Aidan Semmens
KIDDUSH CUP
how can I kiss your dust? I am your dust
for every new song you can find an old tune
there are things it should never be possible to know
the vanishing point where the lines converge
recedes steadily, always keeping its distance
in the unmeasurable past where
scraping at hints of what may have been
we find scraps of evidence
for the unimaginable
the wine for example is not red but pale amber
so no blood is drunk even symbolically
the drops make no lasting stain as the cup overflows
almost never does a diary contain
literary experiments of a technical or stylistic nature
like a photograph it gathers the weight and authority
of reality; neither wisdom nor prayer
will help when the harvest fails
ten gouts are dipped from the glass
while another grand chalice stands
awaiting the anticipated harbinger
some interpret the covering of the challah
allegorically; there are different customs
covering sitting or standing
we find ourselves among the smell
of things we’re not used to seeing
the passage of time calculated
by the possibility of food
every evening our shoes are confiscated
but with weeping you pay no debts
neither with cursing nor with laughter
can the world be remade
the element of optimism is present
in the smoking of the factory chimney
in linen boots at the vintage season
the grapes are trodden
to separate the good from the impure
all I have lived through until this moment
was normality; we had nothing
yet lacked for nothing
all I should like to have is plenty to eat
at each drink of four one takes
more than half a cup
each containing liquid
equal to one and a half eggs
there is little sure knowledge
of what is happening and opinions vary –
who are any of us after all?
a man is only human
and sometimes not even that
I will eat the carrots as I harvest them
and never go far from my garden
this is not the moment for adventure
these abandoned courtyards a symbol
of danger not of freedom
the goblets incorporate saucers
to catch the spillage in which
the carefully braided candles
must be extinguished
the next goal is to defeat the winter
I shall cook potatoes and millet
which I have never eaten before
today I managed to win a third soup
while outside someone was burning
and I saw the men look away
we hold the orphaned books
in hands grimy with their smell
this is an old city once known I am told
for its chemical works and leather goods
before the people were taken away
the vineyards reached to the hilltop
where the thicket and woods
have reclaimed the earth
we have many sicknesses but amnesia
is not one of them
though we have been left with nothing
but the letters of our alphabet
on a muddy island in the river
fringed by a tangle of reeds
a tribe of stones stands mouldering
the desire to write is strong
as the repugnance of words
it is an obligation to remember
with neither cursing nor laughing
what once would have been unimaginable
take note of this document
for it contains important material
no one hears the cracking of the glass
or affects not to hear;
it is winter and no one knows
if it will ever be spring
how can I kiss your dust? I am your dust
for every new tune there is an old song
Copyright Aidan Semmens 2014
This poem is a version of what appear as four shorter pieces in Aidan Semmens's latest collection, Uncertain Measures, to be published by Shearsman Books in October 2014. Previous publications are A Stone Dog (Shearsman 2011) and The Book of Isaac (Parlor Press / Free Verse 2013). Aidan Semmens is the editor of this website.