"piazza" poems
Meandering like its canals
Venetian streets sing underfoot.
Who wore away the stone cobbled streets?
Who walked down to the shore?
Who gazed out at the Adriatic?
Who's dreams were lost in Venice's stream of streets?
Licentious lovers loved in Venice's streets, kissed on her bridges,
Crossed under by gondola and over by foot.
Proposed at the piazza San Marco.
Kissed, while the Grand Canal wound her way down.
Down into the sea,
where the menace that is the world, Venice shuns.
Rialto, Doge, Basilica, St. Marks, pigeons!
All evoke that lagoon city of streets.
Originally refugees, incolae lacunae ("lagoon dwellers")
Venetians, gave not only a place for the dispossessed,
but a place for the world to see, feel and taste.
Art, war, politics, commerce, spice and silk.
Venice with her ribbon of streets, alleyways and bridges
saw the Renaissance, the crusades, and the Black Death.
Glassware, paintings, sculptures, religion, refugees all
synonymous with that floating city.
A city returning to the water she arose from.
Subsiding with grief as she drowns in elegant decay.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
"Have you ever sailed across an ocean, Donald? On a sail boat surrounded by sea with no land in sight. Without even the possibility of sighting land for days to come. To stand at the helm of your destiny. I want that, one more time. I want to be in the Piazza Del Campo in Sienna. To feel the surge as ten race horses go thundering by. I want another meal in Paris, at L'Ambroisie in the Place Des Vosges. I want another bottle of wine. And then another. I want the warmth of a women in the cool set of sheets. One more night of jazz at the Vanguard. I want to stand on summits and smoke cubans and feel the sun on my face for as long as I can. Walk on the wall again. Climb the tower. Ride the river. Stare at the frescoes. I want to sit in the garden and read one more good book. Most of all I want to sleep. I want to sleep like I slept when I was a boy. Give me that. Just one time. That's why I won't allow that punk out there to get the best of me, let alone the last of me."
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
"io sol uno."
-Dante, Purgatorio
There I was,
the comic-tragic star of my own motion-picture,
bold beneath the springtime Italian sun hung high
--a heavenly fixture,
illuminating the gold-leaf enframed frescoes in
kaleidoscopes of colours,
baking dry the pigeon droppings upon the flagstones
they smothered,
where I, in all my self-serving recreation,
posed proudly in a costume of my own creation,
an operatic villain clad in a billowy blouse of black,
the Campanile Tower like a sentinel behind my back,
as movie cameras panned and zoomed,
paparazzi photographers capturing me
and freezing me,
in all my wicked, medieval glory,
floating and gloating in the dank aroma of the Venetian seas,
*"I'm the shining star!
--Look at me, look at me!"*
-the super-special star I always knew I'd be,
a painted parody,
a harlequin of displaced passions
for all to laugh at and see,
before slipping silently
into the ornate basilica,
dim and dark as night,
thanking Mother Mary (for nothing) as I sparked
a votive candle's light,
not really sure or caring
where my life would lead,
just as long as the Azure Queen
shed Her Grace on me,
me,
me,
...until I fell
and fell
to the mockery of a home
I made in Hell,
hard and forever and fast,
the only fool left alone in my solo cast,
adrift with no direction,
****** and lost,
me and my frivolous theatre,
squandered an an extravagant cost.
_____________
"io sol uno" means, "I, myself, alone."
This poem is a true-life story.
__________
See the Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy:
http://www.carfree.com/design/pix/sqlg110venice_piazza-san-marco.jpg
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 11:01 AM UTC
pigeons perch themselves preening
on marble fauns ambivalent to their
perch, while dark skinned men prowl;
seeking tourists (Americans) to sell
cheap novelty items, over priced, yet
bought to drive away the insistent
merchants; ignorant to the realization:
if you remain silent and don’t make eye
contact you will not forfeit your money...
merchants who ruin the peace and awe
of grand feats of sculpture—I know they
are human (on a base level)—craving
money to make a living, yet there are
many (more respectable) professions…
their presence crowds the already
crowded (streets and) piazzas—aggregates
of language babble—old women and men
meandering along waiting to die—hoping
it is true: the slower you move the faster
time flows—if not: to hell with relativity!
