Tuscany: and the lay of the land...

This is a third poem about my particular experiences in Tuscany, Italy. During the early 1990's there was a growing concern on the part of the local farmers that foreigners were gradually buying up the precious land. Tuscany had become a desired vacation destination and many of the foreigners didn't know, nor care to know, how to cultivate their properties. This writing speaks to this issue;


To The Last Contadini
(Sempre Lavoro)

"Sempre lavoro..." always work...
wakes with the rool of the rooster’s rhyme.
Stoic fissures on their faces,
reflections of the toil with terra
under a sun unrelenting.

In these supple Tuscan hills
the farmer’s skills
have culled the land, cajoled her and
cared for her. Anonymous names– blown in the wind–
Fosco... Alba...Sarafino...
have formed their plots
in olive, vineyard and grainy lots.

...As countless years before; this was the way,
to work the land, the aroma of manure,
the distant echo of a tractor, the organized
dishevelment of the working farm.

There is a smell of change
in the wind that has no season,
that knows nothing of the seasons.

Unlike any pest or virus that the contadino
can confront, this foreign intrusion is swiping
their land, not to cultivate–
but to manicure and postulate.

These sweet hills are in danger, and may
sour– turn bitter– like fruit that goes unpicked,
a rooster’s crow that no one rises to,
even become brittle;
a sunburnt tractor in an unturned, weed-choked field,
a shrine and antique to some,
in reality– a sad anacronum.

The Soil -Turner and his essential attar...

This writing again comes from my experience of living in Tuscany, Italy. I took it upon myself to work with some of the local farmer's, Fosco, Alba, and Serafino as they taught me some of the tricks to taking care of the olive and fruit trees that were on our property.These contadini worked at a tireless rate throughout the day. The writing below is one of the many things they taught me while I lived there;



The Soil-Turner

He waits, and waits... with taciturn patience,
wrought by the years of his solitary labour.
He knows the season
beyond its name and apparent beauty.
And he will wait
to commence his task,
‘til a good rain falls, and the soil is right.

Then he will set out to the olive grove,
nine rows there, of eighty trees,
as he has for years past recompense.
Nostalgia playing no part in his game.
The soil is soft now–
ready to be turned.

The zappa his tool to break
ground, round each trunk.
He thwarts the weeds that breed
at foot, and with laconic effort
lets each tree breathe,
as he breathes with heaviness.

Too old is now to see the young trees bare fruit.
Still, he knows with a contadino’s sense
this work need be done if the oil of these trees,
this precious nectar– this essential attar–
is to have the bite;
that sharp virgin taste, that marks
one has turned his soil at moment’s right.

Writing as an act of gardening...

I had the good fortune to live in Pienza, Italy from 1990-1993. I was working at a family-owned bed&breakfast in the Tuscan hillside. I began to write a collection of poems during my experience there. I have chosen this writing below because of the correlation that I find between the Tuscan farmers and the work they perform, and the act of writing;



The Work of Hand
(for Fosco, Alba and Serafino)

The difficult to let it go.
To set it down, this task of hand,
and then leave it–
to be.

As the gardino planted each primavera
that is tended to, mended to,
all summer’s long.

The contadino spreads his seeds,
creates his patterned plots,
then cleans his lines, weeds his rows.

To make the delicious from the ordinary,
he will say; there are myriad,
myriad anonymous hours that pass

alone.
In this silence, in this sound of life,
the poet, solitary– with pen and paper–

plays the part of a gardener;
honing, hoeing, honing, hoeing...
for he is the maker-responsible

solely,
for the succor in his fruits.

The imagination and Monarch butterflies...

I have always been fascinated with butterflies and the collective spirit they exude. I see them as metaphors to our imagination or ideas of spontaneity. I think of Gerald Manley Hopkins in his poem "The Windhover", and this is the writing I wish to impart;



The Monarch
(or, the imagination as a butterfly)

):( Is there such a thing
as unabashed
spontaneity?
The monarch, her arched,
almost inebriate, fragile yet
agile wings flutter
with seeming uncertainty...
She draws, climbs&glides
scooping mountainous–‘steady air below’–
without apparent care (nor despair).
Within the moment–She Is–
silent,
in winged contentment.
What possesses this splendor,
this savoir d’etre?
To be only, unspoiled,
a butterfly... ):(

Giacometti; Hands that sculpted man's gaze...

