Best Piazza Poems
I can still recall the look upon His face
Each thought still makes me go to that enchanting place
The vernal air was floral sweet and honey breezed
We roamed along Venice's zigzagged lanes and cobbled streets
On our secret rendezvous,We hugged affectionately under pastel gothic galleries
Greeted by the aromatic smell of freshly brewed roast coffee beans
Strolling along the pigeon-filled piazza San Marco
We wandered hand in hand,in the serenissima ancient floating land
Street musicians played their flutes.as We sat on a roof-top wooden terrace
We glanced at merchants sell hand-blown murano glass
by the picturesque Doge's palace
We ate a snack , then walked away towards the old opera house
which now has risen from its ashes.
We sauntered forward through little alleys
from where He bought me ,a gold painted venetian mask
To my surprise ,He had another gift,a wrapped up scarlet sheer laced basque
I peered at him through my dark lashes,He raised his left brow and flashed a smile
Expressed his charm in playful ways,in a flirtatious endearing style.
Boarded at last on a black gondola,cruised the lagoon and the canals
A few light kisses,a few soft brushes,waiting the bell's toll whilst in his arms
There we lay in waiting beneath the bridge of sighs
We sealed our kiss and promised lips,to the harmonic sound of chimes
He leaned on me,I welcomed Him,our spirits been entwined
Above,the sky has changed its colour,I watched the sun set in his eyes
All I am,I gave to him,my enduring heart- His sacred shrine
All that He is He gave to me in once upon a time
Not for the contest,but thanks for the 'Lovemaking in an ancient place contest,inspiration'.
This post is inspired by Ancient Venice and the tale of 'The Bridge Of Sighs'
The tale goes-If you kiss your loved one with the bell's toll of St,Mark's Basilica,
at sunset,beneath the bridge of sighs,the couple seals their love forever.
There is another tale to it,a sad one,but preferred to share the happy one : )
The setting sun urged holiday makers
To roam around the Venice canals.
A thousand and one lamps helped
The gondoliers to find their way
As he sang a lovely love song
And pleased the lovers as they sat
On comfy cushions on the boat
Occasionally stealing a kind kiss.
Stare at the twinkling beautiful stars
Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes,
List and learn, ye dainty roses
We're called the gondoliers
And this is our song of love.
Venice knew what love meant,
Even when they traverse the bridge of sighs.
They wondered how many crossed
To their doom. But that was ages ago.
Now the bridge was decorated with lamps.
Oh, what a beautiful sight it was.
Solitary gulls lead all to Piazza San Marco.
The lovers looked in awe at the tourists.
They paid the gondolier handsomely
And descended on to the vast square.
They found a table and ordered
An espresso and a tasty pizza.
It was expensive but worth it.
Giant poet gem, Tagore’s story-poem: NISKRITI,
Is a piazza perched paved and perfectly paced beauty;
Scale model of a castle of vast poetic kingdom,
That has spread into an empire of Indian wisdom!
Manjulika is a dew-drop in the mighty ocean,
Of the land of Bay of Bengal where feminine gender;
Fulfills wants of men as mother, wife, daughter and labors,
Less fulfilled of subtle cravings, in her heart she harbors!
Nucleus firm; Malabika has solemnly sung it,
Narration, like roots, stems, leafs, flowers, fruits of plants well-knit!
Images complex extract emotions, expose like day light,
Questions of destiny hang, like stars in dense dark sky, bright!
Figures of speech, like hand-picked coffee-seeds, well chosen,
And like gems and pearls in an ornament, fairly woven;
With stones of words and verses flat, oval, blunt, round, pear, square,
The edifice erected here is stern, solemn and somber!
05 December 2021
Inspired By A Translation Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Malabika Ray Choudhury
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
THE HOUSE OF LORDS
I am from The House of Lords
where men are great and women are whores.
I am travelling to the home front to inform
my country that war is to come.
Our rivals are jealous of our fortune.
They sent a woman because their attention becomes grave.
I am sharing this with my fellow women for solidarity and support.
I must bring honor to The House of Lords.
Cohesion is the militia.
We all aimed to a common cause.
We know our men are our strength; therefore,
we must morally espousal.
I come to empower.
We will write to enrich and advocate for corroboration.
In that we fight for our self-worth,
Let us henceforward.
We will stand in the piazza.
We will speak in our clearest voice.
We will bring insight through our performance.
This will be an enjoyable time for all.
However, when the time comes, we must declare war.
I came to home front for stratagem.
Our military are strategic women and men.
Insofar, we know when.
The House of Lords is foreshadowing a liberated country for its inhabitants.
Our conflict is with those hostilities because of our affluence.
We are their weakest point.
For that reason, we know that warfare is to come.
|___________________________________________|
Penned December 05, 2014!
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
My Dream Vacation
To return once more to Italy where the forgotten places
still remain in harmony, echoing, antiquities graces.
A private car, traveling through Tuscany in the open air,
with the breeze blowing through my hair.
Where sprawling, fertile, grape vines and gnarled olive trees
grace the terraced mountain sides, their fragrance lingers in the breeze.
Ambling on foot, through Cypress groves, on padded paths of moss,
leading to a village square, where time has all been lost.
In the piazza with its’ cobbled stones, pausing, to hear the fountain sing,
Then stepping up to the carousel, to take my chance, to grab the golden ring.
Listen to the peal of church bells, ushering in mid-day,
climbing up the time worn stairs, to the Basilica to pray.
Kneeling at the altar, a Crucifix hangs, glazed in white
surrounded by Arch Angels, below an apse in gilded golden light.
