January 2, 2004 Another day begins. Set patterns of behavior govern our every move. Demands, requests, solicitations. Wandering attention is quickly brought back into line. Vines etched against a pallid sky. Golden oaks tossing in the wind. Coffee wafts through the air the cup warming our hands. The chill of morning kept at bay byContinue reading “Poet”
Author Archives: Erika Bizzarri
California Impressions
1955 I had my degree and it was time to venture into the future. It started with a stint at a museum in Long Beach, California, before taking off for Europe. There wasn’t all that much to do in the town and about the only thing that was interesting was the beach with tankers loomingContinue reading “California Impressions”
Sounds
Sounds March 8, 2021 Sounds that were and no longer are Sounds that are and then were not Velcro The click of the camera shutter The third avenue El. Memories of the past. But then there is also The wail of a baby crying A sound now lost in yesteryear As the baby becomes a man. OtherContinue reading “Sounds”
New York City
I suppose I could have gone to Boston but I think I just wanted to get away from home. Besides which there was really no home any more for my parents had sold the farm and were living in a trailer. Logically, it was NY that beckoned and I had a possible contact in theContinue reading “New York City”
The Sound of a Petal Dropping
Perceptible, but barely. The sound of a petal dropping from the full-blown rose on my computer tower. We wait a whole year for that one brief moment of beauty, Francesco had said. But what about the other kinds of beauty, the other stages in growth and development, not just the flowering? Another petal drops.Continue reading “The Sound of a Petal Dropping”
On a Farm One Makes Hay
Making hay was a story by itself. We used what we called our tractor, but which was actually a pick-up truck painted red, to pull the mowing machine with one of us sitting on it, raising and lowering the double row of blades that moved back and forth cutting the grass. The next step wasContinue reading “On a Farm One Makes Hay”
Tree and Girl
If I had had my camera out If I had had more time If I had been on my own And not running to catch the train to Zurich In the station of Milan. I would have taken at least two photos. One of a scraggly unleafed tree Waiting for someone As it sat onContinue reading “Tree and Girl”
Goats
Our farm was a real farm. Almost a hundred acres with pasturelands, fields and a hemlock grove with a brook. It was at the end of a dirt road with a big red barn and a white clapboard three-story house with a couple of porches entrances over on the right. The mailman would come onceContinue reading “Goats”
Penelope III
A lady. The only word that suits the woman in the picture. Head held high, lips parted, gazing past me, into…what? A fur coat draped around her shoulders, evening gown cut low, a bare arm crosses, clutching white gloves to her breast. One earring glitters half hidden by a wave of hair. Her only jewels.Continue reading “Penelope III”
Apple Orchard
McIntosh. An apple of which there is no other. Surely, that was the apple the wicked witch gave to Snow White. Round, red, perfect. Juicy, asking to be eaten. We had an orchard with over 80 trees on our 98-acre farm in Massachusetts. When harvest time came, my sister and I and the whole family wentContinue reading “Apple Orchard”
Penelope II
Boxes. That you had put in storage. Your past life lies scattered in the yard. Their contents, still remembering your touch wrapping each pot and pan each cup and dish with determination, anger at your fate, at false friends, betrayals, rueful yet relieved to leave it all in newspapers now stiff and yellowed. I goContinue reading “Penelope II”
Paris III
And the movies. My Architect. A moving study of Louis Kahn – of a son and his acceptance of a father, even if he had 3 families. Il Dono. Slow, focusing on textures. Calabria. Christ stopped at Eboli. A desolation of the soul, redeemed by the gift. Good thing I got my times mixed upContinue reading “Paris III”
Penelope
Penelope (January 1995) – Part I All those things that once you looked at daily, used, took so much for granted you no longer saw them, unaware of their existence, appendages, hands, hammer, knives, tools feet, shoes, carpets vertebras and muscles chairs, tables teeth pots and pans and dishes the ensemble of your mind andContinue reading “Penelope”
Paris II
The days go by, are confounded. Did it rain? Was there sun? Yves Klein blue on cement brick. The white light of Paris. But there’s always inchworm, inchworm, climbing up the wall… Sainte Chapelle. Read the story the stained glass has to tell. Too bad there’s no sun. Baguettes, with sesame. Cheeses, wine, salad. Inchworm,Continue reading “Paris II”
Hands
(Feb. 20, 2021) Where has the handshake gone? That sign of trust, of human contact. Strong, firm, fleeting, Warm, pulsating, limp and cold. Saying more than just a physical contact. Protective, as in Rembrandt’s Jewish Bride. Welcoming, forgiving as in his Return of the Prodigal Son. Clasping, grasping, as with Rodin’s anatomical studies. An emanationContinue reading “Hands”
Paris
Paris November 2004 – Part I Ryanair. Thrill to take-off as it used to be. Roar of motors, lifting off the ground. Paris. Metro. Steps and steps. Circumventing square in search of cab. Lane behind iron gate. Low houses painted sky-blue, pink, yellow. Steep half-width steps winding up (one floor only, thank our stars!) InstructionsContinue reading “Paris”
Museum Hum
Museum. Architecture for people – without people. (2000 and November 2004) White rooms, doorways leading to other white rooms. Pictures, straight-edged, in the straight-edged architecture of the rooms. Muffled voices in the carpeted room. Intermittent sounds detaching from what should have been the underlying silence. A hum persistent low key elusory pervasive inescapable. Barely perceptible.Continue reading “Museum Hum”
The Watcher: Sicily continued IX
Campino Because I was a friend of one of their families, I was somehow not a stranger in Campino. It was a tiny village up in the mountains. Including the chickens, there were perhaps 150 inhabitants. Threaded between the houses with their thick stone walls and heavy stone roofs were narrow pathways and under passageways,Continue reading “The Watcher: Sicily continued IX”
Ahnenpass
The history of my mother’s family is actually rather complicated. My ancestors are remembered, some I knew and loved like my grandmother and aunt Toni. Others remain names in the Ahnenpass. Ahnenpass, a genealogical document required in Nazi Germany listing birth and death dates, occupations, where lived, who they were married to – all toContinue reading “Ahnenpass”
The Watcher: Sicily continued VIII
Milan and family The train approached Milan. The land was flat, a strange jumbled chessboard of green and yellow. The corners of the fields were all square. The violence of the Sicilian sun had abated. But here too the wheat was already bleached and reminded me of Van Gogh with the red of the poppiesContinue reading “The Watcher: Sicily continued VIII”
Erika Bizzarri 