Poetry Rules

I know I lost track of my poetry in the past few months. Sometimes life seems to get in the way and there is very little I can do to stop it from interfering with writing. Summer is always the best season for me to reconnect with myself and to fill my notebooks with a good amount of poems and words. John is a good creative force and so is love. No wonder this August has put me back on track. I have been writing, reading, editing and submitting with renewed vigor. And then there is this beautiful demon named love and its siblings life and art. My tricephalic Muse, for which I am truly grateful. Bernini's Cerberus  

Long-distance relationships require a lot of patience and love. This is what I tell myself every time John flies back to the States. It is hard and I feel pretty much like Demeter who has to let Persephone head back to Hades. Well California is not exactly Hades, but I hope to have conveyed the message. I am ready to keep myself as busy as I can till next summer. It won't be hard this year. I am currently managing Pandemonium (aka as my translation agency) all by myself since the month of September. It is hard and engaging, but a beautiful endeavor as always. I am also resuming my work on the WIPs. And, getting ready for more reading too. I have a pile of TBR books and two brand new additions I bought in the past few days that I simply cannot wait to read: Toni Morrison' s latest novel, God Help the Child , and Patti Smith 's M-Train . And so, John has just left Rome. Jack is in Italy, but not heading to Rome this year. Alas, fall does not tread lightly. Let the winter...

It seems I am writing poems again after being on a hiatus. I am not one of those writers/poets who sits at the desk and starts writing. I cannot force myself to write, if I do, I will end up writing a poem without "voice." I always "struggle" with my Muse. I realize many consider the Muse unnecessary to write. Many believe that writing comes from hard work only. True, but then I guess I must belong to a different breed of writers. I love the act of creation when it happens, but I also know that I can't open my notebook, stare at the blank page and fill it for the sake of filling it. Writing comes to me. It is a gift. Something triggers my imagination and words pour on the page.  And, I hardly ever edit my poems. When they come to me, they are "perfect." Or, so they seem to me. Humbert and Lolita made their appearance in the first poem I wrote a few days ago. I was thinking at how, as much as I love Nabokov , I detest his novel  Lolita . I must confes...

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!

This has been a busy poetic week in so many ways. I have been writing the biography each and every day, some days adding just a few hundred words, some other up to a thousand. I don't mind the uneven pace--as it pretty much depends from my daily work schedule--but it is very important for me to keep the wip rolling. This morning I have finished tweaking the review I wrote for a really beautiful chapbook. And, I truly hope to find a home for it soon. I feel this work will stay with me for a long time. I love it when poetry touches me this way. I have also finished translating the last poem in the poetry manuscript of a SF poet that is due to be published here in Italy in the coming Fall. The poet and I are very happy regarding this collaboration. Last, but not least, I have also translated 2 poems from French by Michel Butor that are a thing of Beauty. Butor is such a exquisite poet. It is a joy to be able to translate him into Italian. And, I should not fail to mention th...

I will write everywhere and anywhere, but if I am in a writing mood and I have a choice I will usually head to write en plein air . Much like the Impressionists painted, I love to find myself amidst nature and Beauty. Living in the Eternal city is indeed a privilege. Even from my home in the countryside, I am just a few miles away from exceptional beauties. The Appian Way is indeed one of my favorite places. The area is blessed with so many ruins and surrounded by an amazing rural setting that it is truly one of the most beautiful places in the world. Sitting close to the old monuments, enjoying the chirping of the birds, spotting the occasional rabbit, fox or hoopoe on a spring day inspires me in ways I cannot properly describe. I was there yesterday in the late afternoon and, as I took a break from my writing, I also took some pictures at dusk. I hope they convey how breathtaking the Appian Way is.

I have spent a few days at Laugharne's Boathouse  lately. No, I haven't been there in person. I have only allowed myself to surf online and read more about a place that was so significant to one of the poets I love most. Thomas spent there his last few years before dying in NY after having gotten roaring drunk at the White Horse tavern . His writing shed was perhaps the place I concentrated most on. A place I would so love to visit sooner or later. Needless to say that all this fueled my imagination and that I ended writing a poem. Dylan Thomas has also made it into the biography I am writing. It's all about how the Poet met the Überpoet. But this is a whole diffferent story! Dylan Thomas' Boathouse                             The Shed                                               ...

I have just realized that I will never be able to write a poem to please a specific magazine's aesthetics. Whenever I write I am deeply moved by my inner inspiration and by the subject of my work. A poem has to please me first. It's all a matter of intellectual integrity, I guess.

I am slowly learning that writing is not something solely inspired by the Muse at a given moment. I have recently discovered that a special setting or simply the wish to write often triggers my imagination. I'll probably not write 75 lines per day, but I have come to a point where I realize I can push the Muse to do what I please. It is hard work, but it is also extremely rewarding. A few days ago, while John and I were on vacation, I decided we had to go back to Pennabilli , a lovely town in the Romagna area where we had spent a lovely afternoon the week earlier, and write right close to the place where the ashes of Tonino Guerra , poet and screenplay writer, rest. It is a spectacularly beautiful place. In his garden, overlooking one of the most beautiful valleys I have ever seen, I wrote 10 poems in a little more than an hour. That place was totally inspiring. In the past two days I wrote 8 poems and edited one. This made me realize that I can possibly write every day. Ev...

