Sunrise, 30 December 2020 Now is the hour of the small birds storming into the cypress tops, which do not bend as they do under the weight of magpies and ravens. A murmuration of morning steam rises off the cement factory. Disguised as fast-moving clouds, they power up the valley; an insubstantial mother tugging at the hand of her sleepy puff of a child, running off into nothing. Now the sun snaps across the mountains an incandescent ribbon of rose-lipped pink. Clouds, scattered across the measureless pale-blue tile of sky, explode into tulip petals, pink swans, holy doves alight.
Category: Life In Italy
Shadow Play: Fennel and Bees
For Matthew, on the occasion of his 57th birthday: 18 June 2020
Old Women and Old Men at the Ferry Stop
(The old women)
We remember the harem of the walled citrus grove;
Old women, how like apple trees we gather now:
Pink, heavy with stories of
some familiar odd thing —
mimosa trees, a seagull’s wing.
The wind rattles branch and bone
creases in our skin drawn dry
the feathered marks begin
(The old men)
A grove of old men gathers at the dock
live oak, pin oak;
Backs curved, stilted up
Worn down with the effort of standing
Dry twig of a laugh cracks wry.
The empty and chaotic air,
that passing through the trumpet sounds:
Ferry outbound, ferry in
Grebes baste across the swanless surface
disappearing threads.
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21 March 2020, Lombardia, Italia – by Bonnie McClellan
21 March 2020, Lombardia, Italia
everything stilled
the world has stopped
a spring
crowned with silence.
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On the occasion of the municipality posting a letter asking people to pay their cemetery dues – by Bonnie McClellan
On the occasion of the municipality posting a letter asking people to pay their cemetery dues
Boxes of disremembered bones
expatriated into/out of locus
sad berth
the heartbreak of a January
blossoming cherry.
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Paranoia by Bonnie McClellan
Paranoia
Her eyes slide to the side
like a Sienese saint
Painted by the brothers who died in the plague
back when there were 100 stories to tell
while bodies rotted,
left where they fell.
Escape into a place where
we can’t smell
we can’t feel
we can’t fear
But she’s convinced it’s coming:
selfie snapping
facial mapping
the lost weekend
the bottom
of the barrel.
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Cloud Towers
Thunder is grumbling down again,
Out of that un-ironed pile of forgotten clouds,
towering over the Alps.
Sweltering, breaking heat
A few 11 o’clock fireworks,
Even here.
.
.
.
.
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False Nettle
I am early / the train is late / the image is ubiquitous as false nettle / poetry is a red cat in a sunny window / lying to get out.
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The Mountains Are on Fire: by Bonnie McClellan
The mountains are on fire with clouds,
burning wet they billow up,
choking the spaces between the trees.
I hear the ticking of two clocks.
Furrowing through the valleys
fat white engulfs the state road,
levelling even the bell tower’s lopsided stones.
The crackling ash of rain stops.
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Horizon lines: by Bonnie McClellan
the world is dark.
shutters open.
the sky’s glacial pool opens.
three morning stars laugh
over the horizon line.
* * *
this copse of time
this stand of hours
………..between nows
becomes a minute
………..thicket
bristling towards the moon.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 