Best Italia Poems
Battle Rap
...poet in da house...
Now have a listen, for I’ll be a kissing…I’m on a mission
And you’ll be a pissing your hemolysin…a smelly emission
My words glisten worth the admission…full of ammunition
You’re under submission a life in prison…meet the mortician
Like a magician I’ll take over your vision…call your optician
You’ll be wishing you had a cosmetician…here’s my aesthetician
~~~
Like Mohamed Ali sting you like a bee…crush you like a flea
You’ll sing like a banshee on a screaming spree…cause I’m beastly
Like Mike Tyson run you like a bison…your blood I’ll syphon
Can’t handle my slicing with every word I ripen…I’m the word titan
Like Frank Sinatra and his mafia from Italia…will give you insomnia
In my euphoria and with your apaxia…you’ll be living with anoxia
~~~
You’re an agitator I’m a decorator…a word builder an innovator
I’m a verse creator a rebuilder renovator…a word generator
I have ambition you need a beautician…an ugly position
In my coalition you need permission…luck with the audition
I’m not a hater just much greater…a smooth operator
Like a Terminator I’ll see you later…your exterminator
~~~
I’LL BE BACH!!!
I'm not really a rapper...just having fun lol
May.16.2018
8 Mile Style Poetry
Sponsored by: Nick Trim
[Poet’s Note : This is an Afrikaans Poem with its English Translation : Form : I don’t know : It could be classified as Metaphysical since it voices direct communion with Divine & visions. This form is not listed on this Site ]
N.P. van Wyk Louw : foremost Afrikaans Poet, Playwright & Scholar
Sara Baartman : the San woman exhibited as a freak in 19th century Europe, labelled & ridiculed as “Hottentot Venus”. Hottentot is regarded as a highly derogatory term in South Africa, similar to calling someone an Unbeliever. Her body was later returned to her birthplace for burial, with much unholy drama (these two personalities sometimes appear to self in dream or meditation state.)
_____________
Sondag middag en die koue wind
waai die wasgoed droeg
Ouma slaap, Oupa kyk sokker
yogurt en piesang vir poeding
N.P. van Wyk Louw en Sara Baartman
kom kuier nie vandag nie
Ek haal asem in
‘n yskoue see van Italia of Griekeland
vloei oor my skewe bene
“Waar drentel jy rond in die winter
as ek hier van jou laggie dink
terwyl my arms bewe?”
God se vir my
“Ek ALLEEN is jou Liefde”
in die stilte veg Hy vir Siel
die yskoue see draai in ‘n oomblik
en weg skuil jy op ‘n klein boot
Sy Son soen my lippies op ‘n
Winter Sondag in die middag
________________
English Translation
Sunday afternoon and a cold wind
dries washing
Grandma sleeps, Grandpa watches soccer
yogurt and banana for pudding
N.P. van Wyk Louw and Sara Baartman
visits not today
I breathe an ice cold sea from Italy or Greece
it flows over crooked legs
“Where do you wander in winter
as I think about your giggle
whilst my arms shiver ?”
God utters
“I ALONE am your Love.”
in the silence He struggles for Soul
the ice-cold sea swerves in a moment
away you skulk on a small boat
His Sun kisses my lips on a
Winter’s Sunday afternoon
Sunflowers turn slowly
to follow the sun.
They bow their heavy heads
when afternoon’s done.
What a golden vision
they share row after row
With deep amber faces,
their tiny seeds all aglow.
The summer breezes blowing
o’er the fields with warm air
Shares pride in a country
with its beauty so fair.
I smile in contentment
as I l leave old Italy
With a sea of them waving
good-bye to me.
************************
Italian translation:
Fiori della Toscana
Solefiori ruotare lentamente
a seguire il sole.
Si inchinano le loro teste pesanti
Quando ha fatto pomeriggio.
Che una visione d'oro
essi condividono la riga dopo riga
Con facce profondo ambrati,
Loro piccoli semi tutto raggiante.
La brezza estiva che soffia
sopra i campi con aria calda
Orgoglio di azioni in un paese
con la sua bellezza così fiera.
Sorrido in contentezza
come ho l lasciare la vecchia Italia
Con un mare di loro sventolando
good-bye a me.
Note: This translation is as close to my original poem as possible.
