Of Old Structures and Traditions...

La Saracina was the name of the farmhouse I lived in for three years in Tuscany, Italy. It was a dilapidated shell of a structure when I first saw it, but it had character and a story to tell. When the renovation was completed this writing came to me and this is what I want to tell;


The Work Complete, the Old Farmhouse Restored...
(La Saracina)

Thirty-some odd years the house withstood
alone,
unable to tell a soul
its misery with the wind.
The scars are there
the open wounds,
fissures in cotta– a house well-suited for Poe’s Usher.

Built with Tuscan stubbornness
crafted in old, old
mason ways.
The choking weeds have been cleared
(once again)
broken beams–
a structures bones– replaced.
The sense of self– untouched.

In whirling wind, whistling
it sings itself
and howls at the moon...
an old, old story of the region;
its stoic people
that live atop these supple wind-swept hills.

Architecture organic,
a form so pure, so complete and of itself
it has a proper name.

The piercing glare that refracts
from the new copper gutters
will soon dull, and
so too soon, the terra-cotta rooftop
tiles will lose their bright orange hue.
The oak beams restored
will themselves need replacement.

But this structure will remain
its idiosyncrasies intact;
the fireplace will always spew smoke,
just enough to sting the eyes;
the bedroom doors will never close just right
for lovers trying to hide;
The floors will always lean– a little–
after many souls have come and gone.

Casa colonica, standing firm
on your sacred ground, like a Tuscan contadino–
resilient–
the wind may seep through you;
lizards, insects and birds may nest
with your crevasses;
the hunters may use you again
come some winter or when abandoned, again.

But your structure standing erect,
the plain sense of you,
cannot be diminished, cannot be broken.
You will sing of yourself
and howl at the moon...
an old, old story of this...