conclusion

I’m just pragmatic about these things
And I am
But I’d be lying if I said
I didn’t miss you
Sometimes
These things don’t work out
You know
It’s not you
Really, it’s me
This is stupid
Let’s be friends again and laugh
Just like old times
For old times’ sake
Let’s raise our glasses
I’m so glad for you
I’m so glad for me
But I’d be lying if I said
It was easy
Being with you
Was cautious madness
Heady confusion
Like loss
Or maybe something like love
I’ll have another Jameson on the rocks
Make that a double
But still
We must be pragmatic about these things
And we are.

I was pleased with the result, although it did confirm that penning cheerful verses is not one of my great talents. Love is a fickle, messy topic, and that’s probably why I write about wine and sake instead. They fill your glass with goodness and don’t leave you feeling sad when they’re gone. The relationships are far less equivocal.

This thought occurred to me as I sipped on one of my new favorite summer whites, Sattlerhof Steirische Klassik ’07 Sauvignon Blanc from Austria.


While I hesitate to use the word “love,” I have discovered a fondness for Austrian wines recently. Sorry, Claire. These light and easy-drinking gems are helping me survive this painfully hot summer. The Sattlerhof was pert and refreshing, brimming with aromas of grapefruit, passion fruit, and verbena. Striking a fine balance between the (at times) aggressively fruity pep of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and the austerity of white Bordeaux, it had bracing acidity that softened toward the finish and a lovely resonance.

We drank this with a dish of tender squid, green beans, and broccoli sautéed with garlic, parsley, and a splash of white wine. As I’d expected, the pairing was fantastic, harmonious and uncomplicated, the way that love should be but usually isn’t.