In my cellar I had wine
and memories
waiting to mature or turn
to vinegar.
I bottled summer. Winter, Wind.
Whispered voices.
I waited for my wine to peak —
until too late
cause shelves
are dust and mildew —
a cellar turned to prison.
Cellar Interior by Jan Hendrik Weissenbruch
A third entry for the quadrille at dVerse.
January 17, 2017
Björn Rudbergs writings 
Ha! Sounds like my mother, saving things for the future, until it’s too late and they go off (not just foodstuff). But I like the parallels between wine and memories. This could be the start of a longer poem, it feels to me.
You’re on a roll, Björn, I haven’t seen the second one yet!
I like this poem very much. You’ve captured the atmosphere of a cellar, kind of wistful – a place that isn’t part of the household as such and is only visited from tiem to time to fetch wine. I love the lines:
‘I bottled summer. Winter, Wind.
Whispered voices.’
and then that tragic turn in the second stanza.
I liked the phrase: “memories
waiting to mature or turn
to vinegar” It looks like memories could go either way.
I’m all wrapped up in the title, which sounds like “sell her interior.” So now I’m thinking about what that would be like, if you could buy and sell a woman’s soul. Then there’s some whining hiding in the body of the poem, which makes me wonder if maybe the speaker realizes he shouldn’t have sold her in the first place. I’m pretty sure he regrets it now. I also see a bit of a madness/horror story unfolding, with the guy hiding out down below until he drives himself crazy with thirst. I’m also thinking about a father selling his daughter to another man, but then later wishing he had her back.
“I bottled summer. Winter, Wind.
Whispered voices.”
LOVE. So much beauty here. And yes, the “saving” of things can become our own “slaving,” can’t it?
This is soo very beautiful! Love your images here 🙂
I love the idea of bottling them ~ Then sharp contrast on the second stanza, a tragedy, when it becomes a prison ~
Lovely imagery of bottled memories in the cellar: “I bottled summer. Winter, Wind.
Whispered voices.”
Then the wistfulness and regret of holding them, but waiting too long to open them.
Oh no…a whispered wait of no consequence.
At first it seems such a divinely inspired idea to bottle Summer, but then it turns tragic when it’s wasted way….held too long that it spoils before it’s enjoyed. Great contrasts here, Bjorn.
Oh dear! Yet I love the idea of bottling summer etc.