"cupola" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
I have enough treasures from the past
to last me longer than I need, or want.
You know as well as I . . . malevolent memory
won't let go of half of them:
a modest church, with its gold cupola
slightly askew; a harsh chorus
of crows; the whistle of a train;
a birch tree haggard in a field
as if it had just been sprung from jail;
a secret midnight conclave
of monumental Bible-oaks;
and a tiny rowboat that comes drifting out
of somebody's dreams, slowly foundering.
Winter has already loitered here,
lightly powdering these fields,
casting an impenetrable haze
that fills the world as far as the horizon.
I used to think that after we are gone
there's nothing, simply nothing at all.
Then who's that wandering by the porch
again and calling us by name?
Whose face is pressed against the frosted pane?
What hand out there is waving like a branch?
By way of reply, in that cobwebbed corner
a sunstruck tatter dances in the mirror.
Leningrad, 1960
3.5k
Nevica a Parigi
sugli alberi di carta,
sugli addobbi di Natale sgonfi,
sui bambini di plastica
e sui castelli di latta.
Nevica a Parigi una neve fiacca
che s’incolla ai cappotti della gente
che si trascina per strada
con aria distratta.
Nevica nei caffè,
attraverso i vetri,
sui boulevards deserti
e sui nostri sguardi tetri.
Si colorano di bianco
la cupola dell’albergo di lusso,
il tettuccio dell’edicola senza giornali,
il carretto delle castagne arrosto,
il marciapiede su cui scivola una dama
e cerca un cantuccio il barbone.
Nevica a Parigi, senza ragione,
sulle donne e sugli uomini.
***
Nevica nei grandi magazzini,
nelle chiese vuote
e nelle nostre stanze.
Sulle autostrade inondate di fango
che corrono sopra la città,
sulle scarpate coperte d’immondizia
e sulle nostre frasi lasciate a metà.
Nevica a Parigi sulla terra
del parco in cui non attecchirà
più l’erba, sulla nostra visione
acerba delle cose.
Nevica a Parigi come per illusione.
***
Nevica perché non ha
nessun senso che nevichi,
perché siamo in inverno
ma non è detto che torni
il bel tempo.
Nevica sul cemento
di chi ha avuto il coraggio
di costruire i grattacieli per i grandi
e le cabine di comando
per gli uomini d’affari
dagli occhi stanchi.
***
Nevica sui ghetti e sulle città satelliti,
sulle lampade al neon
dei luna park abbandonati.
Nevica, in televisione e al cinema,
per i negri, i bianchi,
le persone sole e gli alcolizzati.
Nevica e le cose si perdono
in un pulviscolo.
Da un vicolo sbuca
un autobus senza autista,
da un altro una carrozza
trainata da elefanti.
In un carosello di fiocchi di neve
impazziscono le immagini.
Nevica a Parigi sui camposanti.
***
Nevica nei bordelli e nelle bettole,
nei salotti alla moda,
nei negozi degli antiquari
e nei quadri che i pittori
non hanno fatto a tempo
a terminare…
Nevica sugli operai stanchi
di non lavorare,
sulle matrone che si abbandonano
alle braccia dei drogati.
Nevica sugli ospedali e sugli ammalati.
***
Nevica sugli aeroplani e sulla notte,
sulle navi e sul vento,
sull’eco delle stragi,
sul pianto dei feriti
e sul rantolo dei moribondi.
Nevica a Parigi
sul tempo che finisce
in un’esplosione di secondi.
***
Nevica sulla neve
e nevicherà ancora.
E’ una neve che a tratti ci sferza
e a tratti ci ignora.
E’ una neve che spazza via tutto,
una neve spietata.
Perché a Parigi da oggi nevica
nella nostra mente annebbiata.
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 3:04 PM UTC
I'm in the current review of
everything right now.
When my lungs have told me *enough
already* and I taste of foul
consequences that seep into taste buds.
The walls were gushing water,
as they often seemed to do, and
I always lay on my side,
left leg crossed over right.
Nothing irregular.
The tinge, spark, of pain from a
resting avocado, I can feel it in the
tip of my thumb. The right one.
You were supposed to be soft,
and full of the good fats.
