Poetry Rules

A few stills from a recent visit to the MACRO Museum. As usual there were plenty of artists on show, but the main exhibition was truly stunning and well worth the price paid for it. MACRO's Courtyard Paul Delvaux, The Conversation    James Ensor, From Laughter to Tears Félicien Rops, Pornocrates René Magritte, L'Oracle Camille d'havé Johan Muyle, Ni un paso atras Koen Vanmechelen, The Unicorn Jean-Luc  Vanmechelen , Jésus Christ Pascal Bernier & Phil Van Duynen 

Sometimes I think I should write a poetical tour of Rome, and get it published. So many poets have fallen prey to the beauty of Rome over time and it would be nice to walk in their footsteps. Many foreign poets have left an indelible mark in our city and many Italian poets should be celebrated too. Let's check a few places. Keats and Shelley's House This is the house where Keats lived his last months and where he died on February 23rd, 1821. You can visit the room where he died, and enjoy the many relics the museum holds. There are locks of hair of Keats, Shelley and Bryon, handwritten letters and poems (a fragment of "Lamia" that always brings tears to my eyes), funerary masks and one of the most beautiful views of the Spanish Steps. This place is steeped in history and walking in Keats's very footsteps is quite moving. Keats and Shelley's House (1st building on the right) The Non-Catholic Cemetery (or, Protestant Cemetery) Close to the only s...

I am writing again. I am so grateful the Muses are being kind with me. I have just completed a new chapbook and I am also working on new poems. Jack's biography is moving forward as well. It seems I just needed a break from a very, very heavy year. I have been feeding my soul with lots of books, movies and art, lately. I have met and friended many wonderful poets--Michael Rothenberg and Terri Carrion of 100 Thousand Poets for Change among them. There have been poetry readings. There will be more shortly. As I wait for John to be back in Rome in July, I can say life is good. Poetry too. The lavender is blooming at last. Summer is here to stay!

I have always been deeply fascinated by Magritte's paintings. "The Empire of Lights" is my absolute favorite. I have stood admiring it "forever" at the Peggy Guggenheim's Collection in Venice. But, there is a canvas in particular that keeps mesmerizing me. It dates back to 1937 and it is known as "The Therapist". The more I soak it in, the more I feel that it is much more than a mere depiction of the subconscious. I wrote a poem that does capture, or so I believe, the inner poetical nature of this work. To me this painting symbolizes the Poet. The wandering spirit with soles of wind, a bright red cloak, a straw hat, a walking cane and a bag full of books. Each Poet has a transparent soul, an exposed rib cage that cannot conceal the Truth where words in form of doves nest and sing.

Yesterday, October 4th, was Anne Sexton's suicide anniversary. She had long searched for her Mercy Street but could not find it so she chose to gas herself to death in her garage at the age of 45. I have always admired her strong, painful, masterfully written poems but, I had never yet read more about her life than what I had studied on my anthology books at University. Until, just a few days ago, when I decided to buy a memoir book written by Linda Gray Sexton, her daughter, and I am finally catching up on her tormented and highly dramatic life. I will confess that I have asked two famous poems what they thought about her poetry and, I was kind of surprised to learn that they dismissed her work as highly narcissistic. But, knowing their mindset, I can well understand their reaction. Sexton is certainly no poet for the weak of heart. She explores personal themes in an unprecedented manner and in such a stark, brutally honest way that people may end up failing to notice the be...

I feel I have been neglecting my Cendrars for too long. The iconoclastic poetry of the man with one arm has always fascinated me deeply. He is the first real modernist in a way. No wonder Henry Miller worshipped him. Reading him in translation is always tricky. He masters French in a way that makes my heart rejoice. Journal Christ There goes another year in which I haven’t thought about You Since I wrote my penultimate poem Easter My life has changed so much But I’m the same as ever I still want to become a painter Here are the pictures that I’ve done displayed here on the walls this evening. They reveal to me strange perspectives into myself that make me think of You. Christ Life See what I’ve unearthed My paintings make me uneasy I’m too passionate Everything is tinted orange. I’ve passed a sad day thinking about my friends And reading my diary Christ A life crucified in this journal that I hold at arm’s length. Wingspans Rockets Frenzy Cries Like a crashing aeroplane That’s me....

How very sad to wake up to discover that another poet has passed away. I have always been very fond of Gil-Scott Heron. He was a great revolutionary soul, but most of all he was an amazing writer. I was tempted to post his so famous "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised", but I will post his wonderful "Winter in America" instead. Now this is what I call a poem!

After having heard Jack Hirschman read his poetry so passionately and with such a thundering force, I am reminded that this is exactly what poetry should do. I was rereading Anna Akhmatova's poems last night which do express this very thought beautifully. So you will hear one of her poems now or, in her own words, you will hear thunder.   You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. That day in Moscow , it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you. 

