(SR) 8: The Rose Goes South
THE ROSE GOES SOUTH
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,
And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea
Lord Byron
IN AEREO
CAMPALDINO
CASALINO
VAGABONDO
PAROLA ITALIANA PREFERITA
9 AD
REQUIM @ CASINO
MEMORIUM TO THE PASSAGE OF TIME
BELOW SCOPELLO
ON PRONUNCIATION OF THE MALTESE
OLD MAN RUMINATES ON A STOOL
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO GAUCI’S HONEYMOON
HATS OFF TO EDWARD LEAR
FAREWELL TO MALTA
IN AEREO
Tis a succulent day to be soaring
Over Sussex & her summer-bronz’d fields,
Her towns & cities shaped like knitted shields,
Then… over the Channel’s kitchen flooring.
Old Antwerp passes under in a ring,
With Amsterdam a pleasure to behold,
Huge cumuli glide under glinting gold,
As plain’d Europa trundles under wing.
From cloudy masses rank & file emerge
In polka dot procession to the Alps,
Stones tumble upwards ‘til their snowy scalps
Upstrain to touch us with a granite surge,
When… all at once… our spirits flurry free
Above the orange rooves of Italy!
CAMPALDINO
Across the sheer Consuma Pass the Papal Guelfs did steer
To permeate the Poppi plain, the Ghibellines appear,
Noble Swabian lineage with rival war ensigns,
Amplified by Catenaian Alps & spangling Apennines;
The sun had risen muggy on Saint Barnabas’s day,
Where over Verna, Francis of Assisi’s hands did pray,
Dante Alighieri, far beyond his metaphors,
Stood in the first line of the Guelfs, the fearless Feditors,
Facing the dancing enemy, & yes he was afraid
Protected by Apollo many mortal parries made
As now the Pavesari wrap around the fading foe
Who drop their shields & fled the field, splashing thro’ the Arno,
The Guelfs did claim a victory & furthermore the pride
‘Come Dante,’ said Boccacio, ‘Let us to Florence ride!’
CASALINO
Pui tranquilo del mormorio della rosa,
La piazza di Pratovecchia,
Betlemme-gemellare, rifugio una villagio dolce,
Amosso calmo il pastori chiamato Casalino –
Ecco Dante meditato il suo cante cinque,
Lacrime versate per Paulo & Francesco,
Mescolato con il fiumicello giovane del’Arno,
Scorando a tutta la riva d’Italia –
Un posto per consevara la poesia,
Dove les suore sacreto spezzanno il pane antico,
La, convoco presso il gruniri dei chingialo selvaggi,
Dentro un bosco dove un piede ha calpestato raramente,
Non vita ne storia auiteranno la mia arte,
Solo musica fragrante del cuore delal valle.
VAGABONDO
Solo, sono stato viaggio,
Dalle complessite senza vita,
Di villagio a villagio,
Panarami di vista a vista –
Oh! sospiri del Viarregio,
Oh! scheletro catta di Calcata,
Solo, sono stato viaggio,
Dalle complessite senza vita.
Stelle quando sono campaggio,
Pensiero sulla passagio,
Oh! isola balerno di Ponza,
Oh! piazza confortolvelmente,
Oh! bellaza di Portovenere,
Oh! Non complicato mezza-vita!
9 AD
Thro’ the Teutoburger Wald went the arms of Varius
Arminius of the Cherusci made his excuses
& soon a ghoulish baritas surrounds the sons of Mars
Chaunting for Lord Tuisto & Odin amidst the stars
The chiefs fighting for victory, companions for their chief
They set out all for slaughter, no quarter & no relief
A black storm rages all around the javelins & spears
The fallen Goths are carried off to dry the widow tears
Three days of carnage rampant in the dark & marshy wood
The roman gen’ral cuts his throat & gurgles on the blood
Some men cast off their armour & await the lethal blow
Only a lucky few would safely reach the Rhine’s wide flow
The news reaches Augustus, flying thro grieving regions;
“O Quintillius Varius, give me back my legions!”
REQUIEM @ CASSINO
My child, how did you come her under the western Gloom, you that are stil alive
Oddyssey Book XI
On the day my mother died I went up to Cassino,
O! Tis a place of death if ever there was one my friend,
For six hard months the Gustav Line murder’d thro’ an empire,
& the Poles who fought for Warsaw in a country far away;
In the day’s fading lights the abbey gleam’d ethereal,
Into a dark cathedral driving on my stumbling steps,
I found two shawl’d believers praying at an altar,
Backs to a tumbling organ by goblins hewn I’m sure),
Kneeling before a painting of a young Mother Mary,
Who posed uncanny likeness to my mother when she young,
Syrupy emotions flooded thro’ me, wailing for an outlet,
& as the ladies left I knelt & pray’d for that sweet darling
Who brought me up into this world, & gladsome I am for it
Writing this sonnet ‘neath the moon, in this still mountain air.
