After Anna Akhmatova’s I Wrung My Hands:

I wrung my hands pouring this dark ale. . .
“Viscous like oil, what makes you special?”
— Because I have made myself drunk
with an Imperial Stoutness.

I’ll never forget. It poured a massive, thick head;
its mouthful was twisted, biting. . .
I let the bottle warm downstairs, too cold yet for proper tasting,
and once warm tasted it again with the wife.

And surprisingly, drinking: “I marvel at your complexity
and character. A big, potent beer, best shared with others.”
The empty bottle smiled at me — oh so calmly, terribly —
and said: “If you can find me again, buy another.”

After Dylan Thomas’s Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not pick up a sixer of this Cream Ale tonight,
Bad beer should be burned and thrown far, far away;
Rage, rage against the drinking of this blight.

Though wise men at their end know good beer is right,
Because their lips had tasted what a good beer is they
Do not pick up a sixer of this Cream Ale tonight.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
This failed beer should have tasted on a warm day,
Rage, rage against the drinking of this blight.

Wild men who gulped and sipped tasty brews in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved them on their way,
Do not pick up a sixer of this Cream Ale tonight.

Grave men, near death, who drink with blinding sight
No head, no flavor, like a foul macrobrew, not OK,
Rage, rage against the drinking of this blight.

And you, the brewer, there on the sad height,
Curse me no more with your foul brew, I pray.
Do not pick up a sixer of this Cream Ale tonight.
Rage, rage against the drinking of this blight.

After Sir Samuel Ferguson’s Cean Dubh Deelish

Thicken your head, darling, darling, darling,
  Your darling off-white head my lips above;
O mouth of nutty, with hops for fragrance,
  Who, with taste for red ales, could deny you love?

O many and many a 12 oz. bottle for me is waiting,
  Letting its lace of spun wool to the pint glass free,
For many, the foremost of our Boulevard beers;
  But I’d rather a ZŌN, (or Bob’s), for me!

Then dissolves your head, darling, darling, darling,
  Your dissapating off-white head my lips above;
O mouth of nutty, with hops for fragrance,
  Who, with taste for red ales, could deny you love?

After Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
This beer can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Bottle and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most thirsty need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as brewers strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a thirst put to use
In my old griefs, and with my adolescence’s tastes.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of my beer life! — and, if God choose,
I shall drink naught but thee unto death.

After Emily Dickinson’s In snow thou comest

In snow thou comest —
Thou shalt pour oil bubbling from the ground,
The sweet stout of the yeti,
And Glee’s advancing sound.

In fear I drinkest —
Thou shalt go down the pipes at such a gait of joy
This man anew embark to live
Upon the depth of thee.

After Matsuo Bashô’s frog haiku

Rice ale
We drank up
Sound of yum

After Amy Lowell’s Petals

Dogfish is a dream
The best craft brews
Bottle by bottle the nectar of our hearts;
Beer flows like a stream,
Rarely passing our view*,
We watch and wait for the joy they impart.

Heightened brown sugar notes,
Caramel hints bring glee,
They scatter whole leaves of Golding & Liberty;
This widens the scope,
Of what brown ales can be,
Only one shall I know. And the beer as it flows
Sweeps bad times away,
Each one is gone
Ever beyond into infinite ways.
An empty alone stays
While other beers come on,
The Indian Brown fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

*Not distributed in KS or MO. Please someone bring these beers to us!