Best Arno Poems
The River Arno.
Trees at the edges.
The Ponte Vecchio-Old Bridge.
Categories:
arno, nature
Form:
Haiku
It was the time when art was king,
Of artists whose praises we all sing.
Great minds there were in the Renaissance,
Through eons , unsurpassed, with little advance.
Greatness was embodied in the works of art,
In Lorenzo's gardens did Michelangelo start.
But great there was one of Mona Lisa fame,
Master painter, inventor - Leonardo his name.
Contemporaries for sure, one really wonders
Of the two, whose work steals the thunders.
David, the Pieta, Sistine Chapel, and more
Everlasting they are through ages sure.
But then there's the Lisa, Last Supper, inventions galore.
On their ingenuity and genius, the world lays great store.
Can genius be bestowed in multiple men?
Can peace and tranquility be shared even then?
Can two kings sit and reign on one throne?
Or squabble and fight like two dogs with one bone?
And so, these men of unparallel fame
Were set by chance a mischievous game.
Asked they were to adorn the Council Hall
With paintings to settle rankings once and for all.
With gusto did the two set about
A Battle each to prove their clout.
Leonardo chose the battle of Anghiari;
Battle of Cascina was Michelangelo's quarry.
Great was the strife between the two,
Each strove hard for the other to outdo.
Of the rivalry ,I heard, - the worst of all,
Art was the victim - and the two took a fall.
Relates the great chronicler Vasari,Giorgio,
That the nadir of art was seen in the Palazzo Vecchio
As each of the greats thought little of their craft
But dallied and diddled, till the populace all laughed.
The Cascina on naked bathing soldiers was based
On the banks of the Arno it was placed.
But the scene that was rendered was so ludicrous
That his work, sadly, bordered on the ridiculous.
Leonardo's Anghiari was a shade grim
But his chances to greatness was very slim.
He used oils from Pliny the Elder's recipe
But soon these flaked , were smudgy, and drippy.
Be that as it may
To Art's great dismay
What should have been great works
Were diminished by Rivalry's quirks.
Vasari painted over these objets de art
And replaced these with his own from the start.
Now conservators do scan, to see if they can,
Which of the two, Leonardo or Michelangelo, was
The painter of the elusive Magnum Opus.
~18 Jun 2016~
Categories:
arno, art, history, jealousy,
Form:
Rhyme
The sacred lily of antiquity;
vital, that centuries have not defied.
Treasures, luminaries of Italy;
a preserved cultured city, dignified.
Basilica on the mount arises;
"The Gate of Heaven" takes my breath away.
The dome cap nestles above the city;
A vista opens to new horizons,
Cathedral bells ring, calling me to pray;
outside, minstrels in song, bold and witty.
On the old bridge, wares for sale are displayed.
A passage, above the River Arno;
self- portraits, don the walls; masters portrayed.
Bronzed doors, a journey to The Inferno;
afficionados of art come to praise.
Sculptures come alive in the public square;
Uffizi's galleries, patrons are drawn
to the genius of masters, are amazed.
The passion of "bel canto" fills the air;
night falls, your cobbled streets, dim, until dawn.
In marbled tombs lay national heroes;
maestros who impart the gifts of sages.
The Sacred Crucifix hangs in sorrow,
over consecrated ground, it graces.
A tapestry of life's virtues you share.
To the titans of art, we owe a debt.
Saints and prophets, their relics you enshrine;
devoted in faith we kneel in prayer.
David's majestic strength, Goliath met.
Florence's gifts, a legacy, divine!
May 4, 2022
For: Form O-Ode-New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhymes verified on Rhymezone.com
Syllables verified on Howmanysyllables.com
Theme: Place
Placed 3rd in contest
Categories:
arno, art, beauty, culture, faith,
Form:
Ode
Enea, at the Scottish Court
The critics claim that this is far the worst
of all the frescoes. Enea the star? No
inkling here. Can that be James the First?
And that’s the Clyde? It looks more like the Arno.
A spartan Stuart court? Or is it Bourbon?
Less Edinburgh in feel, and more Locarno.
Whoever saw Scots courtiers in turbans?
The ceiling is salubriously embossed,
more like the Vatican of sainted Urban!
Perhaps Enea’s Latin can’t be glossed,
for no-one’s listening, that much is certain.
One wonders what the marble columns cost.
And wrapped in that red robe (looks like a curtain!),
he seems to lack all gusto, all scintilla.
For this he braved the Beauly and the Burton?
There’s nothing interesting in the villa.
Less Donatello, more like Damien Hirst.