I have always been fascinated with the work of the sculptor, Alberto Giacometti. On the occasions as a young man I would go the the MOMA in New York City just to see his work specifically. There was a gauntness and bareness to his work. He seemed to illustrate the post-WWII individual that I identified with. Yet if you look at his overall work closely he was showing us the elegant and elan gaze of man;

Homage to Alberto Giacometti

He understood well
the collective
gaze.
Wrought from hands keen;
stoic forms
intimating
man made,
almost mad,
amid the haze
of post-WWII...
Emaciated lines
of humane
kind–ness.
In the
gauntness
of his work
bare
witness
the grandeur
of man;
diminutive–
humbled, hurt,
torn&worn–
he
prevails to rise
and brave morning’s
mourning, often brutal
sun.
Battered– most laic–
made thin
from far-flung
battles. Gandhi-like
staff in hand,
his objects
bespeak with grace
the elongated,
elegant&elan
gaze of man...

To timepieces and pocket watches...

I have long held a fascination for timepieces-- their precision and sublties. The sheer craftmanship alone that goes into making a single hand-made piece. The inspiration for the little writing below comes from my fondness for them;


Ode To Olde Time
(An homage to timepieces)

...as olde time, ticks and twists
and turns,
it’s thin hands tock
working ‘round the clock’
never pausing nor waiting
for us; she moves along
her prescribed path, and as she passes,
records– the seconds, the minutes,
the hours of our collective
finality.
Whose, mere, mortal hands before
have stirred this crystalline face?
Winding her ever-forward–
no remorse.
Within movements, jeweled,
only the Swiss can craft. Precision
becomes precise... A Ferris wheel
she turns, marking time,
before the circus barker
implores the moment, (to disgruntled children)
time is now come, to disembark...

When in these winter days...

There's something about the plain sense to winter that I find inspires me to write about her. As Steven's has noted about this season; we come to see the thing itself not the idea of the thing. I offer you this broadside;


Winter’s Leaves
(preface)

When winter’s wind
whistles wild-white
and December’s dank,
early, dark cold
combs all forms
in the snowman’s frost;
there is a house so still,
upon a country knoll,
inviting those who may be cold,
to come inside. Kept keen
with warmth by firelight–
rest your bones, your weary eyes...
then listen to the sound
of the wind, the self-same
sound of the land...
Inside these leaves
the gentle rustle
of firewood sparks, and we
in child-like wonder transfixed
In the glow.
Come inside, and hear a voice
mingled within the wind,
these words– like dust–
these winter leaves,
the warm house so still,
upon a country knoll.

A Woman of Strong Stock...Maman

I have watched my mother's gradual descent into the throws of dementia. It is a devastating disease. I have witnessed a woman who had so much vigor and zest for life succumb to the memory disorder she now confronts.There are good days and then there are explosively bad days. I hurt inside for her-- beautiful, soft-souled, my maman...


When Maman calls out for him...

Searching throughout the mere two-bedroom house
each day&night– as he sneaks
to pee and hide– a while.
The constant calling out,
fifty-one years, now
in their years golden;
sunset nears
one can still hear,
Maman call out for him; “Papa... Papa Jean...
Ou’es tu?...”
he seldom responds.
He plays a mischievous game,
in his laconic, learned retreat.
She was the head of the household
and raised two sons almost alone.
He would visit all that he made
in the late mid-night hours– after work.
A chef is a trade of men. Raising children
the trade&love of a maman... calling out
for him...for him...”Ou’es tu?

A witness to disaster

In the past week the events that have unfolded in Haiti and the destruction caused by a natural event has been painful to watch. It also seems to illustrate the lack of infrastructure this poor country in the caribe has endured for some time making it all the more susceptible to such a disaster. I make a parallel with the country of Cuba, a place I visited many times between 1996-1999. This is the writing I extend;





Cuba
(The one that I saw)

The common sun
melts in the distance
like some fallen ember
from a larger vision–
your bright red star fading
(Another day closes).

Darkness surrounds you
even on your sun-filled days,
and the wicked stench of rot
&decay overcome even those
hard-pressed in want to olfactor
such unpleasantry.

Why?– Why?– Why?–
has so much gone
to being so paltry, so particular.

The futile days that still lay ahead
and the slow-steady pace,
of keen failure and delapidated grandeur
enmeshed in your perplexity.

And, your indomitable people,
ever-patient; ever-economic;
waiting, and waiting, and waiting...
For the new sun to rise
and the island winds to bring prevailing change.

Putting Words to Paper...

This writing was accepted into publication in a poetry anthology back in 1996. It's hard for me to believe that was some fourteen years ago. The writing deals with the process that goes into creating a little picture of words. All writing to me is ultimately a continuum, and it goes like this;

Words on Parchment

The quest is always
the same; the task of hand.
Brows beaten thin,
infinite caesurae,
...between thoughts;

The song of my life
sung to the rhythms of our Time–
syncopated, rap-packed or in
slow, smooth-cool Jazz–
words roll-flow
in continuum to define
what and who we are.