Click on the link to see a picture of sunflowers:
http://hd.lubpedia.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Sunflowers-Wallpapers-4.jpg
Germany came out in their usual black and white
as the fans screamed with delight
Italia came in white and blue
ready to play as the whistle blew
the Germans were favored to win the game
but went down one, from a header it came
Losing now and put on the spot
but went down again from a laser like shot
they scored one later it was true
but in the end the black and white's were blue
When I think of my favourite food
my mind thinks of a wonderful land
one shaped similar to a boot
it's capital is so very grand
So my favourite food is Italia Pasta
those lovely strands made so slender
such smoothness made to a T
your taste buds feel it so tender
There's so many kinds of variety
such a lot to even mention
but gives such a great taste
for it always holds your attention
When made together with succulent meat
topped over with real creamy cheese
O the thought just fills your mind
it's really just the bees knees
I could have it every night
breakfast lunch dinner and tea
but too much of a good thing
makes the tummy too big to see!
Italian recipes I do absolutely love
especially enticed with some spice
plenty of water at your side
cools the tongue with a little ice
Spaghetti Bolognese is my fav
brings one such Italia taste
takes you back to la Roma
such memories not want to waste
Sitting at your table in anticipation
eyes set with hand on the fork
the waiter comes to your attention
brings the wine unpops the cork
Next the finale the wait's over
the main dish is in front of you
breathe in the succulent flavour
it just looks absolutely beau
Lean beef, onion, garlic, mushroom, chilli
ingredients making it the real deal
of course not forgetting the spaghetti
simply superb stunning what a steal!
Mi camma to America wid a passion for moni en fud,
hoppin to getta rich;
en de sai det gold is founda in striz!
Mi work en work ol dei
to meke sam dollar,
en mi eat pizza, en drink vino...
mi wanna be lika Al Pacino:
a famos attor ov Hollivud!
En me veit too mani iers, to see butiful voman
laika Marilin Monro...whata a fess!
Whata a bodi! A Diva so sexi!
En mi wanna be laika Valentino from Italia,
to sedus ol duh pritty ladi vid mi ciarma;
en ol kiss mi...O locki Casanova!
English Translation:
I come to America with a passion for money and food,
hoping to get rich;
and they say that gold is found on streets!
I work and work all day
to make some dollar,
and I eat pizza and drink wine...
I would like to be like Al Pacino
a famous actor in Hollywood!
And I waited many years to see beautiful women
like Marilyn Monroe...what a face!
What a body! A Diva so sexy!
And I like to be like Valentino from Italy,
to seduce all the pretty ladies with my charm;
and they all kiss me...O lucky Casanova!!
Entered in Deborah's Gucci, " Dialects make the world go around "
(Brooklyn-Italian dialect)
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Growing up Italia
stone walk ways
villages with garden
walls floral pastel
creeping across
olive branches
picking merlot
from the trees
soft leather straps
surrounding my
bronzed feet espresso
fountains leaving a faint
aroma the scent of coffee
for miles Italian icy
naturally churn ancient
ruins enhances my sight
Venice pour into valleys
and canals while Vicenza
always seems to call
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
i've just been reliably informed that
the manchester united dressing room was bugged
before their match at aston villa
it is a shocking security breach
but classic sci-fi can be a bit hit and miss
like my pancakes
but we soldier on
we have tickets for the opera
as we still await to see on stage the essentials;
making a cup of tea
reading the newspaper
putting on a pair of socks
but there's a character on stage dying from
tuberculosis, which according to Wikipedia is an infectious disease.
that causes
significant damage to the lungs
and she's singing her heart out
i whisper to my wife, "this is fun."
that italia '90 fella was good
you'll be in tears
The battles ower ,smoke settles ower the moor,
Clans are broken flying aff tae the hills.
Redcoated sodjers mingle with red Heilan blude,
Killing the wounded in Drumossie mud.
Oor Prince has fled leaving dreams in the dust,
Of a Stuart oan the throne that was oor lust,
like the heron scared of mans approach
fleeing his home being taen awa tae France.
Some say he was a bonnie lad cam frae italia way,
Heir tae the royale throne pretending tae be king,
Nae clue or fighting skill but the bonnie prince could sing.
Noo he was being led awa tae catch a boat tae tak him awa.
It was spoken of in tones hushed and still,
Ane day he wid return tae claim the throne,
Frae ower the watter oor king wid come,
Alang wi lairds cawed awa tae France.
© Andrew Provan McIntyre 2016-05-28
Grandpa Francesco Proia,
from Caserta, Italia,
a clever stowaway
in the bowels of the ship
bringing him to Ellis Island,
Feb. 4, 1905.