It wasn’t worth Charybdis, much less Scylla.
Enea Receives the Laurel Crown
Not only is he with the Emperor:
he’s kneeling to receive the laurel crown.
His deeds will be preserved in tempora,
his poems printed, bound and handed down.
What more can man achieve in life than this?
While many live and love, and toil in vain,
Enea’s standing on the precipice:
rewarded for that fine, well-nurtured brain.
So why am I uneasy? Read the signs.
And eagle savages a hapless duck.
The building seems all wrong. Wrong size, wrong lines.
And what’s it meant to be? Are you not struck
to see the woman on the loggia, being raped?
Pandora’s Box is open. Hope’s escaped.
Form and Matter
It all comes down to this, don’t you agree?
The Court of Charlemagne, the Holy See –
there’s Thought and Thing: idea, reality.
We’re in the presence room, but some are free
to stroll the colonnade at liberty.
Unyielding marble throne, lapped by a sea
of flowing silk: that’s how it has to be.
Enea kneels between eternity
and actuality: the Papacy
against the Empire. Physicality
abuts against the realm of sophistry.
Categories:
arno,
Form:
Sonnet
"Just take this chalk," (so went his talk,
to servants sent before):
"And do not balk. When you uncork
good liquor, mark the door."
This way, the churchman planned to pass,
when pausing for a rest,
fun nights in vino veritas,
partaking of the best.
"So, sup the wine, and if it's fine,
write on the lintel (lest
I miss the sign and fail to dine
there) 'Vinum Bonum Est!'"
Off went the servant at a trot.
Would we were in his shoes!
To earn our pay, we play the sot,
by "testing" all the booze!
From bar to bar, he wanders far,
obeying that behest:
but "Vinum Bonum" starts to jar:
He shortens it to "Est"!
He sips this wine, he guzzles that,
and if he is impressed,
he makes a holy concordat,
and marks the doorway, "Est!"
Down through the Alps the servant wends,
to tread Italian soil:
so many blends, to greet as friends!
Unto his task, stays loyal.
Both white and red, their bottles bled,
are flowing like the Arno:
by destiny, the servant's led
to Montepulciano!
Volcanic slopes (some are the Pope's!)
make wine that's heaven-blessed:
and, titillated as he topes,
he chalks up, "Est! Est! Est!"
Some days elapse -- a week, perhaps.
Beneath the tavern's eaves,
round Bishop wraps the sweetest of traps --
he arrives, but never leaves!
The wine is fine -- almost divine --
Soft, like an angel's breath;
To toe the line, he's disinclined --
and drinks himself to death!
And though this tale's beyond the pale,
a moral you may wrest --
each holy grail's adorned with nails --
go slow with Est! Est! Est!
Categories:
arno, humorous,
Form:
Quatrain
Oh Michelangelo the high master.
Your marble masterpiece.
In sweet Florence resides.
Beneath the great red dome thou liest.
See how the Son of the most High.
Died for all of us.
And fallen, rested in the caring arms.
Of the Magdalene and the Holy mother.
Your face is seen beneath the hood.
Of Nicodemus, a man of great good.
Yet unsatisfied with less than perfection.
You smashed apart your deposition.
And left eight years hard work behind.
But fate would surely not allow.
This majestic scene to remain unfinished.
And even though you did not return to it.
God willed that completed it would be.
A tribute to the sacrifice of His beloved Son.
A tribute to your genius.
Resting in the bowels of sweet Firenze.
The Athens of the middle ages.
Through which the swift Arno flows.
Categories:
arno, artsweet, sweet, tribute,
Form:
Ekphrasis
Autumn sunlight falls.
On golden domes, sweet Arno-
Shimmers like pure gold.
Categories:
arno, places
Form:
Haiku
Robert browning and Me (2)
Where was I with that book on Artemisia?
No Internet or Amazon back then,
So I got busy trudging round – then busier.
No joy. “American? We’ll call you when …”
“Import it from the States, you say? (sigh) “Sorry …”
That book to me was life-blood. From dry fact,
I knew I could carve angels. It was packed
with pure potential. It would be my quarry,
I, Michelangelo. But Florence called
(the city, not the girl). My summer break.
I’d soon be very happily installed
in Art’s sweet Heart. That book would have to take
a rain check. There were Browning things to see,
check out the places that the poet knew,
and stand where he stood (absolutely true!)
the day he found the Yellow Book. For me,
this part would be the climax. One fine day
in June of eighteen-sixty, Browning strolled
(the gods of poetry pointing out the way)
the Square of San Lorenzo – and struck gold!
