Italy

The Passage of the Larks

In Campania, twice a year,

Either going south, coming north,

Clouds of larks sweep across the land

Through a fusillade of bullets.

Le Ripé Dreaming

Oh, to be in Tuscany
Now that spring is almost there,
Striding up the forest track,
Breathing sweet Chianti air.

For there is that hill to climb
Through dappled woods, home to boar,
Fallow deer, nightingales; while
Overhead, brown buzzards soar.  

From its summit, opposite, 
One spies beige towns perched on high
Above lingered lines of vines
And tree-shrouded homes nearby.

Below, unseen slopes descend
To an ancient Roman road,
A war-time patriots’ cave, 
A dancing stream, slight-shadowed,

And local stone farm buildings,
With haughty cypress guardians:
All encompassed by Le Ripé,
A name as old as Ossian’s.

Le Ripe’s Heating Heart

I have at last seen Moloch

In all his awful splendour;

Burly acolytes surround

With countless coloured pipes

And enigmatic dials

That link his three computers.

As well, I must confess that

I have felt and fed his lust,

Quaked before his fiery face,

And clearly comprehended

That he’s the One and Chosen

Furnace for this Century.

Understanding Usignolo

I’ve long adored the magpies’

‘Quardle-oodle-ardle’ in

The morning and the wagtails’

Cheery chirping later on.

But in a Tuscan forest,

Ringing through the quiet dark,

I’ve now heard a single voice

That’s entirely won my heart.

It poured from the tiny throat  

Of the classic poets’ bird,

In Tuscan, ‘usignolo’,

In English, ‘nightingale’.

Fifteen times on fifteen nights

I heard him weave his joyous, 

Mingled skein of sound from trills,

Whistles and gentle gurgles.

‘Tis said he sings to woo, and

True, his music spins such charm 

That should engage fair lady. 

But why all of fifteen nights? 

Perhaps his song’s awry for

Courting lady nightingales,

And contains discordant notes

That escape the human ear?

Perhaps he’s unattractive,

With visage less than pleasing,

Manners somewhat less than couth,

Or an attitude aloof? 

Perhaps, a philanderer

Notorious, he’s beyond

The pale for nightingales

Nubile seeking steady love?

Or perhaps (bleakest of all),

The territory he claims

As his is altogether

Lacking in fitting females?

Whatever the truth of that,

For hours on end, without pause, 

My dear diminutive friend

Sang his heart out fifteen nights.

Unrequited love, maybe?

Arrogance (listen to me)?

Or a simple need to sing 

No matter who hears his song?

Boars and Hawks

The boars of Le Ripé

Are black and retiring,

Modest in the extreme.

But their young are gaudy

In the gold and brown stripes

Of John’s favourite team!

 Missing Usignolo

They told me that he sings

Only in soft spring nights:

I dreamed they might be wrong.

So, this autumn (once more

On his Tuscan hillside)

I lingered late, yearning

For that silvery voice

That so enchanted me

One springtime long ago.

But, sadly, they were right.

He stayed entirely mute;

And the night silence was

Broken only by hoarse 

Coughs of fallow deer and

Tremulous calls of owls. 

The Partisans’ Cave

Deep in the forest, high  
Above Lucarelli,  
It could sleep perhaps ten 
In moderate comfort
Under its stooping roof. 

Men with guns once napped there 
In between forays to
Kill Germans retreating,
Stubbornly reluctant,
Up the Val di Pesa.

Now, Lucarelli lads
Celebrate the peace with 
Cigarillos and wine  
And a war they wage with
Cardboard binoculars.

My Italy

A land of warm hearts

And cold dinner plates.

A Tale of Two Valleys

Val di Pesa: One;

Upper Goulburn: Two. 

One fondly enfolds  

The charming Pesa

That dies in summer. 

Two holds the lusty

Goulburn that flows on

Through every drought. 

One: almost urban,  

Villas and vineyards,

Busy towns both high

And by the Pesa. 

Two: sparsely peopled,

Dry bony slopes and 

Untilled river flats,

Just grazing country.

One: written stories  

Of caparisoned 

Armies spilling blood  

For land and treasure.  

Two: nothing more than 

Likely surmise of

Naked skirmishes

With wooden weapons.

Each, in recent time,

Has sprouted a home. 

One: ‘Le Ripe’, a 

Tuscan beauty in 

True Chianti stone.

Two: Three Peaks’, a plain  

Murrindindi-type

Ex-army prefab.

One nestles deep in  

An oaken forest 

Where boar and fallow

Deer roam in freedom.

Two starkly stands in

Open paddocks, with  

Vast horizons, where

Fencéd cattle graze.

So disparate these

Valleys and their two

Homes – yet they’re firmly 

Bonded (as tight and

Sweet as one could wish)

By blood, common dreams

Of rural peace and, 

Above all, by love.   

No Country for Small Birds

2014

Seated by my shed door
(Cold stubby close to hand)
I pleasure-gazed on trees
I planted long ago,
Now lofty and replete
With darting birds and song.

Such a contrast to the 
lifeless woods of Lanzo
(Swaying high above the
Lovely Lake Lugano),
Utterly bird-bereft
And silent as the grave!

Why I Love Italy
2015

Dear Italy, ever beloved
Of poets in chilly England:
Their yearning verse celebrates its
Warmth, wine, art and ancient ruins.

It dwells deep in my heart as well,
But for a separate reason:
For some thirty years, it has fair
Havened my daughter and her man.
 

  



The Musical Tastes 

of 

Tuscany’s Maidens

2015

The lovely girls of Panzano 
Swoon over classic piano;
Up in Radda, somewhat higher,
Sweet maids desire only the lyre,
While in Lucarelli below
They dote on old mellow cello.
But Castellina’s young ladies
(Some say they’re the pick of the crop) 
Rage lithely to rap and hip-hop!

 

 

 

 

 

Of a Time Spent with Tuscan Belovèds

2019

Oh, such a treat it’s been
For me and my Lena: 
Seven blissful weeks of
Being coddled, cuddled;
Fed fine Roman food with
Fond talk and light laughter;
Sharing gazing delights
Of skies, birds and blue hills;
And daily basking in love.