"arno" poems
At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ...
When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding ...
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno ...
Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.
And you think:
"The swallows are flying so late!"
Swallows?
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop ...
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.
Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio ...
Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Bats!
Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!
Not for me!
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Venezia, its musical key of brick and shade
And the canals in rejoining polyphony
Sweeten the dour Church-ear.
From the impasto knife and loose brushwork,
A thumb-smear of waves and gently-bristled strife
Rise to assumption of the cloud-submerged bay,
Mural of cristallo, only-light without landscape,
Made too from the winds of Murano,
Its clayed blowpipe of waterways molding
The lagoon of blown glass and bouquet of colored sea-shadows.
The Tiber lies on its side, like the lion and fox,
Licking its paws at empire’s dust,
A drifting gaze of water that already foresees
The swift-run northward to Romagna,
Where the veined fur of the roe will succumb…
A ripple twitches like one dark claw of the Borgia…
The watercolors of the Arno are a fresco
On the wet plaster of the lips of Firenze, Tuscan fire-dream.
Or like the warring leg in curve of counterpoise,
Sprung foot-forward to the daring world
And arm slung down in stone-victory
From this valley, too much like Elah,
With taunting eyes turned from the Medici toward Rome.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
Fill for me a brimming bowl
And in it let me drown my soul:
But put therein some drug, designed
To Banish Women from my mind:
For I want not the stream inspiring
That fills the mind with--fond desiring,
But I want as deep a draught
As e'er from Lethe's wave was quaff'd;
From my despairing heart to charm
The Image of the fairest form
That e'er my reveling eyes beheld,
That e'er my wandering fancy spell'd.
In vain! away I cannot chace
The melting softness of that face,
The beaminess of those bright eyes,
That breast--earth's only Paradise.
My sight will never more be blest;
For all I see has lost its zest:
Nor with delight can I explore,
The Classic page, or Muse's lore.
Had she but known how beat my heart,
And with one smile reliev'd its smart
I should have felt a sweet relief,
I should have felt ''the joy of grief.''
Yet as the Tuscan mid the snow
Of Lapland dreams on sweet Arno,
Even so for ever shall she be
The Halo of my Memory.
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I.
The corn has turned from grey to red,
Since first my spirit wandered forth
From the drear cities of the north,
And to Italia’s mountains fled.
And here I set my face towards home,
For all my pilgrimage is done,
Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun
Marshals the way to Holy Rome.
O Blessed Lady, who dost hold
Upon the seven hills thy reign!
O Mother without blot or stain,
Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!
O Roma, Roma, at thy feet
I lay this barren gift of song!
For, ah! the way is steep and long
That leads unto thy sacred street.
II.
And yet what joy it were for me
To turn my feet unto the south,
And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole!
And wandering through the tangled pines
That break the gold of Arno’s stream,
To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines
By many a vineyard-hidden home,
Orchard and olive-garden grey,
Till from the drear Campagna’s way
The seven hills bear up the dome!
III.
A pilgrim from the northern seas—
What joy for me to seek alone
The wondrous temple and the throne
Of him who holds the awful keys!
When, bright with purple and with gold
Come priest and holy cardinal,
And borne above the heads of all
The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
O joy to see before I die
The only God-anointed king,
And hear the silver trumpets ring
A triumph as he passes by!
Or at the brazen-pillared shrine
Holds high the mystic sacrifice,
And shows his God to human eyes
Beneath the veil of bread and wine.
IV.
For lo, what changes time can bring!
The cycles of revolving years
May free my heart from all its fears,
And teach my lips a song to sing.
Before yon field of trembling gold
Is garnered into dusty sheaves,
Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves
Flutter as birds adown the wold,
I may have run the glorious race,
And caught the torch while yet aflame,
And called upon the holy name
Of Him who now doth hide His face.
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The oleander on the wall
Grows crimson in the dawning light,
Though the grey shadows of the night
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.
The dew is bright upon the hill,
And bright the blossoms overhead,
But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
The little Attic song is still.
