What’s in the body you’ve forgotten
and that you’ve left alone
and that you don’t want–
or what’s in the body that you want
and would die for–
and think it’s all of it–
if life’s a form to be forgotten
once you’re gone and no regrets,
no one left in what you want–
That empty place is all there is,
and/if the face’s remembered,
or dog barks, cat’s to be fed.
it was some fish restaurant on the coast
you knew the owner, I think
and a TV star was romancing some starlet
a few tables away
while you told me about the man
in your life
and I spoke of the woman
in mine
yours a success story
mine one of loss and pain
and we drank two bottles of wine
then I switched to bourbon
you to white russians
and it was close to dawn
when we weaved our way to our cars
you off to Venice Beach
me to Santa Monica
all the guys at I&L would fantasize about you
and ask my permission
to ask you out
Vimal said I was protective of you
and I suppose I was
you were always a bit vulnerable
and me, your protector
the long island kid
you still have my denim jacket
and high school letter
one day I’ll have to travel back in time
to retrieve them
and as you read your poetry to me
this summer in Dorsoduro
I couldn’t help wondering
what was wrong with those California boys
to let you go
your smile
dear friend
it is the same
a thousand years later
and sitting in a restaurant
that night in Moda
I saw the same beautiful girl
you always were, are
no matter how things change over time
some things
you old friend
stay the same
A quiet valley with no one’s footprints,
an empty garden lit by the moon.
Suddenly my dog barks and I know
a friend with a bottle is knocking at the gate.
translated by Kim Jong-gil
So I’m talking to Pasquale as he’s driving me to the village my great grandfather lived in and where my grandfather was born and we’re talking about driving and his sister Gilda who is a special person in my eyes. We both agree she terrifies us and I admit to holding on to the side of the car while my life flashed before me as she swerved in and out of NYC traffic cursing everyone else on the road.
Then the subject of her stubbornness came up and I said being stubborn was part of the Italian character. Pasquale objected to this and said no, it was just Gilda. Then I asked him if he was stubborn. He shrugged (another trademark of Italians) and said of course. So I said my point exactly. Then he countered with it’s a family trait. Then I said of my family, too, and of every Italian family I’ve ever known. Every Italian I know is stubborn which makes it a characteristic of Italian people.
A stereotype, I know, but one which bears fruit, as they say.
Another shrug, a smile on his face, and he concedes the point. Italians are a stubborn people. There may be other ethnic groups that share this trait with us, but no one is as proud of being stubborn as an Italian. It’s so ingrained in our character that we don’t even think we’re being stubborn when we’re being stubborn. We think the other person is just being unreasonable.
And, of course, they are. Right, Pasquale?
there is nothing worse
than a misunderstanding
hurt feelings result
a smile becomes one more frown
fondness goes backward again
and so it ends
sitting on a balcony
with a glass of red wine
watching the waves come in
the Bay of Salerno
it’s cool up here
my jacket draped over
my bare chest
soon I’ll shower
get dressed
walk five minutes to the train station
get on the express to Naples
the airport
back to Istanbul
I’m still, will be a long way
from home
from people my friends
but in life there are things
we cannot change
easily
and sometimes
not at all
At an edge of the sky, I grieve for my youth;
I long for home, but home is still far away.
As spring lets loose the wayward east wind,
no one owns the wild peach, but it bursts into bloom.
translated by Kim Jong-gil
I always seem to be places
where people are speaking
a language other than my own
even in the Third World of America
that corner I occupied for many years
I was the perennial outsider
forever the alien at home
among a symphony of sounds
I could not, cannot understand
but enjoy the music
nonetheless
my great grandfather
and his family
and their fathers and mothers before them
walked these streets
had espresso in these cafes
prayed in this church
to San Cono
their patron saint
my grandfather Giuseppe Michele D’Elia
left this village
a municipality of Salerno
at twelve
to venture forth to America
Mulberry Street precisely
in Little Italy, lower Manhattan
then to Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn
eventually to Flatbush
where in his house he would die
many years later
and I his second oldest grandson
carrying his name in the middle of mine
retrace his steps
eat broccoli rabe
pasta with panchetta
drink red wine
watch the world go by
in this city he never returned to
but I’m here, grandpa
I’m here for you, for me
a homecoming
Of sorts
Snow melts and swells the stream,
crows fly toward the clouds at dusk.
Sobered by the scene from drunkenness,
I write this poem and think of you.
translated by Kim Jong-gil
Being Present for the Moment
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Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
An online activist from Bosnia and Herzegovina, based in Sarajevo, standing on the right side of the history - for free Palestine.
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Dennis Mantin is a Toronto-based writer, artist, and filmmaker.
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
Erm, what am I doing with my life?
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
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L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
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