And, in the end
black ink poured on white
vellum(a language contained)
blocked, margined and flushed
we come to see our paper thinness
and the inky stains
of a mere humanity..

Sag Harbour & Sea Captains

When I was a young boy I lived not far from the old whaling village of Sag Harbour, New York. It is a unique town and the old homes there are well perserved. As you walked nearer to the port there were all these sea captains' houses with there distinct widow's walk balconies. I got to thinking one day about a sea captain returning from many months on a whaling adventure and finding his home empty. This is the writing that was spawned:


Puddles
(Ode to Sea Captains)

From his widow’s walk window
he watched the rain-splashed-
slashing, wet scars collect
in midnight’s heavy streets.
Unable to sleep, restless;
the thoughts– like puddles–
reflecting the past;
muddy, murky, muddled
water-gatherings, consumed him.
In these scattered pools
pods of memories lurk– no rhyme,
no reason, no resolve–
refracting her pure form
only to be dissolved
by morning’s brutal-bright sunlight.

Winter Words with Mr. Stevens in mind...

I have long been an admirer of Mr. Wallace Stevens work. His sense of symbols and minimalism in his work is somthing I have long been drawn to, and the plain sense quality to his work.The writing below is an attempt to get into the mind of the snowman's possible point of view from his poem; "The Snowman."



Winter Words
(Homage to Mr. Wallace Stevens)

Soon, the sky will slide its winter-white
clouds into place; casting a dull, clay-like, pallor light
on all things.
Night will prolong... shadows will prevail,
through barren streets & alleyways,
plying their wares– to nowhere.
The sad, gray season has begun.
And, snow will come in its usual way – silent,
in the dearth of night – burying some forsaken
soul in its drift-like wakes.
And, upon a leafless tree, a thrush will sing
the muse of the ‘mind of winter;’
stoic, cold, swept by the wind it will ring – this
the snowman’s song...

The Imagination and Poetry

I have often thought about Faulkner's Nobel Prize for Literature acceptance speech which I reread from time to time. What strikes me about the speech is near the ending when he says 'That man will not only endure, he will prevail.' This has been my curiosity towards writing and the imagination. It is this optimistic sense that mankind will always find a language to reveal his imagination. The writing contained is an expression of this;

...need i say more?

...and as we approach the unsaid–
the darkness cooler than black,
the truth beyond white,
the sound still stiller than all silences;
a language must hold; a vocabulary–
with strange vowels & odd consonants must be
to evoke the imagination. And
within the closed casket there is such sound–
a murmur, perhaps, a small stirring.
The continuum of the human cry, the shrill– poetry–
to penetrate...and the human need, the want,
to say more, say more, say more, still...

The translator's difficult chore

The following writing is something I have struggled with since childhood. The writing is partly about the task of translating works from one language to another language. I used to translate French into English as a favor to my French-speaking father. And obviously, the other aspect of the writing is the difficulty to express beauty in words;

The Translator’s Attempt

You can only be an impression.
Like a poem written in a foreign tongue;
the translation fragmentary.
In transcribing your whole
the rich, closely woven fabric
of your language is lost, perished– forever.
I can read you–
yes, I can read you; Indeed
I have read you.
But to ink the depth of your beauty
and pen the texture of your humility
I am un-able,
incapable.
You have your own idiom.

Although my whole life has been spent
reproducing ‘the sound and the fury’
of the Old Masters,
this hand and these lips can never resonate
the grace these eyes do read in you.
You emanate all that is somehow,
left unsaid... with not quite words.
Yet, in this essay, in this sad effort,
within a world as meditation,
I always see you; the mind’s mirror
freezing your reflection–
perhaps, the reader sees?

In the writer's solitary moments

I have always managed to do most of my writing in the latter part of the day. There is something about the quietness and stillness that is transported during that period of the day after the sun has set. This little vignette touches on such moments for me;


The Dark Hours

The rain has its way
(Like some foreboding thought)
of seeping through the
slightest
of window cracks...
Wetness pervades,
stillness invades
in this night’s late light, late hour.
Contemplation extends long,...long into night’s false
umbrage– no resolution in sight.
These are the dark hours;
night passages made by those who
do no not seek the soft comfort
of warm linen sheets.

Solitude;

The taciturn oneness of being
within the great magnitude...conveyed.
The cycle is played – the repetitiousness
remade (of men & flies)– tedious, arduous and permanent
the permafrost of our collective
perpendicularity.