(should have put chips on more than one table)
can math really explain all?—or
is life more than abstract objects?
while the din of crowds palpitates my heart
making way for anxious calculations,
C— and I hurry pass to find some area
to give the artefacts the respect they deserve
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
*The fundamental phenomena in nature are symmetrical
with respect to interchange of past and future.* --- Richard Feynman
Millions for Defense
In the Cabinet room of Monticello, clutching Decatur's letter,
the President removes his wire-rimmed glasses ---
Frigate Philadelphia has been burned.
Decanting a bourbon, he pours and quaffs.
Outside in the piazza the cicadas' din is unbroken.
The Pasha of Tripoli has his tribute!
In three short hours warm rays of sunlight
will greet the outstretched arms of Earth,
but for now the bourbon scintillates.
Ink splatters on the blotter,
as he pounds a clenched fist upon the desk.
Not one cent!, he pronounces to the wall-clock.
Cicadas hold sway in the Charlottsville night,
but on the Barbary Coast a fire is raging.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 9:39 AM UTC
(Or Bi-Polar Disorder)
I. Depressive phase-
I love you for your kindness first,
then for the peace in your eyes.
How could anyone as sure as you
not be the one sent to save me?
But save me from what?
From doubt? From myself?
You are God’s gift to me yet
I can't help it sometimes
I picture myself ten years down
the line with you not caring
and me destitute and homeless,
living on the streets, alone.
*When the transition comes
I see it come and embrace it,
picking up speed it screams over me
like a snow white avalanche,
a huge chemical ****** in my brain
that cannot be stopped.*
II. Manic phase-
Here I like to entertain myself
with vain fantasies of sainthood.
I’m standing and waving
to the faithful in Piazza San Pietro,
doing what’s necessary to secure
my martyr’s destiny in the after life
where I’ll have a place of honor
in the great hall of God, and through
a window in the floor I’ll be able
to see my mourners
filing past my gaudy reliquary,
crossing themselves as they gaze through
the philatory glass at the peaceful repose
of my sequin studded bones.
*I have come to understand that
this matter may never be settled.
I’d truly give anything for you
to have power enough to hold me
in the middle, to hold me in
the purple fog nothingness
but I believe it tires you
to prop up a puppet all day.
You’d rather love me in each moment
which is the truest love there is
and that makes me the luckiest
man on the face of the Earth.*
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Let’s pretend its kismet
I’m not opposed to that
We can meet in the piazza
Have ourselves a chat
You’ll know me by my red dress
That I have chosen for this day
And the trio serenading us
Will see our voice in sway
You may order coffee
A latte for me please
Maybe we can break some bread
Fon due our talk with cheese
Pigeons on the cobblestones
Will flap their wings in pray
Lovers smile a knowing
As we hand in hand our day
You may bring your camera
To mark this fait accompli
And I’ll scribble in my notebook
My Je t’aime, mon chéri…
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
Save your sympathies,
And cradle your kisses
They need your words,
In light, speak softly.
In light, be cautious,
Don’t forget where you’ve set
Your feet and laid your head.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 8:38 AM UTC
Air: soft, warm, old, kept and distilled,
grasps my skin in heat so comfortable
enveloping the chill from moments before,
dissolving in a sultry, lustful sun.
Hot wind: solid and intentional,
wavering the stillness
surrounding the ancient new touch.
Men, voices rough with the fragility of age,
shouting foreign words with a friendly bounce.
Language unfamiliar, intent unclear.
Bells ring distantly, and then twice close by.
The avalanche begins, rolling chimes, rolling in time.
An unheard beauty unfolding.
The song of Mother Nature, different than the norm,
dancing around the chimes, complimenting sound.
Traditional and bold,
the spices swing past.
Recipes from generations back.
Gasoline and pollution abide miles away.
Warms and colds become defined,
crisp, triggering hunger.
Carts of fresh pastries release a delicious smell.
Coming to consciousness through scent.
Close to dining, the desire grows.
The cold ruins the warm mouth,
dissolves hunger, sweet and smooth.
Longingly, another sugary scoop drains the tongue.
This soft, delicious taste.
Unmasked beauty in historically bruised walls.
Faces of heroes, faces of citizens,
Colours of all sorts held in small cups and bowls,
Youth spread out soaking in the yellow sun,
Yellow skin and wrinkles instilled over time--
In the piazza.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 3:37 PM UTC
Find me in the piazza where Neptune's confined
As night makes phantoms of us two entwined
Hold me tightly, with all your power
When we come across that evil tower
Where the feet of men once danced upon air
Please - do not let us not linger there
Instead, take me to the statues ball
Where shadows waltz across the wall
We'll join them in this moonlit masque
And spin until dawn begins her task
As darkness burns in morning's fire
Take my hand so we may retire
I'll place my head upon your naked chest
And savor the silence in which we're blessed
But most of all, do not let me leave
For home is not a place to grieve
Keep me here, until our hearts cease to endeavor
In our final moment, we will live forever.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
Where did I come from?
A country of what?
Big hearts?
That's what the guestbook said,
And the amnesia makes anything else suspect.
Still...
A chipped Greek frieze;
Shade inching over insalata Caprese;
Piazza Cavour from a smudged helicopter window at noon;
Faces in a crowd at LOVE park, rapid fire;
Dusk in an Irish cemetery;
Lakeside heather.
This departure is like rewriting
A book from memory.
How much of me—if any—is there?
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
Sole di mezzogiorno, nel luglio felice, sulla piazza deserta:
piazza lontana di città lontana, tu ed il tuo uomo,
e quello era il mondo.
Bianca nella tua veste, bianca vibratile fiamma tu pure,
nell'abbaglio d'incendio dell'aria.
Bianco il tuo riso perduto nel riso di lui, fresco di polla il
tuo riso d'amore tra il vasto fulgere ed ardere.
Non sarebbe discesa la notte, non sarebbe venuto il domani,
tua la luce, tuo l'uomo, tuo il tempo.
Fermasti il tempo in pieno sull'ora solare per cui in terra
tu fosti divina:
il resto è ombra e polvere d'ombra.
1k
Sarà un cielo chiaro.
S'apriranno le strade
sul colle di pini e di pietra.
Il tumulto delle strade
non muterà quell'aria ferma.
I fiori, spruzzati
di colori alle fontane,
occhieggeranno come donne
divertite. Le scale
le terrazze le rondini
canteranno nel sole.
S'aprirà quella strada,
le pietre canteranno,
il cuore batterà sussultando
come l'acqua nelle fontane -
sarà questa la voce
che salirà le tue scale.
Le finestre sapranno
l'odore della pietra e dell'aria
mattutina. S'aprirà una porta.
Il tumulto delle strade
sarà il tumulto del cuore
nella luce smarrita.
Sarai tu - ferma e chiara.
964
Non-believer in a holy land,
Stained glass tells my favorite fairy tales,
While crypts whisper to the Angel choir,
"Gloria a Dio.. Cristo Pietà."
The street reeks of burnt things,
Incense offered to the man in the hills.
Perched above the people and nestled below the heavens,
The tranquil streets carry their own version of history.
Father says this place holds magic,
And I fear to displease him.
I'll pray for him on graves and make blood sacrifices,
But not for me, my soul is already liberated.
The streets glow bright neath the shadow of church spires,
A history that speaks for itself.
The hills will sing its praises as will I,
For the piazza of storytellers,
For the direct line to martyrdom,
Never will I fathom them.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC
Twenty and two years have passed, feels like a millennia.
I left my heart and soul on the dock of Palau, Sardinia.
I can remember my love and I bathing in the Mediterranean Sea.
Love making under a midnight sky, the moon, my Sophie and me.
She kissed me with a passion that was non contested.
Held me with a strength of faith and none could test it.
I can see her dancing at the Piazza due Palme where we use to
meet friends and mingle.
She always said whenever she looked at me her insides would tingle.
It must have been true for her brown eyes would shine…
It never occurred to me that she would not always be mine.
