|
POETRY By: Louis Antonelli,
Lenore Baeli Wang, Dona Luongo Stein, and Frank J. Palescandolo the death of
the romantics they
waited, panting in the old street the
procession was soon to begin, and they had not eaten understanding
that the art of word and hand will
elude a famished mouth so
they looked to the mirrors of the sky and
the vanity of the world cracked, worn from age and neglect shards
of glass fell at the door of the imposing cathedral where
they still waited, panting against the stone, with no refuge
from the falling heavens and
they looked, for hunger brought curiosity back from the phantoms, seeing
at the instant fragments of dreams left unfinished and angry,
raining over those left behind lost
in ages Today
is now, present in the world with no room, right to left the
drifter with two coins encountered a waiting stranger who
asked if he would part with but one of them, for
his own frugal meal of solace but
a question was asked in return, God wondered aloud in thunder, small
child, would
you give your hands for the tortured elders would
you lose your eyes and never see beauty from the vanished race and
would you sacrifice all that you are for the children not borne unto you the
stranger answered aloud, without pause; dear
drifter, my eyes can no longer see beauty so
they can be of no use to you God’s
tear fell, and in truth it was clear; eternal
stranger, this is only the very smallest of your sins so
the time of the procession was at hand, a moment for kings the
panting stopped, then fanfare the
cathedral was alive with light stained, at
the foot of the high altar stood Gabriel, his
lilt trumpet in hand to herald an answer for those left behind lost
in ages but
the tone held so high a sound, that only the dogs heard the song they
ran to the old streets wildly rejoicing, for
they alone held the secret no
others heard the thoughts of an unborn
child If I could, I would touch you with the smallest
fingers put my hand to your lips and silence all
fear I would hold you ’till sleep came and morning drew near when you wake, I would feed you a peach and pear nestle to your bosom and stroke your silken hair as day skies light, I would listen for your voice and hymn ever so safe in your arms as daybreaks, and darkness begins when night comes clear, I would wash your face, wait for your
motion, and join stride to heed; if your temples do ache, would I wash my mother’s hopeful face and I will wait for day to break and begin anew in the
business On your mark, get ready, get set get set get set get set get set get set get set get set get set get set get set (get ready) get set get set get (are you sure you’re ready?) set get set get set get set get set get set get set get (are you ready?) set get set get set get set get set get set get set (?) PLAY BALL! get set get set get set get set get set
get set get set get set get set get EXTRA! EXTRA! STRUCK OUT IN THE NINTH WITH THE BASES LOADED! -sometime later, SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET (get ready) GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET “get set,” said the man in green pants GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET “on your mark,” added the lady with silver lipstick SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET “ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE READY!” yelled a voice from the crowd set get set get set get set get set get set get set (I was born ready) GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET (?) SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET SET GET (I love this!) SET GET SET GET, “kid, let me tell you, one hand washes the other, both hands wash the face.” (are you sure) non scrivere
sotto for Rose Romano Her
two feet in Napoli head way above the clouds she’s
etched in neon across the concave belly of sky her
words, work of red, long fingernail extended, extending this
uncenturied sylph from her podium of Sicilian soil mounts
higher, needs no polish— that’s not why her growing nails glow red Oh
yes, her neck curves wisely as she looks down upon
the thousand feet of saints pink in their scurrying round
her luminous arch and curl of toe aura
of lavender flowing along the green, the white Her
purple footprints across the land would be enough. Sicilian /
