The Good Nights: Daily Dose of Poetry and Art

The Good Nights: Daily Dose of Poetry and Art

The Wine Glass by Johannes Vermeer
The Wine Glass by Johannes Vermeer

The Good Nights

by Joseph Mills

On the good nights
when the bottle’s empty
we always want
just a little more,
half a glass,
a few sips,
a taste.
We know
this desire
can be dangerous
to pursue,
that it can make
mornings difficult,
so usually we
brush our teeth
let the dog in,
lock the doors,
but sometimes,
even as we say
We really should
get ready for bed,
instead of loading
the dishwasher
we will search
for the corkscrew,
all the while
shaking our heads
in wonder
at this willingness
to ignore the clocks
and the fact we have
to work tomorrow,
this irresponsibility,
this evidence
even after all these years
of the unquenchable desire
for each other’s company.

“The Good Nights” by Joseph Mills from Angels, Thieves, and Winemakers: Wine Poems.

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  • I like this one! Last night I was taking baby and Daddy pictures instead of getting ready for bed. Even as I was doing it, I knew it would put me in bed late, but I didn’t care.

  • Dear Melanie,

    The other day you wrote this to Colleen:

    “Colleen, I’m so glad you’re enjoying it. I’m really liking the discipline of looking at poetry more regularly, revisiting old favorites and finding new poems and new poets. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to sustain it; but I’ll try my best.”

    I so admire all your efforts with this work, and gift, of yours and wonder if I may offer you in thanks the following, which reminds me strongly of the name of your blog, The Wine-Dark Sea:

    “The star-crowned cliffs seem hinged upon the sky,
    The clouds are floating rags across them curled,
    They open to us like the gates of God
    Cloven in the last great wall of all the world.
    But you have clothed with mercy like a moss
    The barren violence of its primal wars,
    Sterile though they be an void of rule,
    You know my shapeless crags have loved the stars
    How shall I thank you, O courageous heart,
    That of this wasteful world you had no fear;
    But bade it blossom in clear faith and sent
    Your fair flower-feeding rivers: even as here
    The peat burns brimming from their cups of stone
    Glow brown and blood-red down the vast decline
    As if Christ stood on yonder clouded peak
    And turned its thousand waters into wine.”

    – lines from the poem, “Glencoe,” by G. K. Chesterton