Corsica, oh my Corsica,
Corsica of a thousand charms,
Corsica of whose fragrance
I can distinguish from France.
I delight in your coat of arms,
with an image the replica
of an emancipated man.
You were my childhood paradise,
in your gardens I played and ran.
Your shores inspired delightful tales
of a land fortified by whales.
Oh Corsica, my Corsica,
I long to inhabit your shores,
to flee Hudson's punitive laws.
There never was a land so dear
as this idyllic island rare.
France did value thee at a price,
and Genoa prospered from thy sale.
Corsica, oh my Corsica,
shall I ever see thee again?
or will my longing be in vain?
Oh, how I love thee Corsica,
heal my protracted home sickness
like a tender loving mistress.

There was a young lady of Corsica,
Who purchased a little brown saucy-cur;
Which she fed upon ham,
And hot raspberry jam,
That expensive young lady of Corsica.

Fougères en Corse

Petits, elles nous faisaient peur par leurs frémissements,
sous la caresse du vent et par leur tournoiement,
de vert sombre et de senteurs acres de rivière.
Elles nous paraissaient animées d'une vie mystérieuse,
de landes, de lutins et d'enfants disparus ou dérobés,
Ces fougères nous les nommions : «Fizères».
Elles étaient pour nous source d'effroi et de maléfices,
Jamais nous n'aurions consentis à nous perdre dans l’ondulements de leurs vagues vertes, sous peine d'être aspirées par un magnétisme maléfique,
et devenir prisonniers de leurs immensités feuillues.
En automne, leurs couleurs se transformaient en dorées et en feux,
comme une chevelure rousse déployée ou la robe du renard roux, si vif.
Et quand le vent souffle, leurs feuilles font grand bruissement,
comme les tuyaux d'orgue d'une nature en remuement.
Alors les elfes et les esprits des défunts
Semblent s'en donner à cœur joie au-dessus la rivière «Catena»,
Et même les châtaigniers massifs semblent comme entraînés par le vent dans cette sarabande moins réglée que celle d'Haendel.

Paul Arrighi

Ive known you for approximately 6209.1225 days
Which is equivalent to 17 years
When people think of love,
they never consider the bond between a sister
and her
twin.
Its a God given best friend
a pal for life,
someone who will always have your back,
the yin to my yang,
my better half,
While you may be bullheaded and stubborn,
I can be quite openminded and forgiving
and between the two
we balance out,
we make an equilibrium.
It's me and you against the world
from Beanie babies to paychecks,
from ice cream trucks to a Corsica,
It was me and you
all along.
Even if our Mother made a million mistakes
I have to thank her for giving birth to the other half of my heart.
I know Ill never be alone because
you're always right there by my side.

If you were an ice cream flavor,
you'd be the 2/3 of Neopolitan that doesn't include vanilla—
and I'm not just saying that because I love chocolate and you don't.
And if you were a city,
you'd be Corsica: you're Italian and, I don't know anything about Corsica but
It sounds nice
Sounds like gorgeous coastal sunsets (or is it sunrises?)
And if you were a street
you'd be 2250 West – the distant street I grew up on.
You're both familiar, short, and I could spend all day just watching you,
running up and down you,
laying up late at night, watching stars with you.
If you were ribbon,
I'd be your present; I'd tie your ankles behind my waist in the most beautiful bow
and on Christmas morning, you'd be the only gift I wanted to open.
I'd wake up early and try to peek without unwrapping you entirely.

In seventeen sixty nine a child was born
in Corsica, Genoa's former vassal state.
Prior to his birth, his land had been war-torn,
Paoli's resistance did his birth predate.

At school, his geometrical talent was inborn,
and he was tutored by none other than Laplace.
For his accent, his peers at school laughed him to scorn,
but fortune would elevate him from grass to grace.

With his much older heartthrob he tied the knot;
much to the chagrin of his own dear family.
For the heart of Josephine he relentlessly fought,
and at Chateau de Malmaison they lived happily.

Later he would choose a military career
that would take him beyond the Corsican frontier.
France's revolution saw to his glorious rise,
when at Toulon, he took royalists by surprise.

To Egypt he led a dual expedition
of a military and scientific mission.
To France he returned and sacked the directory,
taking charge of the affairs of state and treasury.

Europe did contend with him in seven coalitions;
at Austerlitz he subjugated two nations,
at Marengo, Austria on her bended knees fell,
at Jena-Auerstadt, Prussia to victory bade farewell.

At Borodino, Russia met her nemesis,
as her vanquished forces saw their paralysis.
At Ligny, Blucher like a beaten canine fled
with the terribly smitten forces he once led.

Portugal's sovereign lord to distant Brazil ran,
when like an invincible lord he came to his realm.
The emperor he feared, and made no military plan;
thus he paved the way for him to ascend his helm.