MEMORIUM TO THE PASSAGE OF TIME
Shelley has somehow made my library
& instantly I muse back to that time,
Far from these heady days in Sicily,
When Tuscany enthubulised my rhyme,
Remembering that perfect Pisan clime
When Kapitano drank thro our brief fling
By Arno side, & as I sang sublime
He pluck’d our lira like a beggar-king,
Time passes sweet siestas, composing
Pretences of dining with Byron’s crew,
Now summer rises from the finest spring
& life has dealt me dreams becoming true,
Wintering in Sicily’s hinterland,
A palace & a pen in either hand.
BELOW SCOPELLO
To become, to belong, bohemian,
So many miles my smitten songsmith sent,
Striving for prospects paradesean
In an immortal moment’s monument –
Time carves us this vista Tyrennean,
Tranquilo corner of a continent,
To become, to belong, bohemian,
So many miles my smitten songsmith sent.
This rocky cove, this tower, this mountain,
Blend in an often prophesied fusion,
Sweet Sicily! Sate silent & content,
Recently have my dreams increasing seen
Visions of places I had never been,
Where I should sit a songsmith & invent.
ON PRONUNCIATION OF THE MALTESE
Its going to be rather difficult to explain
How to say ‘Mriehel,’ but I’ll make the attempt;
The Maltese would expect the best of me
Being such an industrious people
In the historical face of historical adversity!
Please, purse your lips first, as if to say Mgarr,
Extending the ‘M’, as if you had just tasted
A particularly tasty pea pastizzi pastry;
The next three letters sounds like starting ‘retails,’
But dig the vowel out, then change the pitch –
Higher or lower, I’m not sure it matters much;
Now to the place of rattling chains & wails
Where dwells the Devil & dreams the witch,
Then say the word out loud, with softling touch…
OLD MAN RUMINATES ON A STOOL
Picking tomatoes was damn’d hard work,
& still is for the Syrian immigrants,
While the young bucks of Malta
Strut around in their well-cut suits,
Chasing senorinas dripping in gold
No longer carrying the only pair
Of shoes they’ll ever own, to & from Valetta!
He remembers saving a threppenny bit,
& lending it to his desperate mother
So she could grumble thro’ tombola,
Until “FATTA!”, under the statue,
Watching Karena’s white hair blowing,
While checking the winning numbers,
Mixing his whiskey with ruġġata.
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO GAUCI’S HONEYMOON
Sat under dust for centuries unthumb’d,
I waited, the librarian came oer,
Books clutching, chose at random from a store
Of poetry, by Maltese bards once humm’d;
In half-a-line mine artist heart benumb’d;
An unheard songbird from unearthly shore
Who charms like Keats, whose verses, without flaw
Declare swan spirit, but by time down-dumb’d.
Proclaim the lovely thing that never dies!
The month-long song that sounds the paean too,
By pearl’d effusions dark, soft, velvet hair
Oer hot face streams; her skyswept, bridal eyes
Dazzl’d by Salvatore’s outpouring
In the southern breezes, & adoring!
HATS OFF TO EDWARD LEAR
I saw on Gozo one of nature’s shows;
Charge waves wind-heaving, exploding on rocks,
Leaving weeping waterfalls, til re-rose
Wide swirls of foam on pulsing aftershocks.
I sit in silence as in yesteryear
An English painter rais’d his spectacles,
With trusted monocle on scenes did peer,
Studying, slowly, colour’d opticals.
This is his pomskizillious coastline,
Raw beauties took to heart in ‘sixty-five,
For him the canvas &, for me, the line!
Composing moments magical, alive!
Our English arts belong like this abroad,
Gales watching strike Mgarr’s ix-Xihi fjord.
FAREWELL TO MALTA
Before the burdensome bonanza of my life
Heads griffin east to shake pagoda trees,
If I put my hand to the floor of Malta
I can feel the heartbeat of the World!
Farewell to the one little shop in Manikata!
Farewell ye fabulous fescoes of Hal Millieri!
Auf Weidersehen Tunna Micheli, Adio Axiaq Cutajar!
Goodbye you cool Gianpulan groove gardens!
Fare thee well the smell of pine upon Bajda’s lofty ridge!
Saħħa, at last, ye pedestrian priority strips!
Goodbye to the stray gatti of the Argotti’s golden landscape,
Adieu thou godly facade of the Auberge de Castille!
Au Revoir ye marble-mute saints in the niches of Rabat!
Goodbye My Goddess! My Malta! My Gozo! My Muse!
Mumble Words 