A sense of place: Accabonac Harbour

I 've just completely this little writing that centers around my childhood recollections of Accabonac Harbour which is on the east end of Long Island. It is a peaceful and serene place and January's winter days were always crisp as the wind would come full force from the water unhindered by trees or brush. This is a small reflection of those special days:



"When amongst the elements"

I have withstood and tasted the sea-salt brine
of the wind-swept spray
from Accabonac’s deep-freeze
January harbour.
How her wind of foam and froth
bites the face– pellets of little, brittle
pine needles...
Nor’eastern’s cold in its permeating mood
finds itself through army/navy waffle shirts,
and all such layers of clothes–
like the slanting rain it seeps
through the slightest of window cracks.
There is something so Steven’s-like plain
that as the body cringes in permafrost
disbelief, we sense at this very moment–
as the snowman must– we are alive.

My father, Papa Jean we call him...

My father, Papa Jean we call him, is getting older in his years. I have had the opportunity to take care of him over the past year. It has not been easy to watch his decline in health. He has always been an allegory to me. This writing is for him;


Pour Mon Papa, Jean Ulysse Vergnes
(a contemporary sonnet)

An allegory if there was one–ever...
He would often say; ‘...you cannot kill a mountain...’
My Papa Jean, I’m sure, never hugged me in life,
not, once.
Papa wrapped himself, never, around me–his arms wide.
Though he held me always tight, in esteem
and respect–his hug always,
an allusive one... yet felt.
We would greet each day
with words that fall short... so far–my love for him.
In the french way a kiss on both sides
of his visage; that was our way
to say– bonjour&bon nuit.
So do I miss his illusive, allegory-like never hugs...

When others give you a gift that resonates...

Today, I had the priviledge to receive an old-school composition book. The person that offered it to me indicated in their note that I should use this book to write, just write. She said to put your thoughts in it-- anything that came to mind. She asked that I take 15 minutes of each day to leave a thought within its leaves. I will take her up on this request. Thinking out loud an artist friend of mine once said, " freedom without discipline, is neither freedom nor discipline." How right he was. I am here by the grace of my Maman and Papa and this writing is for them;

The Cold Rain
(Homage to my Maman&Papa)

He came to occupy
a certain, curtain-call realism.
The cold driving– without reason
nor season–
inevitable, rain
that slants
...and slogs
and does not seem to refrain
nor cease...had arrived.
He was ‘knee deep’
in it, sans parapluie.
Papa began to see (and believe)
in the setting sun.
Maman was not sure had day
ended or just yet begun?
In the collective dementia (hers), and ours,
aging sneered&shook its sinister cower.
And, the cold, harsh rain fell...
Inestimable the tears,
and memory lost the years.
Hardened, like rain forest teak
he remained the stoic one– though
outlook bleak–
his roots well dug.
...And aware he was the cascade
that befalls
and descends,
unrepentant,
upon them...

Getting used to this method of Communicating

I've decided to concentrate this blog on the epigrammatic way that I see life. Little pictures done in words. It is the way that I know how to convey the world I see around me. The following work is an example of this;





The Blank Page

A single, mere, leaf of vellum
with all its broadside personality intact,
lying flat,
unto itself is beauty– perhaps?
Steven’s posed, "the plain sense of it...",
"...not the idea of the thing, but the thing itself."
Was he describing the blank page
yet to be stained?

Such open space

conjures, seduces the imagination–
lead it, cajoles it–
for the poet
to impose his sloppy script
upon its
sexy, silk, slip-like,
off-white sheet.
Look at it now, all done up
in its particular lipstick.

Prologue

Today is January 12, 2010 and it is my first attempt at blogging. The aim of this blog is to share the "sloppy scrawlings" of my writings and to provide a first-hand accounting of the things in life that have moved me to jot them down. My work comes from all that I have experienced through travels and my cultural roots. I was taught to write only that which I come from and perhaps, through this endeavor others might find similarities. Afterall, we have more in common with one another than the converse. This is the writing I wish to share with you;





A Lifeless Sail Upon a Laurie’s Flatbed

I caught the crimped underbelly
of a well-sailed,
leeward,
ship, dry-docked without its cringle,
cringing on its starboard side,
while in portage upon a laurie’s back.
You could tell the stories she had held
of her misery with the wind,
and the knots she’d braved
against the ominous white-foamed,
ocean’s waves.
The meeting by mere chance, along roadside
at a cross light that had changed to red.
Admiring the grasp
of aged mollusks upon the keen keel,
the coats of paint
old
that revealed
some acute despair and a certain sailor’s neglect.
Where en route without sail, yet centerboard intact?
A sailboat without water,

sheer

naked

rudderless

the cross light was no longer red.