But despite his triumphs, his weakness was exposed.
At Rolica, his troops a major set back saw.
From Leipzig he did to Elba's island withdraw,
from whence in 1815 he returned unopposed.

Russia's wintry plains did his grand armee deplete,
making his troops vulnerable to a future defeat.
After the famous battles in which he gloried,
his great ambition at Waterloo was buried.

Nel più alto punto
dove scienza è oblìo d'ogni sapere
e certezza, mi dicono,
certezza irrefutabile venuta incontro

o nel tempo appeso a un filo
d'un riacquisto d'infanzia,

tra sonno e veglia, tra innocenza e colpa,

dove c'è e non c'è opera nostra voluta e scelta.

"La salute della mente
è là" dice una voce
con cui contendo da anni,
una voce che ora è di sirena.

Si naviga tra Sardegna e Corsica.
C'è un po' di mare
e la barca appruata scarricchia.
L'equipaggio dorme. Ma due
vegliano nella mezzaluce della plancia.
È passato agosto; Siamo alla rottura dei tempi.
È una notte viva.
Viva più di questa notte,
viva tanto da serrarmi la gola
è la muta confidenza
di quelli che riposano
si curi in mano d'altri
e di questi che non lasciano la manovra e il calcolo

mentre pregano per i loro uomini in mare
da un punto oscuro della costa, mentre arriva
dalla parte del Rodano qualche raffica.

Napoleon Bonaparte
1769 Corsica is where he got his start
One of the greatest commanders in history
His manner of death a 200-year-old mystery

Napoleon played it close to the vest
With his armies he was always the best
But 'twas nothing he could do
When he met his Waterloo
Lived his last few years under house arrest

Napoleon drank the water and headed for the loo
He did nothing different than you or I could ever do
Be kind to your skin and protect your bone-a-parts
Remember that's where good hygiene starts!

I
God Nine ***** his thumb—
the one with the garish topaz ring.
Even if you don’t know where to start,
you can pick him out of the circle.
Look behind each one’s ear till you find the tattoo.

II
Showing off to junior high school girls,
the skater fell
before he could commence the final turn
of his figure eight.
God grabbed his blade.

III
God prefers nine
The small girl watches traffic passing her house.
She estimates, in her childish way, the incidence
of accidents at one in five thousand fourteen cars.
On the bare, smoking engine block of the most recent wreck
she reads the serial number: G-O-D-9.

IV
We can train a hungry pigeon to scratch out anything—
God,
Lagomorph,
9—
given enough sunflower seeds and horses

V
The first thing I taught my son
was knitting. Then he learned God.
After that he was on his own.
He never could spell “Charles” (C-H-A-L),
and counted “... 6, 7, 8, 10.”

VI
In Corsica, they write the number ‘9’ on its side
to confuse it with ‘6’.
This pleases the Barbary apes, though
god knows the tin whistles are loud enough.


VII
... a hail of symbols. The stir-crazy physicist
hung from the groaning lower bough of the ash
pelting us all with umlauts and nines, shying
plomets, as the Herr Gott
sings through fibre optic cable.

VIII
Answer: God takes tin and fishbones.
Theme: the best inzulation against disappointment
in love.
Query: 9, as a hat with a lost finger?


IX
9> God< Opera > Charles < 9.
Which I hate, being left-handed —
I drag the flat of my hand across the tail.
The wet ink blackens the clean page.
And no, I will resist pencil unto death

Went to stay in London when I was but a child
Stayed with my Aunty Betty always a bit wild
Put me in a bedroom that smelt of soap and lace
Decorated in liliac, that was the latest taste.
Sat in the front room overlooking the street
Books on the painters displayed very neat
Listened to the classics,  music I'd never heard
Sipped percolated coffee, never said a word.

By the grand piano a table of pretty shells
A collection from holidays in Corsica and Wales
Where there was a fireplace stood a new gas fire
Above it a reprint of Van Gogh's sunflowers
Lunch in the kitchen with a room filled with light
Yellow painted walls to keep everything bright
Plastic chairs from Heels the strings made a ridge
Susie Cooper tea cups soup with crusty bread.

Salad in a basket black pepper to add
Ice cream for pudding I was really glad
Ate all my dinner then to the garden went
Under the Willow together on a creeky bench
Wondered round the garden, listened to church bells
Thought this an unusual life no children to tell
I loved my Aunty Betty the stories she would spell
Of places on Greek Islands, her boyfriend as well.

John was a teacher, literature of course
He wrote lengthy poems and took photographs
They went to the theatre the ballet and special films
They lived not together but an hours dream
John in the country Betty in the town
Was simply perfect for them to get around
I looked at all her photos when Betty was young
The ones with her sister who also was my mum.
Although they were different alike in many ways
They both chose the sweet life but felt the other's sway
My mother had two children with little money to spare
Betty had not got any so that made her rare.

