Poetry Rules

Baudelaire's poem is a perfect one for my son Edoardo who, being 11 years old,  feels that he is growing up too fast. Adolescence is indeed the lovely and terrible age of clumsiness. But, I am confident that this is just a step because, like a poet, he will soon learn to spread his wings and fly. Soar, my boy! Often our sailors, for an hour of fun, Catch albatrosses on the after breeze Through which these trail the ship from sun to sun As it skims down the deep and briny seas. Scarce have these birds been set upon the poop, Than, awkward now, they, the sky's emperors, Piteous and shamed, let their great white wings droop Beside them like a pair of idle oars. These wingèd voyagers, how gauche their gait! Once noble, now how ludicrous to view! One sailor bums them with his pipe, his mate Limps, mimicking these cripples who once flew. Poets are like these lords of sky and cloud, Who ride the storm and mock the bow's taut strings, Exiled on earth amid a jeering cr...

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 was driving along a country road this morning when the smallest hedgehog ever crossed my path. It was such an unexpected surprise that I pulled over not only in order to enjoy the wildlife epiphany but because the event reminded me of a quote by Wallace Stevens: "Poetry is a pheasant disappearing in the brush". Well, maybe poetry is a hedgehog  disappearing in the darkest greenery. I want to write a haiku in honor of my small, lovely fellow!  And let him reappear in my pen!

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 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 dreamt Rimbaud last night. In my dream, I am walking along a solitary country road, surrounded by a Northern landscape dotted by dank pastures and gray clouds, when I see a man walking towards me. When he is close enough for me to recognize his features, I am greeted by the palest blue eyes and a smirk. The beauty of his face and the elegant legs clash with the worn, brown boots. I smile now thinking about the Bohemian lad in his soles of wind. One of the most mobile and restless poets of his age. His life is a parable of prophecy and hallucination. His sweetly poisonous words have always bewitched me. And, since I feel nomadic lately--as my dream possibly suggests--here is Arthur's "Ma Bohème"! I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets;   My overcoat too was becoming ideal; I travelled beneath the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal; Oh dear me! what marvellous loves I dreamed of! My only pair of breeches had a big hole in them. – Stargazing Tom Thumb,...