american girl driving down the road 1 On the flesh-soft leather
inside walls of steel, gleaming down
the road she goes carried indirectly by the
Japanese hands which produced the automobile— an enthroned empress of sorts— but despite her silken knees,
pressed together, black linen dress
with fashionable buttons, every dark hair in place, despite the man beside
her—calm, suited, holding the wheel—don’t be
fooled: she’s not in Soho about to
park then shop for art to decorate their five bedroom Colonial in
safer Jersey. 2 The flesh-soft leather,
pin-pricked pig- skin pulls tight beneath her
ass, drum- tight reverberating not to
cylinder and piston, to the rhythmic beat
of a hot island pot her
grandmother used, wooden spoon against iron as she stirred the sauce in a hut
hung with curtains she managed to
spin out of odd bits of string,
out-grown dresses, frayed underwear. Her
grandmother’s daughter said Always sit with legs closed, as she sits now, this
second-generation Sicilian / American beside her man whose clean fingers grip the wheel’s skin— don’t be fooled; though he’s
easily peeled the silk right off
those polished knees, she’s the one who’s opened
wide to the rhythmic embrace where every hair tangles far from in
place, scattered buttons pressing
designs on his back. It is her man whom
she decorates in a New Jersey bedroom that’s never really safe at
all. revenge The Greek Mafia’s the worst,
Mother used to say. She’d say this when my father packed his gun under a few clothes before disappearing for weeks. After a
few days there was no food, the only
car was gone, and we’d wear hats, mittens, socks to bed. We’d pile into the Greyhound bus—the dog, Dad called it—and ride to our
aunt’s. We’d stay with our cousins,
three bedrooms for six of them and the six of us counting the babies, the twins. Uncle George hadn’t gotten to
indoor plumbing yet; a plank with a
hole covered a wooden box in the cellar. How the hole terrified me! Hands could reach from fetid darkness before I could get to the pages of the Sears
Catalogue lying nearby. What fun we thought we had tobogganing into the field where snow, hard pellets of ice from breaking crust flew up,
cut—the snow would be pink or startlingly
red where we landed, but no one got seriously hurt or complained. That would leave the toboggan too light and besides, only the babies were
inside. Later, with cocoa and
crackers, we’d overhear the grown-ups whispering, and the shadow of fear, the Greek Mafia, edged close. Years later, Mother tells my
brother, “The Greek Mafia’s the
worst!” He’s packing to leave the country after her house’s vinyl siding has been pocked with bullets, his car doused with gasoline. She
lives in dread of noises at the
door, of a squat package, its toweling pink-tinged, the size of a head she might accidentally kick when she steps out, one hand still on the door, her purse
held by an elbow as she turns, steps onto the worn granite slab below the sill of the front door. OmertÀ: code of silence Good
children, we keep the family
secrets don’t invite
friends home don’t tell
the cops what we know when they
take Daddy into
another room and we know what’s going to happen next. Good lovers,
we laugh when we’re
told we’re
musical, volatile terrific
cooks that we
can’t lie because
muscles in our brown faces move in
laughter, disdain and the air
between our hands shapes meaning plain. Good
parents, we tell our children of our trip
to Italy its glories,
our pride but not too
much about Daddy or granpa’s
illiterate bride. saratoga liar At the flat track I search the track kitchen for my father eating breakfast at
five-thirty with exercisers, trainers and relatives of the crew who follow the season North in May, further
North as the summer burns on then back to Florida. He’s not here nor is he in the stands where his lingo I learned
early “odds,” “long shot” flies around me. What
order and beauty—white fences, bright grass, silks shiny in the sun and the taut
limbs of tall horses ready to
run. The program crackles in my
hand then the loudspeaker—among
determined bettors his dark skin didn’t matter, nor his
stake for the day that cleared out my
sister’s and my savings for any future education. We would have listened,
rapt students, if he’d told us this truth of excitement, dreams, and
