it’s a mead hall time of year with me
with cravings for smoked shadows
salt crystalled cod and clove mulled wine
crisp partridge and roast deer
the heart strong wild of bear…
for I must taste strong flavors
touch sweat from sharp stone walls
smooth splinters roughed in pine
drip tallow on my palm
watch dust motes drift in shafts of light
hear sighs of sea-born rain
gnaw shreds of happiness
from bones of memory.
Bonnie Marshall
Art by Julian Beever
Proem... 
Bonnie, this is a beautifully crafted poem and I can almost taste the elements of this “mead hall time of year”. Out of curiosity do you see an image that moves you and then attempt to write the poem or do you write the poem and then pick the image?
Well, thank you, Malcolm. Almost always the idea or image is first and then sometimes I spend HOURS looking for the right photo or painting. This one began before a fireplace.
my god, this is sharp! ouch!
I’m so pleased you think so, Ward. Many, many thanks.
it’s the sort of thing Rimbaud called a “débandade de parfums” — a riot of perfumes. excellently done.
Oh, my. You are a gracious poet.
Exactly❕😎
You take us to such interesting places Bonnie….I’m well fed and toasty warm now
Glad to hear it, Jana! You’re welcome any time, yet you know that. B
Well done Bonnie. I didn’t see this before. >KB
Thank you, KB. I don’t think I would have written this in July.
Appreciate the complexity and depth, good read 🔨✔🎳💥
And I value your reading and comment…very much. Smiles…
I read this with relish!
I’m pleased to know this, John. Smiles…
A feast.
I recall it was enjoyable to write. Thank you.
Rich in every way. A heart strong wild bear of a poem.
Beautifully worded comment, Chris. Much appreciated.
Beever’s painting is so interesting, and you have caught the feeling of the barren, gray studio, which would make one want to be in a mead hall. two fine works of art.
Thanks for noticing, for I hoped they’d reinforce each other. Smiles…
A life culled from “bones of memory.” Bonnie, you craft complete dimensions in this poem. It resonates with life even if that life is long past.
This is an early poem I dust off in the winter, Sharon. Soothes me. Glad you like it, too.