Gruff ways,
often snarling a guttural “Huh,”
a lack of English,
never-ending hand gestures,
made me fearful of him.
But awestruck I was
with the romantic notion
of his stowing away.
Bootlegging homemade vino
during Prohibition – another
plus as he captured my imagination as
un farabutto – a scoundrel, a reprobate.
Add in his being a coal mine boss
in Marianna, Pennsylvania,
and I had a genuine hero.
How many other children
claimed such details about their grandpas?
Never telling anyone
of my naïve admiration for him,
family loyalty prevented me
from bragging about him.
Living to just a few days short
of his “hunnert” birthday,
I loved and admired him to the end.
Even when the ship’s manifest
I discovered for La Lorraine
listed him as a passenger
in steerage, not a stowaway.
Italia we strolled the country side throughout
the villages of Tuscany peeking through stone
ways above garden nooks of Puglia catering to
the soft and sensual galleries of floral canvases
that covered scented walk ways gathering the
divine taste of hidden vines borrowed by rows
and rows of lemon trees pricking my fingers
on olive bushes again while we dazzled the
evening air beneath the moonlight both my aunts
my grandmothers sister managed to travel from
Mason Vicentino just for our annual first date as
they chuckled hardily at your vagabond loafers
mocassini's moccassini's making your cheeks
blush while looking over the balconies peering
down the cobble stones this ritual is always
carried out religiously completely steadfast as
everyone sits patiently awaiting my return my
Nonna swaying to the tarantella as soft chiffon
curtains blew in the breeze this fabric was sent
from France by my grandfather still serving in the
Army my shyness remained intact trying not to fall
over wearing my oldest sisters clogs she insisted that
I promised not to scuff them on this grand evening
finally returning to the calming comforting busom of my
family culture heritage Italia Italia and the purity
of my own chastity covenant why until matrimony
celebration like all the women in the family before me
according to my Nonna we are a of rare Greek Italian
Masons and Muses I suppose while i finally arrived
lovingly embraced by sheer wholesomeness tradition
the surety of home
Italia, Italia
I write to you with bated breath
How I long to step in your sand
Sink down to the souls,
Of my ancestors,
Il sole e la sabbia
Your sand in my feet
Your sun in my eyes
Italia, you are my home.
The one I have yet to reach
Nevertheless, my heart belongs to Italia
Dressed in white clouds,
And the night in satin,
She runs warm fingers through my hair,
And we travel along as if no one is there.
The music pours down from heaven
I am a desperate clown and I dance and I cry
And I fly from the strings in your arms like a puppet,
And I am waiting for everything to happen.
The great mistake we make is we take love for granted,
And we close shut our eyes and strike imbalance,
As the snow falls for long and it stirs us,
So I say goodnight for the night to hear us.
A copper coin in a tray for your delight,
A cello a sparrow a dog and the sea,
And the sadness in my eyes as the stars they shine,
And what I want will be close to my heart and be mine.
I say goodnight to the moon, goodbye England,
Bongiorno Italia, it’s a trip we should take,
And in my hand I hold a ticket,
And make my future with the light steps of a cricket.
I have a voice that’s achingly serene,
A nervous breakdown and a broken arm,
I have everything under the sun, I belong,
And with the next beat I’ll be even more strong.
It’s not what you say but what you do,
And the vistas and panoramas of life
extend way up to the heavens
I am hanging from a tree, they bring me food,
And it’s now time to improve,
For I am close and I am tight to the endless,
And whatever you try you can’t bend me.
If at times I can hide from the crowds,
If I am a juror with panache and buoyancy,
If I can climb up 10,000 stairs and still breath,
I can take 10,000 stairs and be on destruction’s eve.
Personally I take an issue, but I suffer sometimes,
And if the night is young then I fight,
And if you flirt with me I ignite,
For what is a story without an ending,
And then love is only understanding.
This year has seen God very near
working His providence through many a turn
giving real opportunities to newly speak
no matter how often others would spurn
Much enjoyment was given to me
spending time alone loving to walk
among God's created nature jewel
interspersed with coffee/cake in stock
Many splendid hours spent to read
history, bio, theology and poems
travel on hols to various spots
in UK as well as Italia to roam
Enjoy all my favourite classic music
gaining inspiration to move my pen
God is really so very very good
He's my light so high Hallelujah! Amen!