They both died at eighty their influence great
Thank you Grace and Betty you both have your place.


Love Mary daughter and niece **

The Librium sun slides its hand slowly up my thigh, and beyond
as I pan out to see the day has tipped in our favour

Rosé clinks and frittata stuffed mouths
scrambling to get to the punchline
Everyone I love is here, and you
digging your heels into the Corsica sand

I peer at the pier and consider jumping
into the unknown with another

Laughter jangles, as I open my eyes
and we race barefoot to the end of the line
left-right-left we stumble, almost in time
another vertiginous rise, another sudden decline

I swim around your edges
basking in the partial eclipse
of a past still missed
If only you knew what we did last night
with uncontrolled lips

But this lake is us
hemmed by the shores of the possible
A calm surface, with my needs, settled on the bottom
as you paddle the surface, eyeing continuance

Nel più alto punto
dove scienza è oblìo d'ogni sapere
e certezza, mi dicono,
certezza irrefutabile venuta incontro

o nel tempo appeso a un filo
d'un riacquisto d'infanzia,

tra sonno e veglia, tra innocenza e colpa,

dove c'è e non c'è opera nostra voluta e scelta.

"La salute della mente
è là" dice una voce
con cui contendo da anni,
una voce che ora è di sirena.

Si naviga tra Sardegna e Corsica.
C'è un po' di mare
e la barca appruata scarricchia.
L'equipaggio dorme. Ma due
vegliano nella mezzaluce della plancia.
È passato agosto; Siamo alla rottura dei tempi.
È una notte viva.
Viva più di questa notte,
viva tanto da serrarmi la gola
è la muta confidenza
di quelli che riposano
si curi in mano d'altri
e di questi che non lasciano la manovra e il calcolo

mentre pregano per i loro uomini in mare
da un punto oscuro della costa, mentre arriva
dalla parte del Rodano qualche raffica.

Nel più alto punto
dove scienza è oblìo d'ogni sapere
e certezza, mi dicono,
certezza irrefutabile venuta incontro

o nel tempo appeso a un filo
d'un riacquisto d'infanzia,

tra sonno e veglia, tra innocenza e colpa,

dove c'è e non c'è opera nostra voluta e scelta.

"La salute della mente
è là" dice una voce
con cui contendo da anni,
una voce che ora è di sirena.

Si naviga tra Sardegna e Corsica.
C'è un po' di mare
e la barca appruata scarricchia.
L'equipaggio dorme. Ma due
vegliano nella mezzaluce della plancia.
È passato agosto; Siamo alla rottura dei tempi.
È una notte viva.
Viva più di questa notte,
viva tanto da serrarmi la gola
è la muta confidenza
di quelli che riposano
si curi in mano d'altri
e di questi che non lasciano la manovra e il calcolo

mentre pregano per i loro uomini in mare
da un punto oscuro della costa, mentre arriva
dalla parte del Rodano qualche raffica.

Ichnusa Lines


  Between rocks and places of

similar inclemency, buoys bob,

   lighthouses illuminate, bows

    genuflect, stern wakes the

frothy surf, tidal swell waves fro

and to our gull guided excursion.



Ichnusa Lines is the ferry between

Sardinia and Corsica.

Mountain.


   Why are you standing there like a

   big oaf doing absolutely nothing,

  all day, every day, year in, year out,

    since as long as anyone recalls?


   Do you think that Norman Foster

   would design such a monstrosity

without a door, a window, or stairs?

    Blocking our view is all you do.

You don’t even stop the rain clouds.


   Because of you we get premature

      sunsets and that dark, sombre

    shadow you cast over the valley.


      Even the moon has so much

     trouble rising over you, that at

   times it never manages to do so.


       Mountain, I think you are a  

   typical, chauvinistic, narcissist,

   expecting everyone to pay you

       homage and look up to you.


     Mountain, I have just climbed

       you, I am standing on your

  tallest peak which I think should

   be spelt peek. And guess what?


          I have just found the

         plaque you left for us.

    ---------------------------------
   |   It was not inquisitiveness   |
   | or respect brought you here |
   |          it was your EGO           |  
    ----------------------------------

                    <>


Photographed from window at

  7:40 Am April 3rd St. Florent

Corsica.

Night Earned


En route to our undecided

Destinations we encounter

Accidental rendezvous with

Those of like mind who have

Thrown caution to windmills

And adopted the no rein policy

Of Rosinante Miguel Cervantes

Horse, who led the adventure

Without any input from the Don,

Dapple or indeed Sancho Panza.





8th April 2023 7 Pm Corsica.