Only the leaves are gently stirred
By the soft breathing of the gale,
And in the almond-scented vale
The lonely nightingale is heard.
The day will make thee silent soon,
O nightingale sing on for love!
While yet upon the shadowy grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.
Before across the silent lawn
In sea-green vest the morning steals,
And to love’s frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn
Fast climbing up the eastern sky
To grasp and slay the shuddering night,
All careless of my heart’s delight,
Or if the nightingale should die.
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Dear Florence,
I remember the day I first saw you. I swear that is the only time I ever believed in ‘love at first sight’. You were as calm as the meditating soul. Your passing wind soothed my beating heart.
In that first ride to my new house, I knew. I knew you were going to be my home. I knew you would mend all of my aching slits, stitch after stitch. Each day you bestowed me with a new beautiful day to inspire me, to metamorphose me, even more poetically than the phoenix rising from its ashes.
I knew, one day, I would say goodbye. Chasing your dreams can sometimes be a painful journey. I knew leaving you would shatter my soul into little pieces, strewed all around your streets and alleys and piazzas and bridges. But dear Florence, you deserve so much more than my little-scattered pieces.
As I say goodbye, pondering over the Santa Trinita bridge, I become forever yours. The joys you have given me, the memories of which will wander along through all my journeys. My sorrows, the memories of the flowing Arno river will always wash away.
So, as I leave this place, I request you to take care of me. For ‘the me as I know it’ has become ‘the me as I knew it’. I am leaving behind this version of me for it is only in your shadows did she glow bright. Let your pink skies continue to set away all my anxieties. Let your rising blues continue to give me hope. Let the shining gold, always guide my heart home, just like the Duomo always guides us in its warm embrace. Let your ringing bells, help me rise every time I stumble. Let your art, keep my imagination flowing and let your symmetry create order in my life. Let your changing skies give me strength and inspire me to never stop, come what may.
Take care of me when I am gone. Just like you have over the past year.
Forever yours,
The girl who never really left.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
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Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
III
Qual in colle aspro, al imbrunir di sera
L’avezza giovinetta pastorella
Va bagnando l’herbetta strana e bella
Che mal si spande a disusata spera
Fuor di sua natia alma primavera,
Cosi Amor meco insu la lingua snella
Desta il fior novo di strania favella,
Mentre io di te, vezzosamente altera,
Canto, dal mio buon popol non inteso
E’l bel Tamigi cangio col bel Arno
Amor lo volse, ed io a l’altrui peso
Seppi ch’ Amor cosa mai volse indarno.
Deh! foss’ il mio cuor lento e’l duro seno
A chi pianta dal ciel si buon terreno.
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I have lived a full life,
Brimming with beauty,
Overflowing with adventure.
I have seen the Arno,
Draped in fire and light.
I have sailed into the burning sea
And felt it's heat from mountaintops.
I have seen heavenly waters,
So distant and close.
I have watched Apollo fly arrows
Back at his huntress twin.
Yet none of these can compare
To the glint in my true loves eyes.
In it I see my past all at once
And our future sprawled ahead.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC
From the first, the fluid-filled sacs of stars,
The yolk of yellow lightning and oily rain,
Then the placental storm, birth-giver of roads and oxen loads,
Witch towers made from silk hair and the peasant sucklings of plague,
Whelped there by the milk of the river Arno, by turns pacified or stern.
The Dark Ages is a storm nesting in the sky, built by posthumous stares,
Piece by piece, a raven’s birth from eyes and saliva of roads and rivers.
Of the woman who gave birth, the sway of leaves where once fell hair,
Only her lips hover in the air of warm sun,
Like a fountain in the bare palace courtyard
Suspiring, flowing, extolling…
Jun 1, 2020
Jun 1, 2020 at 7:16 PM UTC
When all is said and done
And I'm tucked into the blanket fort alone
I think of you
And I think if only I could write
The perfect love poem
The most perfect love poem
Then finally
I could reach you
Maybe
If I learned to write
I could show you how
I see you
And how everything about you is
Beautiful
Things are so hard right now
I
t r y
t o
g i v e
y o u
s p a c e
But
I
miss
you
...
