Italian Poem No 9.

      

Molino Revisited 

"Here's the place!" I say.
We stop the car 
and from the grassy verge

look just below us in the valley
where an aged limestone building squats,
an old beret of terracotta tiles
pulled on its head.
It has green shutters
at the upper window where,
so many years ago, I slept.
The millstream curves around
and though the wheel
is long since gone
some nights
you wake to hear
a rhythmic thundering
and a churning sound
as though this building has a heart.
The millstream ripples by
and by that stream
tall poplars grow.
They are the spreading sort
and in the spring
the air is full of golden down
and by the stream
a swing is moving gently to and fro.
One can sit dreaming
in the dappled light
and hear the rippling tune of water
gliding over stones.
And through the open shutters
in the night
it plays continuo
while the nightingale
sings its sonata sweet
and softly to the darkness.

In the morning bright

the cuckoo calls
with joyful, childish repetition
of his two-note song
and round the ancient archway
to the kitchen door
wisteria climbs,
and in those blooms
are bumblebees
so large
that they could carry you away
if they had need to,
but they're busy.
In my mind I see
Louise
in dress of faded crimson
wading in meadow grass
and golden haze,
picking a sheaf of poppies
and some daisies
and some heads of wheat.
They're for the big blue jug
without a handle
on the breakfast table,
with the crusty loaf
and soft white cheese
and steaming milk
and fresh ground coffee.
How I love this place!
We turn away
and start the engine
for today
we must press on to Venice.

© Tamsyn Taylor,

Italian poem No 8.

"The Funeral of Santa Fina", Domenico Ghirlandaio, 1485 

NOTE: The story of the painting and the origins and iconography of the poem are to be found at  ".....favourite things....." in the blogs "Tea with Mussolini" and "Santa Fina and the violets"

Santa Fina

for Dame Judi Dench

Little maiden
with your flaxen hair
and forehead neatly plucked,
(bearer of pain and visions),
how long did we nurse you
motionless
upon your wooden pallet?
Death soft as sleep
enfolding like the petals of a rose
your virgin body
lying sweet
and winsome
while the gentle chorister
presses his sightless face
against your small cold feet.
The chapel blazes bright.
What healing power is come
from hand of one
no nurse’s care
or chaplain’s prayers
could heal?
Let Adam and Eve consume
the fruit of sin
and armies perish,
ravaging disease
corrupt the flesh,
cruel arrows
of intolerance
pierce the mind;
let humankind
mock goodness,
spit on mercy,
stand spectator by
the murder of the innocent
while dynasties decay
and Hell yawns wide.
Yet may you rest
till morning’s glorious light
and scent of violets
wake you
and the bridegroom’s
laughing voice
says “Girl, rise up
and dance with me
between the laden vines
above the shimmering fields,
past swaying towers
on paving gold
through gates of Paradise.”

        © Tamsyn Taylor    

Italian poem No 7.

                                                                                                                                                        Foto: Basilio Speciari

San Gimignano Red

"I want a glass of San Gimignano Red,"
I told my husband,
"And the only place to drink it
is in San Gimignano!
"Where is that?" he said.
It's four and twenty cramped and stifling hours
away from Mascot
and a Fiat hired in Florence
and the breezy countryside with rising larks
and startled pheasants.
"Look!" Upon the hill there looms a city
built of kiddy blocks
and up and up the thirteen towers go-
Just how high can they go
before they topple over?
We share our bottle of San Gimignano Red
with Osso Buco and some garlic beans
at a trattoria in the city wall.
It's not the finest plonk in all the world
but Oh, what fun it is
to drink it here in San Gimignano!

                       ©    Tamsyn Taylor 




Dante Aligheri, in Purgatorio Stanza XXIV describes the gluttonous Pope Martin IV dining on Bolsena eels pickled in vernaccia.  Vernaccia di San Gimignano is the region's best known wine and the only white wine of Tuscany that is registered as Denominazione di Origine Controllata e Garantita.  However, the ancient Vernaccia grapes were harder to cultivate than modern varieties, and during the 20th century red wine varieties were planted.  "Rosso" and a "rosato" or rose wine was produced, the latter with a very distinctive character given by the Vernaccia grapes.  It was "rosato" rather than "rosso" that we drank that night in San Gimignano.  The proprietor had a gallery of portraits of himself drawn by visitors.  I rose to the challenge and contributed another portrait to the collection.  TT
                                       

Italian Poem No 1.

Afternoon in Venice

Italy

You promised me Italy-

the dream of bumble bees,

the hazy loaves of Tuscan hills

and colonnaded shadows deep with wine;

Steep streets with red checked tables cut to stand

where no chair ever could;

Pale shutters faded to the shade of autumn grass;

Light, iridescent glinting sparkling twinkling

in the long rays of the pale autumn sun;

Pale frescoes

faded to the pink of autumn skies;

walls of ripe apricot and sanguine orange,

crumbling ochre and the pale red bricks:

the flesh of Italy beneath its plaster skin;

Cool streets of small cafes and purple shadows

and the smell of bread warm from the oven

and of shining fish scales in the afternoon;

The sacred goldfinch in a window cage

sings of the Passion to the patient pheasant

who awaits his sacrifice upon a faience dish

decked with the fleur de lys;

The Ancient Roman shop-front,

and inside, the fashion of today, this minute,

never seen again:-

the shoes, the bags, the scarves, the gloves, the style;

the cars, the motorbikes, the leather jackets;

and the taps that will not turn, the drains that block,

the creaking lift and trains that do not go.

The singing countryside,

the hilltop town with bells to wake each morning;

and the nightingale

among the orange trees

to penetrate the stillness of the night

with essence of a long past Tuscany

where man and wife,

now smiling on their tomb in cool display of their commitment,

once clung with lust,

once sank, longing and deep

into each other's souls of desire:

their sighs are wind in pine trees,

the sudden rain that falls upon the earth,

their procreation and the dust
that lies across the bonnet of the hired car

was once child of their love, long turned to earth

and now part of the richness and the sacrament

of this enchanted feast,

the bread and wine,

the broken meat,

the olives and the fish.

And how I long to eat this feast,

and walk on hills whereon my feet

crush pungent oregano as I go,

and tiny strawberry plants

show trefoil leaves

beneath the holm oaks:

and the Trinity,

God of all wonder and all sacrifice,

God of all inspiration and all life

is there for all to see,

vision of colour and geometry

deep in the magic painted recess of a crazzled wall.
Part of my soul, my self, is in that land.

My spirit soars to fill the vaults and domes

of smoky sensuous darkness

and gold light of candles. 

My spirit rises like the bells on drafts of air

up from the swaying towers,

and sings with painted angels,

tier upon tier

in perfect cacophony

vermilion, green and lapis lazuli.

My spirit hangs suspended like the cross

between the pointed arches of the sky above

and marble floor beneath.

It burns with the brightness of the sacred lamp,

red as a pomegranate, in the sanctuary.

The Virgin smiles for me.

The Child forever lifts his hand for my atonement.

I am one with them:

A stranger in that place,

and yet belonging by adoption.

You promised Italy,

my place of dreams,

my church of golden singing

and rich banquet of the senses.

Take me there,

to satisfy my dreams

and hone the edge

of my appreciation

and my appetite for more.

©    Tamsyn Taylor