Author Archives: Erika Bizzarri

Gualverio Michelangeli lives on. Charlotte, now in her thirties, has a child of her own. And her mother has updated me on the story of the frogs. After so many Orvieto frogs came to live in Baltimore (with 2 very wise owls watching over them), Charlotte, still a child, made up many stories about theirContinue reading “Michelangeli Part II”

Home. How many words are there for home? It’s the concept that counts, not the actual physical structure. Home – one can’t help but think of home now that so many are having to leave their homes, their houses, their villages, the places where many “souls” are gathered in the Old English definition. One’s heartContinue reading “House and Home”

Carnival was long since past July 2004 and March 2022 Carnival was over. Spring – and Easter – were not yet here. You were too young to wander the streets by yourself, showering paper confetti on passersby. So two bags had come to rest here in the country, in the basket by the door. LetContinue reading “Carnival”

There was once a man and there was once a shop and a street that bore his name. When you talked about Michelangeli, you were talking about Orvieto. And when you mentioned Orvieto, many thought of Michelangeli, generally Gualverio, perhaps the last in a family of artisans. Centuries ago, the emperor Diocletian had decreed thatContinue reading “Michelangeli Closing”

FEB 27TH A vision of a moment in time. Of what might have been. John Looker’s poems capture a moment of the past, give us a glimpse, a vision. Enchanted by this approach, I thought I would translate one of his poems into Italian. I didn’t get very far though because it set me wonderingContinue reading “Helen of Troy”

Must have been 1956 or 1957. I was working at the Museum of Modern Art in New York and since I had spent a year in Italy it was somehow taken for granted that I was proficient in Italian. When a request came for someone to translate the Italian entries for the International Literary BrailleContinue reading “First Translation”

Well maybe Use with joy. A brightly colored sticker on, of all things, a waste paper or trash container. In today’s world of too much of everything, we have containers for plastic, for glass, for organic, for paper, for just plain trash. It’s one way of trying to save the environment and is amazing howContinue reading “Use with Joy”

Bare branches. Bare barren branches one would think. Winter clouds hang low build up release their burdens unwanted on the earth. Gray dropsical clouds. Bare winter branches. No hint of spring. Then, suddenly, near the garden gate a cloud of fragrance Looking up, the branches are no longer bare. Calycanthos. Winter flowering. Sweeter than theContinue reading “Calycanthus”

When one is what a friend of mine calls a wordsmith, one begins to question interpretations of a word, whether one’s own or that of others. I don’t consider myself an author, and have never written a novel, but having grown up in one, or even two, languages, and having lived most of my adultContinue reading “Montale, and unexpectedly James Joyce”

ORVIETO (excerpt from Magica Etruria, Orvieto and Perugia, Nuova Immagine Editrice, Siena, 2014, reprint of Magica Etruria, Bizzarri and Curri, 1968)  (After visiting the necropolis of Crocifisso del Tufo, Mario Bizzarri approaches the question of what the Etruscans of Orvieto were physically like. But first, he says, pay a visit to the museums in theContinue reading ““Orvieto” from “Magica Etruria””

Late night walk with Teah It’s quiet out. The ticking of my shoes.                                                                                                           The soft tapping of my cane. Certainly not Long John Silver’s cane, or was it his wooden leg? Occasional voices, but always around the corner, no one in sight. It may be someone talking to themselves – or more likely on theirContinue reading “Observing Teah”

By Erika’s granddaughter Costanza, age 10, 2008 She sits in the sun and licks one paw, stopping only to listen to the birds and the squeak of the pencil.  She looks at Panza, the other cat, incredulous and sort of like a “boss”, who makes believe he is sure of himself and fierce. Now sheContinue reading “Observing Brutus”

A friendship that, in 1993, began thirty-five years earlier and which was to continue, in 1993, for almost another thirty years. June 27, 1993 Dear friend – words we use the way we say good morning, or how are you. But words that with you take on their truest meaning. How many are the friendsContinue reading “To a Dear Friend”

The valley that I see each day, as I walk along the edge of the cliff, is as it always is. Fields, olive groves, hedgerows of hawthorne waiting for the spring to burst into billows of white, rows of dark cypresses pointing to the sky, a house here and there along a winding country road.Continue reading “Missing”

July 4, 1993 Up in the corner – window, doorway, wall – sits the spider, waiting, in his web. Outside, on the bench, I sit, waiting, for someone, friend or stranger, to come along. A plop on the cobbles, it’s not what I thought – no birds, but just a branch above, and then suddenlyContinue reading “Waiting”

FOR MARIO BIZZARRI, archeologist in love with his profession and with Perugia and Orvieto, where he grew up and then spent his life becoming acquainted with his Etruscan forebears. He was born on March 30, 1914, and died January 30, 1969, in Orvieto.   HYPOGEUM DEI VOLUMNI (PERUGIA) and ORVIETO (Excerpts from Magica Etruria, Orvieto and Perugia, NuovaContinue reading “Mario’s Essay on Perugia”

Oct. 19, 1944 The wind rattles at the window panes and the branches of the trees sway from side to side. The leaves are twirled in the wild merry-go-round of the wind until they sink to rest on the earth. A fresh gust brings more leaves and these mingle with the others in a whirlingContinue reading “Leaves”