Before the Simplon pass at the Italian-Swiss border, is a Roman bridge over the Diveria River. It’s called the “new” bridge, because it was built in 1300 c.e. to replace the previous bridge built in the reign of Emperor Augustus that was destroyed by a flood.
“Poetry gives us the opportunity to offer our observations to present and future readers, be they from the perspective of one standing on the bridge watching events or of one standing below and taking on the current. I’m looking forward to a month of editing and I know that my IPM readers are standing on the bridge waiting for the flow of poems to begin…”
So began International Poetry Month 2015 and the flow of poems was fascinating for me to edit and I hope that both Readers and Poets enjoyed getting their feet wet. I offer my most sincere thanks to the participating poets and to the more than 1000 readers who came from the United States, England, Australia, Brazil, Italy, Pakistan, Canada, Denmark, France, India, Luxembourg, Singapore, the UAE, New Zealand, Trinidad & Tobago, Japan, Germany, the Netherlands, Nigeria, Switzerland, Israel, Ghana, the Philippines, Belgium, Peru, Romania, Serbia and Portugal to read their work.
Today is the fourth of March and Spring seems only a few days away here in Northern Italy while I know those in other places are still slogging through the snow. Regardless of the temperature, here the snows have begun to melt and these poems will begin to erode away, disappearing a few at a time and leaving only the voices behind. Some you will still be able to find on the web, or in a book. Some will be gone for good. Where do we go from here? Why across the bridge and in search of new images, new experiences and new poetry. Following is an alphabetical list of the participating poets; each name is also a link to the poet’s work posted at IPM where you will find additional links to individual blogs or published works:
The written version of this poem has disappeared. To listen to the poet’s reading of the poem, click on the player below:
You can find more poetry by Robert Okaji on his blog HERE on in his new chapbook “If Your Matter Could Reform” which will be published in April of this year as the first book in the National Poetry Month series by Dink Press
Land of gladiators and Michelangelo
Roman ruins, streets of water, pasta putenesca
History, mystery, beauty and romance
Under fragrant wisteria
In a rose trellised park corner off the piazza
Is a pond, with a fountain, dappled gold and green
Too perfect to exist, it must be a movie
A woman with a lion’s mane made of raven wings
That spills gracefully, playfully, over bare, marble shoulders
Tempts her Marcello, or Antonio, or Giuseppe
To kiss in waters carpeted by tourists’ copper wishes
Glowing warmly under a technicolor moon
Different scene at high noon:
Boys play cowboy in the park, kicking up dust
Pretending to drown Indians while ducks quack,
Church bells ring,
Happy daffodils sway
Smiling young mothers shoo bumble bees from
sleeping babies in prams
Under a canopy of wisteria
I saw three boys beat another almost to death
Blood arcing from his face
Graceful as the water in the fountain
Dancing in the sky
Ruby droplets spinning in the sun
Crashing, splashing, exploding bombs
On ancient stone, silent and indifferent as the day they were set,
All those years ago
this weather,
which feels like spring,
though i remind myself it is not,
lures me from my smoky car,
turned inward,
to my plastic garden chair,
turned outward.
with this simple exchange,
i become part of the neighborhood again.
ray apologizes for his cussing
in the midst of a watery crisis,
rodney and michael work
on a livery of cars,
kerry argues by cell phone,
and the children play
on christmas-born scooters.
my winter lair
has sequestered me
from these goings on.
bare feet propped,
sap bubbling in my bones
i dare the winter long promising
to roust me again
from my comfortable perch.
.To hear more poems by anonymous 20th century poet, click HERE.To read more poetry by anonymous 20th century poet, click HERE.
To listen to the poet’s reading of this poem in English click on the audio below:
You can read more of Anna Mosca’s “California Notebooks” by clickingHERE.Leggi più dei “quaderni californiani” di Anna MoscaQUI.
La notte si ingrandiva spessa di neve alla Biurca de Gàvet, tutta luminosa di spilli di ghiaccio e di luna. Dal ponte arrivava una donna giovane vestita di pannolenci.
………………………………………………………………………………………
“Mia piccola nonna, Maria”
Quando ti ha chiuso gli occhi intorno
c’era solo suléugul
e il fumo di una piccola lucerna
pulizia e dignità come nel candore
dei muri di calcina e nel lenzuolo
di canapa e quanto c’è di unico
e di compiuto nell’essere.
…………………………….
Al funerale una foglia avvizzita si librò sul fiume e scomparve. Ogni cosa era avvolta dal freddo. Solo delle pecore erano sperse sulla stretta, flemme, andavano aldilà. Di ritorno, c’era odor di polenta, patate e biancheria lavata. Mangiammo con fame quel che il nonno ci metteva davanti.
An English translation of this poem can be found below:
The night expanded thick with snow at Biurca de Gàvet, all bright pins of ice and moon. A young woman dressed in thin felt came from the bridge. ……………………………………………………………………………
“My little grandmother, Maria”
When you’d closed your eyes around there was only forlornness and the smoke of a small oil lamp
cleanliness and dignity as in the white of the lime-washed walls and in the hempen sheets and how much there is of the inimitable
and of completeness in being. ……………………………
At the funeral a withered leaf drifted on the river’s surface and disappeared. Everything was enveloped by the cold. Only the sheep were scattered along the narrow way, phlegmatically, they moved along. Returning, there was the smell of polenta, potatoes and freshly-washed laundry. We ate with hunger what Grandfather set before us.
(translated by Bonnie McClellan)
for more poems by Giacomo Gusmeroli on this blog, click HERE.
Mai e poi mai dimenticalo – ribadì- quel bene affidato, quel
sentir giusto. Ricordali quei nomi scalpellati
sulle nostre soglie di pietra – le date di nascita e le ……..impronte,
e insieme i canti, quel libro, quell’eco, la conca, le lune;
iöiumé!, e di pre-sera quando il nonno, guadagnato il pane,
tira via dai piedi i calzerotti, mette a posto gli arnesi ………a piano a piano
nel sua rastrelliera; poi, alla fontana, si lava
i piedi, il collo, le mani temprate e i capelli ricciuti.
E, benevolo e straniato, beve a sazietà , portandosi
alla bocca la ciotola di legno – opera delle sue ………opere
povere, fragili, e utili; – beve a testa alta,
più distinto degli altri, il nonno statuario,
il nonno vacillante.
An English translation of this poem can be found below:
Never and then never to be forgotten – resounded – that entrusted good, that feeling of rightness. Remember them, those names chiseled on our stone thresholds – the dates of birth and the imprints,……. and together the songs, that book, that echo, the basin, the moons;
iöiumé!, and in early evening grandfather, having earned his daily bread, pulls heavy socks from his feet, puts his tools in their place row by row……. in the rack; then, at the pump, he washes his feet, his neck, his tempered hands and curly hair.
And, benevolent and apart, drinks his fill, carrying to his mouth the wooden bowl – work of his working……. poor, fragile, and useful; – head high he drinks, more distinct than the others, the statuary grandfather, the vacillating grandfather.
.
(translated by Bonnie McClellan)
for more poems by Giacomo Gusmeroli on this blog, click HERE.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 