I can't look at a cupola without
seeing "SEWN". But I guess that's
just what happens when someone
intercepts your point of view.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC
I. the breathing of human nature
her poetry weaves a chimera
through ontario maples,
ghostlike songs intoned in late november breath:
*i don't really want to be a pretty girl... *
whispers of woodsmoke fall from sky
(sky, pink as cochineal, pink as avarice
sky, blue as bruises, as jazz, as tropical waters)
she steps from the fog and ash into the beckoning trees,
seduced by leaves,
an autumn saturnalia of honey, flame, amber,
nectar, pistil, anther.
she is cupola and chalice,
budding fuchsia and iron cherry--
but she writes and breathes
as if something more than a woman
who knows all the names for the ocean
stirs and struts inside her.
II. the statue and sobriquet
piano wires melt into statues,
heat steals rusty bottle caps
and bends them eerily into muses.
butterflies perch astutely on their shoulders,
violet, violent, a mosaic of shredded lilies and shellac,
paris in flames, flowering tea-houses,
the mariana trench, a thicket of morning glory.
nature sculpted this metaphysical tribute to her
for all that she has done, for all that her bent fingernails
and snow-covered lips have given
to inspire solstice and equinox--
in the night-songs of the crickets,
crystal bells and rustic chirps,
she was lauded.
III. declaration
she feels the songs in her eyelashes
and writes of wine and palest bone,
fragments of bashful moon,
roots her fingernails into the tarnished canadian willows
and finds her way through magnolia clouds and sea-spray sky;
after all, she can soar.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
Romantic moonlight edges over the mighty cupola;
I stroll enchanted by the timeless beauty of St Peter's Square;
I casually enquire of a passing nun whether she would consider
Going down on me behind the marble columns.
After a brief but heated haggle over the price
(I hitherto thought nuns were generous sisters of mercy)
She gobbles me professionally but rather noisily
Causing me to leave a generous donation on her dental plate.
I hear a half-strangled cry of "Bejasus" from a passing Paddy priest
As he gives himself a quick one off the wrist
Into his already badly stained cassock
Before hurrying off to keep a hot date with a choirboy.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
The sky...
A canvas of blue
as I climb up
-on the roof
laying beside you
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
I counted more-
than one to ten,
dreaming of oriels
till all is well
Up a Hill...
Were I gaze
towers of cupola,
a heavens place
were we dreamed,
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
To Venus, to Mars
of dancing stars
a wishful reverie,
circling above thee
Then I blink...
Twice to think,
and opened freely
seeing all of You
in tangled vines
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Coasting up above
loosing mimes,
an aurora night
on New York's sky
Time traveled...
As eyes passes-
to were it humbled
on fountain trails
and bluish vales
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Horizon unwinds
hands that bind
etude punctuates
'twas a circa of mine
Morning rung...
A fadeless runic,
I fell out of flung
following sheets
my bedding's reap
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
A story unsung
lips were unkissed
wondering why
Love was not found
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
Startling, simply.
***** form of white;
Pillar of morals
Tied to fables
That are taller still
Than even he.
And yet the sight
Takes wind from
The watcher.
Rapt eyes stroll
Languorously across him.
Form unconcealed
And no appendage
Draws undue focus.
Stale cupola air
Becomes spring in his repose.
His smirking dead eyes
Mock spectators.
He leaps and vaults
Through the deadened vaults,
Then furrows his brow, opens his mouth.
Mute shouts ring terribly here like slung stones.
Were he out in the elements, the earth itself might
Gape monstrously to sputter out, "Startling, certainly."
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:58 PM UTC
My view is constricted by experience,
of which, i supposedly have none.
I am challenged by every senior of every rank
for words i've said and things i've done.
But lo and behold,
this very world,
there is something to be told.
I've never touched the cupola of heaven,
but i've seen the face of God
in every tree and every flesh,
across the seas and hot dry lands
i've found the reason and the source of change,
that breaks the shells and sifts through air
with pure wisdom and gentle care,
spreading traits of life,
that got us here.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
I do not,
Let me repeat,
Do not seeketh a (live-in) roommate as the world hast created,
I seeketh a soulmate,
A queen
One of ethreal belated..