Today I fell asleep dreaming of you
And
Then
**** 11:30
And I
Rushed rushed rushed rushed rushed
Nearly falling down
To get to
my phone
To get back
to
you
And my heart
Sank when I
I saw that
you were
crying
alone
;_;
You thought I didn't care
You thought I was punishing you
You thought I was teaching you a lesson
You thought I was like all the others that hurt you
But did you know how I cradled my phone all day?
Hoping against hope you might ask me to go to you?
Did you know how many times I looked at your pictures?
And fantasized about sitting outside your door just in case you woke up and missed me?
How my heart
And my lips
And my tears
Lingered on the last happy emoji you sent?
Did you know it was at 3:57pm on Friday and that it looked like this?
[emoji][emoji]
Did you know how many times I thought of you while you were sleeping?
How much I wanted to hold you in my arms
and breathe with you quietly
so you would know you were loved?
Did you know how devastating it was
To wake
And find I'd
disappointed, hurt
and lost more of your trust
while I wasn't even conscious?
These walls...
The emotional ones
The lock on your front gate
The force field around your room
This distance between us
The imagined sleights
The miles
They are
not us
We are us
When we're together
When we intertwine our fingers
When we share silly stories
When we play and laugh
When we sing...
When we live
and grow
and learn
together
I
haven't
seen
you
for
four
days
now.
They've been so empty without you
Every day without you is the
loneliest
But I hold myself at night
And cry my tears
put on a smile
so you'll think
that I'm okay
Because
If you think
I'm sad there
might be
more
walls
or
m o r e
d i s t a n c e
and
I'm
dying
watching
y o u
s l i p
a w a y . . .
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 3:51 AM UTC
For a moment,
All I could see was the water--
At night, the lights embedded along the surface--
Shining as jewels.
The air is cold, the kind that kisses the breath of covered mouths
And gifts my own with truly visible spirit of hot air, rising into an empty night.
She's with me here--the most beautiful moment in the world cannot exist without it.
That feeling of love, warms every streetlight along the Arno
Every whistle along the Danube
They all sing, shine, in dance for you.
The years that built those piazza,
The generations who smiled upon the cathedrals
The God who lived and died
To bring us right here,
Toe to toe,
Cheek to cheek,
Lip to lip
Two souls, tangled in the vines
And drunk of its fruits
May we find love in these streets,
On these banks
Rich with the feelings
Of all those who set their feet
To the tune of these sweet winter nights.
Dec 27, 2019
Dec 27, 2019 at 6:02 PM UTC
I can't recall
what you played for me
on the piano that day;
your parents we're out
and you had invited me
to tea.
I sat and listened
as you played,
noticing how you swayed
as you played.
After we went out
in the garden
and lay on the grass.
You talked of Florence
and the River Arno
and the art
and the postcard
you sent me.
I told you my book
was soon to be published
and I would dedicate to you.
But that was of no
real importance to me.
It was you
and your nearness
that occupied my mind.
It seemed odd;
like an illness,
yet I called it love,
love of you.
"But you don't know me,"
you said.
"I feel not know;
what can knowledge
do of love?"
I said.
You spoke
of Shakespeare's lilies.
I breathed you in
as you lay there;
drank each aspect of you
into my mind and heart.
We kissed:
a long kiss.
Then you took my hand
and we left the garden
and climbed the stairs.
You were breathing hard
as if you and I had raced
the fields and hills.
We kissed again
by your bed
and we began
to undress.
A car drew up
in the drive.
"They are back;
my parents,"
you whispered
anxiously.
We dressed hurriedly,
and sat back on the sofa
just as they came in.
Your father nodded
and went to the kitchen,
your mother came past us
with that knowing grin.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC