I must suppose I'm fine. I laugh a lot.
My work is bearable. I have a home.
I guess I like this town I'm in. I'll not
annoy you with the glass that's half ... half what?
I spend a lot of time on Google Chrome,
meandering the streets of Naples, Rome,
Arezzo ... why is that? I've lost the plot?
Or am I just a closet polyglot
who missed his calling? Afternoons are light,
and Donizetti's lapping at my ears.
At times like this, my hobbled soul takes flight
and dreams of Italy. When I have fears
that all my sweetest songs have now been sung,
I turn to Italy. And I am young.
The sun on this September afternoon
is not quite what it might have been in June,
but hot enough. My barman’s chatting on,
while somewhere, some lopsided carillon
is clanging tunelessly. I’m in the square
of San Francesco in Arezzo, where
I’ve longed to be for years. Rome’s far behind
(in fact it’s hard to summon Rome to mind,
albeit I was there not long ago.)
Tranquillity! I almost feel as though
I’ve plunged in freezing water. And the sight
of fiesta flags, inflamed by evening light
can make the heart start pumping. It’s too late
(for me) to learn to free-associate,
but what feels right, is right. I’m in a groove,
and who can say if I will ever move
from this precise position? Favourite pen,
a fine coarse notebook and “remember when” …
can life improve on this? When things combine,
we feel we’ve touched the hem of The Divine:
perhaps I’m heading for a nuclear fall,
but sunlight slanting on that craggy wall
is just as good as (better than, perhaps)
a coffee in that place from “Google Maps”.
Until I found Palazzo Guillichini
Gregorio, life’s classic “in-betweeny”
was lost to me: but I, “traquer le lièvre”,
can get the story from the cause célèbre.
Three thousand, eight hundred and forty pounds
The record for the heaviest bull alive
Belonged to a Chianina named Donetto
At the Arezzo exhibit in 1955
Nobody in Italy could imagine
What it must have cost, just to keep him full
Three thousand, eight hundred and forty pounds
Now, tell me that's not a lot of bull!
I must suppose I'm fine. I laugh a lot.
My work is bearable. I have a home.
I guess I like this town I'm in. I'll not
annoy you with the glass that's half ... half what?
I spend a lot of time on Google Chrome,
meandering the streets of Naples, Rome,
Arezzo ... why is that? I've lost the plot?
Or am I just a closet polyglot
who missed his calling? Afternoons are light,
and Donizetti's lapping at my ears.
At times like this, my hobbled soul takes flight
and dreams of Italy. When I have fears
that all my sweetest songs have now been sung,
I turn to Italy. And I am young.
If you've ever seen Ca' Rezzonico
seeming quite to float
upon the Grand Canal
as you bob in a boat,
or if you've ever eavesdropped
in some Trastevere alley
some golden afternoon
on some tenor's voice a-sobbing
beneath an early moon,
or in Andrea della Valle
breathed in Puccini's subtle chords,
you'll know that life affords
no more sacred boon.
Recondita armonia, literally.
If you've taken in
Albinoni's Adaggio
or gnocchi con formaggio
in a loggia on the Arno
or the slopes of Montepulciano,
or walked in misty thunder
the olive groves of Cennina,
or sat in wordless wonder
in the theater of Taormina,
or witnessed Piero's frescoes
in San Francesco of Arezzo,
or breathed the morning sunlight
or Mascagni's Intermezzo,
seen summer rain in torrents
come laughing down the street,
then you'll know why
or looked down upon fair Florence
like a carpet at your feet,
Italians set at variance
themselves and us,
and call us The Barbarians.
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