One to whom to be related in marital stature!!!
For these ending times
Everyone's a roomie
Living with one, yet being strangers in their mist!!!
Get the gist?
Reader of so called loving words...
I seeketh not to be under the same cupola,
To only be one's guest!!!!
I seeketh a domain,
One of endless nest!!!!
Not as thou oh world!!!!!
Forgot love didst thou oh stranger?
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
I poeti lavorano di notte
quando il tempo non urge su di loro,
quando tace il rumore della folla
e termina il linciaggio delle ore.
I poeti lavorano nel buio
come falchi notturni od usignoli
dal dolcissimo canto
e temono di offendere Iddio.
Ma i poeti, nel loro silenzio
fanno ben più rumore
di una dorata cupola di stelle.
717
building for events
cupola of a building
upper car roof, dome
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
The darkness folds in outside here
not to lighten
before nine in the morning
slowly turning to light again
nights are pitch black
beautiful onyx nights
that carry on their cupola
stars
just as the ceilings
in ancient Egyptian graves
silence fills the void
almost an uncanny silence
that makes one stop up
to listen
in the woods
the moss has grown so thick
and green
it almost resembles snow
passing through the many trunks of trees
we marvel at its coat
some beautiful rounded stones
making imaginary secret chests
a tiny fir growing on their velvet tops
one stone is the shape
of a pointed kind of pyramid
with moss at its summit
looking like a miniature mountain
with clouds on top
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
*journeying through
the landscape of the soul
a snow-capped knee
brought me into crisis
a thigh gently covered with wild-flowers
struck a chord of lightning
the desert hearted cactus flowers
once in a single lifetime
your river-bed is made
to be drenched in the raw moonlight
by a cupola of vanilla frosting
I am weeping in a willow’s arch
at the foot-hills of a mountain
two streaks of colorful music that became trees
and infinite magical branches
the size of slender fingers
counted for all the sleepless nights
spent upon bottomless pools of nectar
at the center of your star-mirrored navel
stumbling down a trail
of ear-shaped spirals
then falling into a tiny nest
of moistened shadows
ten lips, one eye, and two hearts
a dozen celestial bodies
beyond form and function
you are a masterpiece so beautiful
the impossibility of reproduction
is only slightly more mysterious
than the absurdity of the lack of instruction*
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
The bold cupola at his summit reflects
neon lights from bulbs above, crowned
by precious thin silver hair, barely cascading
over a wide and wrinkled forehead.
Two dense detached bushy arches linger
to their original dark brown tone, only a few
white brow hairs are longer, magnified by opaque
thick lenses of plastic orange glasses,
resting on a disproportionately big red nose,
outshining round green eyes in venous sclera.
Falling cheeks of sad old dogs, Dumbo ears
hearing only through pale hi-tech gadgets.
Rotten teeth, some lost to empty spaces,
concealed by infolded arid purple lips,
in the midst of an unshaved beard tobacco
stains, where arch crumbs hide in disguise.
A bloated stomach denotes long lasting
faithfulness to a wife married ages before,
a ring castrating a swollen left annular
as he speaks on an archaic phone.
Dressed in an azure shirt meticulously
ironed, beige corduroy trousers, a maroon
jacket on his forearm, a worn out bowler hat
on the counter. I stare at his hunchback.
He stirs his coffee for much longer
than necessary in search of eye contact,
someone physical to talk to, furtively
swallowing a tablet or two gulping water.
Bringing his handkerchief to the mouth to be
proper, he drinks the boiling hot Italian brew,
with an air of surrender as drops inevitably fall
on his nice and shiny polished burgundy shoes.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 5:14 AM UTC
(Sea of Roses)
Just standing on top of the world
Looking at life from a different view.
Angelic thoughts natatorial.
Smile radial, open doors
Allowing me to be a watcher,
Sentry.
Encyclopedic arms luscious
A cupola for the desolate eyes
That fray for true love and acceptance.
My ears are split for their voice of
Unanswered dreams.
I swim in their silent cries.
I sleep on a bed of Rose thorns
A young heart with an old soul.
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 5:48 PM UTC