At Lucia’s

 

 

After the rain has ceased,
the tim­ber boards and stools are back
right away in the mid­dle of the farm­yard.
Kittens and chick­ens play tag
among the legs of the regulars.

Careful hands relay table­cloths and table­ware,
there it is again — my dear bot­tle of fizzy lam­br­usco!
Then just-​​toasted
polenta e cic­ci­oli turns up,
straight from the plate of the wood stove.

The sky opens,
dis­closes the plain beauty of the Lombard cam­pagna.
Boscage and lea are slowly unmisted in the dis­tance,
toward the lag­gard sun­set.
The air is just brac­ing,
not bleak or ungentle.

It so hap­pens at times the only dif­fer­ence
between the half-​​full and half-​​empty glass
is a radi­ant but guarded smile behind it,
traced around fleshy lips and red cheeks,
seem­ing to whis­per ben­tor­nato!

The eyes meet time and again
like furtive accom­plices,
more smiles slip out in the lamp­light shadow,
more wine gur­gles down into the scodella
alla salute!

What more should one ask of life?
When no patron is left inside the oste­ria,
and none is out­side—
tonight will tell.



 

 

First pub­lished in Poetry Nottingham (UK)

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The Man Who Turned Into Himself

 

We dance round in a ring and suppose,

But the Secret sits in the mid­dle and knows.

 

ROBERT FROST

 

Egocentric, neu­rotic, overfed, blotchy
humanoids besieged both sides of his life.
Sycophants, loathers, myr­mi­dons, oppo­nents—
every kind of soul that may reduce a man to despair.
So much that he com­menced to fail
to sin­gle out him­self from all the oth­ers.
That was his tor­ture, his com­pan­ion night­mare.
Until he understood.

He cast off garb and habits,
mutated eyes, ears, nose, tongue and pads.
He cleansed his heart of every scale,
real­ized there are no sep­a­rate body and mind.
The diur­nal specters dis­ap­peared,
the owl stopped hoot­ing in the night.
Restored a bright and glee­ful child—
he’s now play­ing inside the world.

And the yard he scam­pers about hasn’t walls — no more.
Nor does he dis­tin­guish his own outer reaches and core.




–by Alessio Zanelli

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Alessio Zanelli is an Italian poet who has long adopted English as his writ­ing lan­guage and his work has appeared in over 100 lit­er­ary mag­a­zines from 12 coun­tries, includ­ing Aesthetica, Arabesques, California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Dream Catcher, Existere, Flaming Arrows, Italian Americana, Orbis, Other Poetry, Poesia, Potomac Review, Potry Nottingham and Poetry Salzburg Review. He is the author of three col­lec­tions, most recently Straight Astray, and a fea­tured author in the 2006 edi­tion of Poet’s Market.

Alessio’s Website

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Copyright © 2008 Spinozablue and Alessio Zanelli.. All rights reserved.
The mate­r­ial on this site may not be repro­duced, dis­trib­uted, trans­mit­ted, cached,
or oth­er­wise used, except with the prior writ­ten per­mis­sion of Spinozablue, Inc.

 

 

 

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