Beer Poetry From The Brewpub Poets Society
A Collection of Original Poems Devoted to Beer
Dec 19, 2008
Beer Poetry
In the 1990’s, as the American microbrewing renaissance was gaining traction, a group --very loosely patterned after the Algonquin Round Table*** -- gathered in a brewpub in Charlotte, North Carolina. The Brewpub Poets Society attempted to capture a bit of the social and political climate of the times…but actually was much more effective at celebrating the conviviality of beer.
For a taste of the –ahem- journalistic talents of this random collection of tipplers, here is a sampling of original works for your reading pleasure.
Come Join Us
If you are a poet, but are loathe to show it,
To hell with all propriety.
Just pen some curses in metered verses
and send to the Pub Poets Society!
The King and His Quart
We invoke the spirit of King Gambrinus
To weave enchantment ‘twixt and ‘tween us
As we sup our fill on flesh of beast
And bib aplenty on broth of yeast
Gently inspired by the barley’s ghost,
Blessings on the brewer and the publican host
Accidental Barfly
It ain’t the beer that brings ‘er here,
She wants you to believe.
But once the nectar begins to affect ‘er,
She never wants to leave.
The Volstead Act 1, Scene 2
‘tis not an impropriety
I assure the prohibitionist society.
But with restrained hilarity
And well intentioned jocularity
I blow foam in the face of sobriety!
…And Put a Head on it!
Hey bartender, gimme a brew
-and I don’t mean coffee or tea.
These pedestrian drinks may suit the rest,
But beer is the drink for me!
A Beer Lover’s Oath
No matter how much they mock us,
Slander and demean us
The proselytes of Bacchus
Shall never come between us.
And when they fail to defrock us
Disciples of Gambrinus,
The followers of Bacchus
Will wish that they had been us.
Bathtub Suds
I’m just a humble homebrewer, I’ve got no shiny copper.
I only brew five gallons a batch –just boil ‘er up and hop ‘er.
No foil labels, no fancy caps, just plain glass bottle and stopper;
I pay no tax, I just brew and relax…then grab a beer and pop ‘er!
Dumbfounded
Of barley, hops, yeast and water I concoct a malty mosaic.
It's mystical powers both numbs my thoughts and renders my words prosaic.
Drawing Pints and Blanks
Armed with bare necessities as I begin to write my epistle
A quill, a scroll, some Indian ink…and an ale to wet my whistle.
A scribble here, an erasure there, and a sip of ale ‘fore and aft,
Tisn’t but a little while –I’m into a second draught.
The blackness of the inkwell inspires me to a porter
Quatrains and pentameters are soon found out of order.
The candle is growing shorter, my mind is wondering about,
Shall I light another candle or pour myself a stout?
The room is growing darker, my pen can write no wrong;
Pint glass is fully empty and in need of ale that is strong.
Still, mind and parchment, equally blank; of inspiration I am in need.
Pint glass is traded for mazer, filled with a honey-mead.
Staring into an empty cup, I fear a prompt dismissal.
I’d hope to write, perhaps to teach –and now I can’t even whistle!*** In the 1920’s a group of quasi-famous American writers, critics and actors gathered on a regular basis at the Algonquin Hotel in New York City. Anchored by the very quotable Dorothy Parker and Harold Ross, these folks were widely known for their incisive wit and snappy repartee. The commentary and witticisms that emanated from what was known as the Algonquin Round Table was regarded as one of the best social barometers of that era.