I don’t know why I thought about her so much today…But anyway.
It’s been twenty and two years since Sardinia.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
Rooms, Doors, Windows
One part of me thinks that it is what makes it, and the parts and pieces are what holds it together. Like a cat with its tail, whiskers, and paws
Another part of me thinks that a thing is what you make of it, like a desk: the broken Mike Piazza bubble head, the mini pencil that's on it's last tip, and the dirt stains on the floor below for that time you went for a walk in the rain.
No your wrong, parts are held together by the things they are made of like the old "The Game Of Life" board that's on your shelf. The pieces and cards make up the game and when you play it you will need all those pieces to do it.
But in life you need something to be sentimental about, not only will you be happy but it gives you hope. To use your example of "The Game Of Life" board, sure those bits and pieces don't have much and they are needed. But they have meaning to each person, like the guy who always goes for the blue piece because that's his favorite color. Or the person who decides they don't need college and they said "it's because I'm none conformist"
The moral of this conversation is to prove to people that life is like a house, a house is made of rooms, doors, and windows but each house is different because each house has a story. Every door has been opened to see what treasures lie within, every window has been looked at and sometimes looked through,and every room has been built to fit the owners vision. Happiness grows.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 8:53 PM UTC
It was the Summertime in Amalfi
where sweet
love and sweet wine flowed freely.
In the monastery which
was once San Pietro della Canonica
and now is the Hotel dei Cappuccini
we had cappuccino and then had to go
to
the Piazza dello Spirito Santo
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC
a snapper hedge lore
and bet in vicissitudes
that little wife arise up
but a purse string prize
here in the piazza today
that change in her suit
a bra fit
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC
I looked up across the piazza and
saw a girl with ***** blond hair in a brown dress
in the fourth floor window of the blue building,
the one next to the building with the faded painting of the ******
on its facade.
She was looking down at the fountain,
and all of us sitting around it.
I looked down to grab my pen, but when I looked back,
all I could see were the lavender shades in the window,
swaying in the late afternoon breeze.
When I finished scribbling these stanzas, she was back
for a moment, as if to say one final farewell.
But not to me, but the fountain
And everyone else sitting around it.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
There are films, and then there are films that are directed by Luca Guadagnino, set in Italy, starring Tilda Swinton, and featuring wardrobe by Raf Simons during his time at Dior. Released earlier this year, A Bigger Splashmarked Swinton, Guadagnino, and Simons' second film collaboration (the first was I Am Love) — and it made everyone want to go on holiday looking fabulous.
Basically: Swinton plays Marianne Lane, a world-famous rock star holidaying in the sleepy Italian town of Pantelleria. (Right? We know.) Though her character is recovering from throat surgery, which renders her speechless for the entire two hours of film, leave it to Swinton to remain as captivating as ever. Oh, and she's joined by a rather sweaty Matthias Schoenaerts, a wickedly pompous Ralph Fiennes, and a brooding, scantily-clad Dakota Johnson.
If you're unfamiliar with Guadagnino's style, it's filled with long, lingering shots of nature, close-ups of food, silences (and lots of them), sumptuous sceneries, grandiose architecture, and breathtaking styling.
Simons worked with Guadagnino's friend, costume designer Giulia Piersanti, on the wardrobe. She told i-D about the inspiration for Marianne's clothes:
We specifically wanted Marianne Lane, Tilda's character, to be a bit more elegant than her surroundings. It was important for her to have a wardrobe that was a bit over-the-top. In the end it was also important in the acting and portrayal of the character for her to be nonchalant about it and very effortless. She's a star, and she doesn't hide it. Even when she goes out into the piazza, she's a bit overly dressed, like an old movie star would be. She needed to keep that glamour in her wardrobe.
Despite the striking simplicity of Marianne's style (billowing jumpsuits, shirt-dresses, and thong sandals), it's the details that make this film one of the finest examples we've seen of dressing well in the heat. For your viewing pleasure (but still — watch the film), we've selected the most memorable fashion moments. Warning: You will want to do away with all your hot pants, crop your hair, and buy some silver shades, pronto.See more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 3:12 AM UTC