Italiano
Italiano
There is an email headed Italiano perched in my inbox, where a second reads Spring Grades Due, a third Greetings. I do not believe in clutter. And it seems to me that I can almost picture Italy, its pigeons and piazzas, in that light and airy word. I see the olive groves of childhood with their silver leaves. I see the narrow streets, and there are car horns honking, there’s fresh-baked bread. And flooding through my mind comes Dante’s terza rima, just as bright as when I bent above the cantiche, marking each scribbled margin. I recall proud Farinata rising from his tomb to greet a fellow Tuscan. And the air of that warm land, I feel it now. I see the batch of bread I oversalted, at ten or eleven, and the baker’s smile; I see the singing villages, upon the ridge that is the Apennines, and Rome, and Naples with its washing and the broad sweep of the bay. I see the cypresses and vineyards and the cobblestones. I see each bright Madonna in her niche, above the busy throng who speak that dancing tongue. 5.v.2018 |
I guess I should say what I'm thinking here: would anyone like to post any country poems? A bit Romantic, but then why not after all?
Cheers, John Update: here's an English one. Limpid Pool In England, it is light at 5 a.m., in late June. The cathedrals greet the dawn in Durham, Ely, Lincoln, and the stone is sun-touched and untroubled. All the birds we saw in cases will be singing, and such flowers as appear in June will be at work, at this hour. In the coastal markets, they’ll be unloading fish. The slippery weight of them! Take one home with you, you won’t regret your choice. Along the motorways and byways, early traffic rumbles – past the hedgerows and the lay-bys, past the tall still-sleeping towns, the office blocks and spires – en route from A to B. The corner shops will open soon, as day begins; the sky already is pale blue, and not a planet swims in its limpid pool. I have a hunch it might rain. For the day is long, and none can guarantee the future. Off the coast of England, in the North Sea, in the Channel, or in the broad Atlantic, you will see the shipping ride the sea swell, and the gulls pursue it. Maybe there will come a scrap or morsel fit for eating, in this dawn! Oxford, 1.vii.2016 |
I don't often do this kind of thing but an Oldie comp once triggered a seriously meant tribute to my second home. It came out like this.
ITALY From Leonardo’s distance to the pitch of roofs, from cherry-loping vines to loggias of ease, the shifting shapes of light across this land are proofs that patinas from cultured living still best please; that swelling slope, its Raphael-cypress crest, those sprawling cities skewered by ancient towers whose distant campaniles’ peelings blessed a world, which they bequeathed to rest, with longing at the heart of ours. And scything through its spine and constant mountains, sweep futurist lanes that speed bella figura’s wheels, while elegant design and daring colours leap from every corso’s travertine, so sight appeals to jaded retinas, and with life feeds a longing long remembered from some past in which we’d known what truly fills our needs - joy in human pleasures, that last as long as this land and its deeds. |
Good morning Nigel,
I like this very much. The richness of the vocabulary seems just right for il bel paese, / Ch'Apennin' parte, e'l mar circonda; e l'Alpe. I'm not sure what "cherry-loping vines" are, but I love them already! Cheers, John |
Thank you very much, John. The "cherry-loping vines" are part of some of the more old-fashioned properties in the northern Marche where the remains of the Roman fashion of cultivation survive (as they also do elsewhere in slightly different form, e.g. the Val d'Aosta) in having fruit trees/bushes planted to make early use of the supports for the vines - sometimes anchored on pillars of stones which create mini pergolas. (My little city is actually called Pergola and we are in the middle of cherry country; next stop, up one road, is Morello.)
My compliments too on yours. I especially liked "the busy throng who speak that dancing tongue" and the Auden echoes in your second - especially in your closing lines. |
Nigel, thank you for that fascinating glimpse into the Italian countryside and its Roman survivals. Italy is a youngish country, I guess, but an old countryside.
Glad you enjoyed my stuff. Cheers, John |
Teen Passeggiata
On sultry village nights, teens stroll in silence, sway with subtlety, their rhythms smooth and sensual, this festa da ballo on the square a stately courtship ritual. In cities adolescents pace to hot CDs and chirping phones, and even ancient Napoli hosts lively Fiat promenades on Via Spaccanapoli— like US kids who cruise the aves in Chevy coupes, on Harley hogs, and pause to honk, exchange hellos or pick-up lines—while radios articulate uncertainties. |
Hi Ralph,
I enjoyed that a good deal. Italy seems to fire the imagination! Cheers, John |
Thanks, John. My parents are Sicilian, hence my interest in an argument between Greece and Sicily over who owned the Aphrodite featured at the Getty Museum. My screenplay about that conflict was nearly made into a film by the old United Artists; at least this little poem was actually published!
Double Take My camera’s on the seven feet of Aphrodite.* From Sicily, this goddess wears a placid face above the clinging chiton that tempestuously churns about her— a bold display of power, focused on her rising arm. My little girl stands dwarfed before this force. Demure and tentative, she poses, purses lips to hide her braces, imitates the stance behind her as she takes a step toward me. My zoom lens magnifies this prize: her wave, archaic smile and eyes. *Repatriated to Sicily, March 2011 |
Hi Ralph,
To be the author of a United Artists near-movie is pretty cool. I like the Aphrodite poem as well. :-) Cheers, John |
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