I have traveled with uncle Walt this morning during my coffee break. And, as usual, the journey has been an enriching experience. There is a depth in his work and yet a comradesque appeal that is perhaps what I like most. Reading "Leaves of Grass" makes you feel part of a Whole, because Whitman is the largest poet. He does   contain multitudes   indeed. Here is an excerpt I truly adore from "Song of an Open Road". And yes, you bet, I will give him myself. I will stick with Walt as long as I live! From this hour I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines,   Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,   Listening to others, considering well what they say,   Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,   Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.   I inhale great draughts of space,   The east and the west are mine, the north and the south are mine.   I am larger, bette...

I have been reading Mayakovsky's poems extensively in the past weeks. I deeply love them and I tend to agree with most of his revolutionary ideas. He does sound prophetic at times:  the poet must hurry time forward . And he was almost too faithful to his idea considering the fact that he committed suicide when aged 36. His definition of a proleterian as someone in love with the future is quite amazing. His ideas on literature so powerful: Why should literature occupy its own special little corner? Either it should appear in every newspaper, every day on every page, or else it's so totally useless. The kind of literature that's dished out as dessert can go to hell. I am so touched by the verses that follow. They could well be my poetical manifesto. For you I will tear out my soul and trample on it till  it spreads out and I'll give it to you, a bloody banner.

I can think of no better way to begin a Saturday morning than receiving a phone call from a poet! And if the said poet is Jack Hirschman--that is my poetical guru--than the experience is almost blissful. Jack arrived in Bologna yesterday. His wife and him are hosted by a friend-poet, from whose cell phone Jack was calling me. We have talked for ten solid minutes in the most friendly and cordial way. We have agreed to see each other on the day in which I will arrive in Bologna for his reading performance and on the following day as well. He asked me what exactly I am planning to write. At my answer: "The story of your life", he exclaimed laughing "Oh boy!". Gotta love the young man!

I am in Rilke state of mind today. As a translator and writing poems mainly in English myself, I am always fascinated by Rilke's skilful use of language in his French poems--considering the fact that he was Bohemian-Austrian--but even more by his powerful depictions. The one I love most is perhaps his Angel in the poem "An Angel At My Table". A visionary yet rustic presence whose invisible traits linger in me after each single reading. The physical description is missing, but one has the impression of truly seeing the winged creature. Enjoy Rilke's wonderful piece of bravura (not lost in translation)! Stay still, if suddenly the Angel decides to appear at your table; smooth out the creases in the tablecloth under your bread. Offer him to take a turn at tasting your crude fare, to take a turn lifting to his pure lips a simple glass of everyday life.

"I am a wanderer so let that be my name" writes Basho in one of  his most famous haikus. It struck me rereading it this morning how being a poet means also being a wanderer. Wandering is a necessary state for a poet. Soul wandering even more so. Stopping in the middle of my train of thoughts--captured by the beauty of a word--is the beginning of a new soulscape for me. From there a new journey begins. A journey  leading to always new paths of ink. Let's be erratic!

This afternoon's screening of "Red Poet", the documentary on poet Jack Hirschman, at Rome's Independent Film Festival was a truly stirring event. The Pasolini venue was crowded and the movie as moving as I knew already. I was so glad to be able to talk to Matthew Furey, the director, for almost half an hour. He told me interesting stories about Jack. And, I made him laugh, when I told him what Jack thought about the lead actor. Dear, the man is 77yo but he has the most amazing sense of humor. I wonder if he could be Mr. Zouch's nephew!

I love visceral poets. I love poetry made of flesh and bones, of marrow and heart. And pain. I was seventeen when I first read a poem by Anne Sexton. It was love at first sight. I could not help reading all she wrote from then onward and being so devastated by her words and life. I still retain the magical power with which a sentence of that poem hit me: "My mouth blooms like a cut." If only my verses could be as powerful as this! Anne remains a spirit guide.

Her first name and her amazing smile only. That's how I wish to celebrate Sylvia Plath's 30th birthday. An endless 30th, since Death shall have no dominion and her poetry is immortal.  " I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart.  I am. I am. I am." -- Sylvia Plath                                                                                            

Jack as Jack Hirschman,  my poetical guru. I am so glad that the documentary on his life directed by Matthew Furey will be screened at the Rome Independent Film Festival next 20th March. He so deserves a wider audience. Poetry like his truly strikes a chord. He is such an inspiration! Meeting him in person in San Francisco at Caffè Trieste, last August, and having a chance to chat amiably with him for over an hour has been such an amazing experience. As I patiently wait for the eight books he sent me to show up and I keep looking for his books dating to the Sixties and Seventies much like a hound, I am already looking forward to attending his reading in Bologna at the end of the month. I hope in some more interesting conversations with my dear comrade. Oh, and let me tell you a secret: he calls me Sasha. :)

Spring at the Protestant Cemetery of Rome makes even gray days seem brighter and the location more inspiring. Keats' tomb is covered with violets and lovely, yellow narcissuses adorn Percy Bysshe's tomb, making the place even more dear to me. If possible!