Just wrote a poem that is imbued with my feelings at the screening of the video Les Goddesses by artist Moyra Davey at the Empire State. Art in NY exhibit at the Palazzo delle Esposizioni here in Rome. A poem inspired by Mary Wollstonecraft , laudanum, illness of the soul, the Shelleys and freeze-frames. So much going on. Something truly inspiring.

Reading about Gregory Corso 's stay in Rome a yesterday put me on a disposition for writing a poem having him as the lead character. I found the suitable backdrop in Trastevere  by night and also found a perfect soundtrack in  Weber 's opera  Der Freischütz (The Marksman). I wrote two stanzas in one go just a few minutes ago. I love whenever it happens. The Muse speaks to me and I go with the flow!

This year has been incredibly busy for me. I have started marketing my poems in a serious way, I have been translating poetry like crazy -- two collections, some poems by Jack that are being published as I write and I will soon  translate a dozen or more poems of the members of Rome's Revolutionary Poetry Brigade for the second RPB's international Anthology. Last but not least, I have been involved in poetry readings too. This said, one wonders why I should take the pain of putting together some of my works for a collection. Does the world really need a new poetry collection?  A friend  told me: "Nobody reads poetry anymore!". Oh well, I guess I know he is right. Not a lot of people do. But, maybe a couple of friends would dare buy my poems -- assuming I got published. And yet, I know this is not the reason behind my writing. If I write my poems it is because I need to let it out. I need to use my words and convey my message. It is my hidden strength.  "I'...

So yesterday evening I was sitting at my table, with a glass of wine and a pad when I started skimming through my Francesca Woodman books. I was captured by her Self-Deception series and the pen started flowing to the rhythm of her black and white pictures and her twisted body. There is a strength in her work that makes it appear almost as solid as a sculpture and yet wraithlike. There is a naked truth hidden in her works that needs to be deciphered. These shots were taken in a cellar, which make them even more intriguing to me. I keep wondering whether Bluebeard was her favorite fairy tale as a kid.

Four or five months ago I started rereading my poems because I thought it was high time to send some out to magazines. To my surprise, I remember distinctly being overcome by a sense of discomfort about everything I had written. Some of it was barely acceptable to me. Yes, there was sentiment in my poems, but I realized somehow that I lacked something. What was I lacking? After pondering over it I concluded that there was no purpose in my lines. No sense of direction. No message. I was mostly writing poetry for poetry's sake. So, I started giving a different shape to my ideas and writing poems with a more distinct edge. Or, so I believe. I felt I had to write about the "hic et nunc", the here and now, the present times. I'd love my poetry to be like a torch as Jean-Paul Sartre suggested in the following quote: "every age has its own poetry; in every age the circumstances of history choose a nation, a race, a class to take up the torch by creating situations tha...

I often compare writing lines to forging. It's a tough work that needs three essential elements: darkness, strength and sparks. If you never read Seamus Heaney's "The Forge", you probably should. That poem does capture the essence of poetry making. Where is my anvil? Where is my hammer? It's time to smite some words...

I am moving next Saturday. I have had very little time to write poetry, not to mention read lately. But today, being surrounded by almost a hundred boxes, I could not resist the temptation of writing a line on each of them. I plan to write a poem using all my cardboard lines when I will be at my new place. I am ready to bet that unpacking will be great fun this time!

Tolstoy could not have described the process of writing in a better way. Personally, I believe that writing poetry is all a matter of flesh and blood. This is why Paul Engle's quote is a favorite: "p oetry is ordinary language raised to the nth power.  Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words." Hand me a quill and the inkpot, please. I think it's time to pour some flesh in it!  

I wrote a poem last night and, despite it being so concise, it took me a lot of effort to complete it. Words most of the time just flow out naturally, but this time I could not find the right word I needed. It was at that point that I decided to stop writing and start reading. I was flipping through the pages of a book of poems by   Marina Tsvetayeva when I stumbled on the right word. I smiled thinking about T.S. Eliot's quote: "o ne of the surest tests [of the superiority or inferiority of a poet] is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal." Maybe I am not really mature, but I will call myself a thief. I won't tell you which word I stole, but you can read the poem I stole it from!  Every verse is a child of love, A destitute bastard slip, A firstling -- the winds above-- Left by the road asleep. Heart has a gulf, and a bridge, Heart has a bless, and a grief. Who is his father? A liege? Maybe a liege, or a thief. ...

I love this quote by Tom Waits. It's simple and mind-blowing at the same time. Poets are well aware of the danger awaiting the travels of writing, but they must be ready to run the risk. So, here I am ready to plunge in any of Baudelaire's bottomless chasms anytime. Got to love those fabulous falls holding a quill and some leaves of  paper in hand! N.B. Saddest note and detrimental to my mental health is discovering that Tom Waits' poetry book "Seeds On Hard Ground" is out of stock already... :(

"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!