The voices of ancient sages, whisper vows of silence, speak;
in cloistered columned courtyards, nature’s beauty that I seek.
Evening unfolds to a kaleidoscopic dome, filled with stars;
in a café, nestled in the hills, I begin my memoirs.
Date: March 5, 2022
For: My Dream Vacation Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L. Milton Hankins
Placed 3rd in contest
Alone and waiting in a corner of the piazzA
I can feel my heart race and throB
The night is warm and the mood is romantiC
Sweet scents of flowers wafteD
In the evening breezE
I close my eyes and allow myselF
To him a tune from a lively sonG
From my lips escape a soft and contented sigH
As my fingers tap loudly to make a TimpanI
I remember my old friend RaJ
My mind wandered and drifted bacK
To the sea of memories in a saiL
Images on my mind unfold as in a dreaM
Like a song that plays a sad refraiN
The sound of the past lingered like echO
As I open my eyes to the present and woke uP
To the chiming of the clock tower so antiQ
As it strike to tell the hour, my mind bluR
The memories fade leaving me with feelings of happinesS
So fleeting that I lost myself for a momenT
Reality set in as I search the milieU
Hoping to find the familiar face of my luV
I wonder if he would show up somehow
My heart longs to see him and I feel vex
As the night progress, making my head tipsY
From wine and the ringing of slaughters in my ears buzZ
Sticky, humid, skin
Sweltering inferno blaze
Summer has no wind
The flies are dizzy
Joy hums from each piazza
Two views of day's rot
The hydrant founts glee
No rain promised in the sky
Water is respite here.
The tongue flakes songs
Lovers returned to the parks
Love sparks a new flame
Dreams burn in desire
The heart pants for new friendships
Pale male on his spire.
Summer has no wind
The city swelters without rain
And love blooms again.
Chartreuse tassels hang quiet, still
Birds joyfully sing love's song
Roosters' melodies fill the hollow
Each greet spring gone so long
Charcoal clouds ruffled across blue
Cobalt could bring a shower
Wash golden forsythia's blooms
Loaded with blossom power
The still air loaded with pollen
Each plant seeking a mate
Some falling upon car and barn
Missed wind's transport to date
An egg yolk sun peeks through cobalt
Will it shine the whole day
Is there rain in those early clouds
Let joy exude come what may
Is it the fog or is it just the steam
That's rising from Italian coffee cups?
Today I wonder if the sunlight beam
Was ever cherished by the grownups.
The fog makes blurry things that once were clear
And make us doubt in clarity of mind
Of humans who left sunlight way behind,
Replacing emptiness of heart with fear.
On foggy day you spot the silhouettes
Of ones you love, though they are far away
And that reminds you how sunbeam reflects
In loving eyes. Thus, silently you pray
That this damn fog will dissipate one day.
Especially in the heads of those
Who mistook thistle for some kind of rose.
Kind wind will blow away the nasty fog,
For kindness is the strongest driving force
That powers sun and every mind agog
In never-ending quest to find its source.
And loving eyes will sit with you on day off
On some Italian piazza in the sun
And there'll be nothing more to be afraid of
But maybe pizza slightly overdone.
Everywhere and nowhere
or a bit to the left
in the yellow bending of the fall.
Along the street of the lost
leaves which ever led us
to the Piazza Navona...
The dark star entered my eye
it and the song of a real cricket.
June the most beautiful month, delivered the most angelic Angels
I
Poetically
Extend My Warm Congratulations
To every Beautifully Heavenly
delivered Angel who
stepped
feet on
planet
Earth
On
Jumping unto new elevations; June
Boarding a flight to a poem land in the
Poetry
Soup
Jet
Goodnesses
Blessing
Favour
Peace
Love
Joy
Happiness
Amen
Amen
Amen
Bountiful Abound Your Outcomes
May your poetic golden ink never run down
The streams flowing from the inspiration of poetry soup
Be your waterfalls
May your paper never be exhausted
The white clouds to be your blank sheet
Happy ,,........................happy
Poetic celebrated life, more Grace, more strength, more insight, ....Health Packaged in the Blood of Jesus...... In JESUS NAME!!!!
Abundant Beauty Always Your outcomes as you move increasingly the golden stairways
Get your heavenly birthday package
Sent by an Angel
This Golding morning
Expect the piazza befall nightfall
He will wing to your doorsteps
And a chime will be the sign of the knock
On your June footsteps
Happy Birthday June Poetry Soupers
From
I ,
me
&
myself
Gideon
They wait perfumed in fresh clothes,
The kids, at the top of the stairs;
We’ll be back by evening Auntie, says the mother,
C’mon or we’ll miss the corriera.
They troop off down the stairs,
Cross a courtyard into the whining of
A carpenters lathe,
And crunching of gravel,
Past Mr.B’s house, with his collection of
Rare coins;
Exit a dank passage and enter a warm
Ochre world.
They greet C in his grocery, which
Smells of cinnamon and washing powder;
Pass the old mill, where legend said
Ghosts roam at night,
Finally reaching the bubbling piazza.
The corriera announces its arrival,
The kids don’t care, they’ve got their Spiderman
Comics to think about.
By sundown they were back, weary,
Sleeping on each others shoulder,
Pity it was all over;
And the kids dream of Spiderman.
Some in Israel feel they’re quite grand
Only they can hear god’s command
They often recite
Commandments at night
Yet kill and steal Palestine's land
Palestinian piazza
Includes the West Bank and Gaza
Israel's ethnic purge
Might let these sites merge
At fine hotels like the Plaza!