animal speed instead of his defense before mother, his averted
gaze when we saw him after school as he said “a bad business
deal” instead of “I picked a nag in the fifth and fourth and third.” stonecutter My father’s
father rarely talked died of
cancer of the lip, tongue cheek,
windpipe, vocal cords. He sang
arias while he chiseled rose marble,
black marble, green marble in the back
yard showed
visitors his own head stone he worked
when business was slow his name
GIOVANNI GIUSEPPE letter by
letter deep and shadowed
in the marble with the
long space below for those
who would follow The
Cathedral at Vico Equense Vesuvius lies northwest of my place; A camp chair under the portico; Of the Thirteenth Century Cathedral, At Vico Equense; the scene dramatic: A Pagan landscape, the fabled shore; Where Pliny gasped his last in lava
fumes; A vicinity, where Nero capsized The boat of his mother Agrippina; The natal home of Torquato Tasso; Gardens of the Epicureans; Tomb of Virgil, soil of the Georgics; Phantom villas long lost to the blue sea; Tiberius on Capri, Hadrian’s Soul teasing him with eternal riddles; Sorrento, the prompter box of genius; Lovely Posillipo, without a care; Romantic groves of Salvator Rosa. I munch on leftover lunch; Figs and proscuitto, milky mozzarella; And, empty a flask of Ischian red. It is dusk, the volcano is grey; Crematory, and cinerary urn; Behind me, the dead lie in blessed
crypts; A wisp of smoke from the jagged crater, Reminds all is vanity, straw to burn. A fisherman standing in a dory, Sights the puff, faces the Sterminator, Strikes an obscene gesture. Land of My
Fathers Middleaged, I stand on Monte Comune; Below are cliffs, Vico Equense, Blue, bluer, bluest; The Gulf of Salerno, And pink Positano. I am still climbing, Head bowed; touring A once family demesne, of Angevin rule. I am greeted by: Benvenuto, Signore! A raspy welcome; A century, or more, Of crackle in her face. In those spindly arms, A slender loaf of bread, And flask of Vesuvian red; Behind her, obedient, Is the most gorgeous goat! Sable coat, ebony muzzle, Feather tail and fetlock; Ivory horns! A devil taking the form Of a goat, Playing the role Of a familiar? An ancient hut of Temple ruins, Lay ahead on the path. Who was she? On my way back, From the very summit, I saw the sable goat, Atop the she-goat; equally beautiful. On a marble plinth, Before the hut, Sat the shawled rustic, Gumming the crust Of a split loaf of wild figs, And olive paste; Empty was the flask, Moted by dregs. My grandfather said of his father’s day: Handsome dragoons on royal hunts Were always warned Of lascivious hellhags, Midst the old religion, In this mountain fastness, Who lie in wait for young men, Of shapely limb, And fair countenance. My skin prickled; I imagined her flesh rounding Into that wicked allure Of a Pythoness! Would she cast a spell now, And ravish me? As if guessing my alarm, Those purpled lips twisted in scorn, She spat to deride, Screeching a lost Oscan dialect, Goats snorted; butted. I trendy in my jeans, Brooks shirt, Adidas sneakers, Carrera sunglasses, Scrambled down, In breakneck dread, To my sporty Spyder Veloce 2000, And gunned it! Later over a Campari, Rattles in my chest, Legs cramping. I only had half a mind to rejoice, That I wasn’t a young, Handsome dragoon, Of shapely limb, And fair countenance. Rome—1985 On the stately approach to St. Peter’s, Wide, smoother than the Road to Calvary, Gilt dome ahead, and many pillared
square; A near naked man lays palm after palm, Against edifice walls for halting aid. In his thirties, red beard, gaunt,
hollowed flanks. In tatters, pudenda partly showing, Lamenting in a tongue I did not know, I looked about for Carabinieri, The help of passerbys, or of a pilgrim, To send for an ambulance to succour, This lorn wretch; to commit him as
insane. No one paid any attention to him; Was this a vision of my own then? I stepped closer, pale blue eyes were not
wild, A deep torment instead; he did not beg. How did he exist? Who fed Him? Homeless! Why allowed to wander in holy precincts? A conspiracy by the most lowly, To affront openly the Mother Church, With one poor in body and spirit? In ragged loincloth, despairing, fearful, Was he groomed for another Golgotha? |