He found a worn old book, and made the sale.
The record of a legal case with pleas,
submissions – this could be his masterpiece!
(A bit like mine, but on a vaster scale.)
So, there I was in San Lorenzo. If
my Artemisia project was on stall,
at least now I could breathe vicarious whiff
of Browning’s triumph. Oh, I was enthralled!
He read the lawyer’s brief as he walked home.
I traced his steps – down Giglio, Panzani, then
across the Arno at the bridge again –
(I caught a glimpse of Brunelleschi’s Dome)
and then it happened. Those poetic gods!
A bookstore on the Tornabuoni. (Time allows.
But what of Browning? Even Homer nods!
What harm, if I just sidle in and browse …?)
The book on Artemisia! Divine!
How many thousand lire? Hey, who cares?
So, I and Browning had our talents (tares?)
He used his well enough. Now I’ll try mine!
Categories:
arno,
Form:
Rhyme
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.
Categories:
arno, culture,
Form:
Rhyme
Arno Vale
Bristol’s Necropolis
City of the Dead
Where the dead and living
In the daytime co-exist.
The path leads full circle
Around the tomb stones, chapels and trees
Tombstone white and bright in the sun
The trees decorated, woollen colours
Booted families trudge through the trees
Others visit the café and the gift shop
All this life in the garden of the dead
It seems almost pagan, in a Christian way
Reminding us of their marriage
The winter sun shines without warmth
Through the trees, the leaves still on the ground
Solitude without loneliness that is what is here
The dead not buried and forgotten;
But, with nature and the living instead.
Categories:
arno, death, faith, funeral, imagination,
Form:
Lyric
The Poet
The poet reaches for his pen
a broken heart to bare
To write the words he cannot speak
his deepest thoughts to share...
A well that springs from deep within
cannot be now contained
Emotions trapped for many years
run free and unrestrained...
A teardrop falls upon the page
the ink begins to smear
An avalanche of pouring rain
the words soon disappear...
Jon Arno 2017
Categories:
arno, emotions, poetry, poets, sad,
Form:
Quatrain
I longed for more time
to lay cornerstones,
but life had started
detaching my soles
I wanted more daylight
to see a Galaxy of beauty
that rested,
within one finger of breath
I desired of many things
to walk the Ponte Vecchio
and glimmer in its wares,
casting a reflection in the Arno
that wavered to the Vasari
to shelter
beneath a Sistine vision
as Michelangelo, Raphael
Botticelli and Bernini
dart in and out
of my haunt,
smudging all in view
to drink the atmosphere
of Stonehenge,
drowning in its history
and laying as sacrifice
in a swoon of blood
‘I want’
screamed a child in me
~~~~~~~
I’ve become a fresco
fingerprinted,
with need and desire
astral traveling
from the nib of my pen,
I sate my thirst
but,
as time lessens,
and daylight fades
in the history
that is me
‘I have’
what whispers in thralls
a will that ever dreams
Categories:
arno, inspirational, timehistory,
Form:
Blank verse
Ponte Vecchio
Gift of history, an ancient relic
Clutter of the curious, devotional caravans
Different tongues, riot of voices
Spectrum of colors, collage of faces
Tramping hoards where horses galloped
Swarming the breadth and treading the length
For the glitter of diamond and gold or
A cavalcade of the fleeting folklore
Majestic arches in a stance
Of a gymnast on the stage
Behold the glory cherish the glow
Path is marked history shows
Perched on the banks, center stage
Remember the bridges east and west
Crumbled under the weight of time
Bit by bit and grain by grain at a time
Bridges in the depth of Arno
Stark reminders to us all
Fame and pomp have passing allure
But your role in history shall endure
Categories:
arno, history, river, time,
Form:
Rhyme
Florence, the perfect city.
Oh great David.
How you toppled a giant.
Oh Dante, the greatest there ever was,
Or ever will be.
Through sin you rose to the highest heavens.
Domed brilliance, catching the morning sun.
Swift Arno flowing through you.
But then alas the evening train-
Must carry me away.
Categories:
arno, holiday
Form:
Free verse
Reeling from the aftermath
it's hard to just let go
Feelings bottled up inside
and now they start to show...
Living two realities
I knew they would collide
Knowing that a day would come
we'd have to both decide...
It's all so complicated now
I don't know what to do
So much is in the balance now
and all that we've been through...
Run my darling, run away
and leave me far behind
Don't look back I beg of you
another you will find...
Jon Arno
Categories:
arno, anxiety, break up, farewell,
Form:
Quatrain