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.
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.
Verdi Guiseppe Francesco
let melody &drama flow
A favourite of the opera crowd
with his music both soft&loud
Rome's Francesco Succarelli
painted landscapes so easily
Much admired once they do say
sadly forgotten today
Francesco Guardi so prolific
the love of painting made him tick
He captured Venetian atmosphere
topography now held so dear
Brothers Giuliano and Lorenzo de Medici
were co-rulers of medieval Florence in Italy.
Giuliano was murdered by a rival family.
The assassins were from the family, Pazzi.
They were Francesco de Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli.
The infamous event took place on a Sunday
during High Mass at Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore.
This attack happened on April 26, 1478
before ten thousand who witnessed Giuliano's bad fate.
The murder was the product of an elaborate conspiracy.
Executed were eighty members of the Pazzi.
This was a tragic event in Italian history.
I thank Wikipedia.org for information I obtained to write this poem
Francesco was on his trapeze
Precariously swaying in the breeze
Suddenly he lost his grip
Off that trapeze, he did slip
Because he sneezed
MONA LISA
For ten years his paint brushes danced to the motion
of his hands on a white Lombardy poplar panel,
creating inimitable effects with the image he created –
Yes! Of one Lisa Gherardini, wife of a nobleman,
Francesco del Giocondo.
For ten years he handled his painting like a holy grail,
seeking to perfect his genius in different colored
oils, fused together with the blessings of his muses.
He never painted Mona Lisa even once,
while he’s drunk or angry.
Today, the pristine state of his mind’s reflection in color,
can be seen in the Louvre Museum, in Paris.
Date: 02/05/2017
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.
Tracing the silhouette of her
hourglass shape,
I think of succulent lemons,
those ripe citrus display
of pure divinity
just waiting to be peeled
and deliberately savored...
I gaze upon those valleys,
hills of flesh, wanting to run wild
through her verdant splendor,
but then again,
in all my distant admiration and passion
she's an eternal goddess,
life's timeless image of art...
and I am only a human.
..............
What I Really Like Contest Re-post 3/02/2019
~ Painting of Francesco Hayez, ' Venus'
He wrote poems calling Laura`s name
He felt hopeless, endless pain
For his love was in vain
But it gave him fame
And blessed be the moment
The day, month, year and place
When he saw her starry eyes
And her modest, dignified face
His loneliness and despair I can see
Love is agony and insanity
But the poems are set free
They belong to you and me
They bring together humanity