SoMa Blues in LEFT CURVE no. 36

I am incredibly grateful to Csaba Polony editor of LEFT CURVE for having included my poem "SoMA Blues" in the latest issue of his prestigious magazine. I wrote this poem during my 3 weeks stay in San Francisco in August 2010, at the time I met Jack Hirschman in Caffè Trieste. The poem was inspired by the homeless people in the area of South Market that I met as I was walking along Market Street one day. I was very touched by what my eyes witnessed. 

Next April 29th at 5:00 pm there will be a celebration for the release of the magazine at City Lights Books, don't miss it of you are in town! You can read my poem here below.


Ringrazio infinitamente Csaba Polony per aver incluso la mia poesia "SoMa Blues" nella sua prestigiosa rivista LEFT CURVE. Ho scritto questa poesia a San Francisco durante la mia permanenza di 3 settimane nell'agosto 2010, all'epoca in cui conobbi Jack Hirschman a Caffè Trieste. Ad ispirare questa poesia sono stati i senzatetto della zona di South Market, mentre mi trovavo a camminare lungo Market Street. La scena che mi si presentava dinanzi agli occhi mi ha profondamente commosso. Il prossimo 29 aprile alla City Lights Books avrà luogo la presentazione della rivista. Non mancate, se siete in città! Potete leggere la mia poesia qui di seguito. 

SoMa Blues

                                                

7 p.m.

    South

        Market

               plays

                       its

                    moaning

                           Blues

                             as

                     I walk

                along

             the   

     crowded

 street

full of

  miserable

                men,

                     holes

                 in soles

                    and

           desolate

       notes of

    crying

flesh.

          "A dollar

       for a burger,

     PLEASE", says

         the hoary

             lady.

NEED CASH FOR ALCOHOL RESEARCH

reads the sign that

  a young man holds 

  in his weary hands.

I pass by with a sense of 

sorrow and impotence

for these dostoyevskian

               creatures

s

a i l

 i

 n

 g

                                                    their drunken hungry boats

                                                         on an invisible bread

                                                              and alcohol sea

  My bucks for your

  desolate kingdom

  of nursed bruises,

       licked scars.

               Oh

    wingless fallen

   angels populating

  the barren streets,

 I cannot mend your

s

 h

   a

     t

       t

        e

          r

           e

             d

                 dreams,

       I cannot heal your

                poor souls.

 I can only wail at

 the crisp SF sky your

derelict stories and

  our memento mori.