Category Archives: Poems

Objects have souls and stories of their own. In 1794 when he was confined to his room, Xvier de Maistre wiled away the time by entering into conversations with those not so mute objects he encountered.. And in1933, Louise Bogan also undertook a journey round her room. Since I have no intention of writing aContinue reading “Four Objects”

SCARVES, STOLES, SHAWLS OR WRAPS Stole, shawl, cape, boa, or pashmina. Or, perhaps, if you go back far enough, you get to toga. When I was working on a translation of Saint Charles Borromeo’s manual on church building and decoration, a stole was a liturgical vestment, on a par with a chasuble and surplice, andContinue reading “Stoles”

What’s in a scarf? Well, a lot really. Like the objects on my dresser. They have a soul. And come to think of it so do those squares or rectangles of printed fabric known generically as scarves. They can be time machines. They can be stores of memories, with ramifications as to when and whereContinue reading “Scarves”

I detest throwing things away. Aside from useful things, like receipts and medical tests, often I keep things just because, well just because they are beautiful. They may not be original drawings, they may be details of paintings, they may be something that reminds me of the past like a card with illustrations of theContinue reading “The Letter N”

And then there is another generation – skipping one. Although the generation that skipped, that of my son, did cross the ocean several times, it never settled down there, was never permanent. The last generation to cross the ocean, once more east to west as her great-great ancestors had done, is my granddaughter.  The newContinue reading “One More”

How little we really know. The portrait of a lovely young woman on a shelf near my bedroom is of Jennie, my grandmother. I knew a bit about her life, but it had never occurred to me to ask myself whether she was happy; I had not wondered what was going on in her mind.Continue reading “Was Jennie Happy?”

Then there were the women, my ancestors, on my mother’s side. Some of whom also crossed the ocean. My other grandmother, my mother’s mother, had been shuttled across the ocean as a child but was then brought back to her native land, Germany, to be brought up by an uncle. When she was old enough,Continue reading “Some Amazing Women Part II”

One reads every day of the amazing courage of those who are fleeing Afghanistan, Ukraine, and other countries that are repressive or torn apart by war. Yet in their own way, for their time and place, the women who were my ancestors were also amazing. I cannot help but wonder what induced a young womanContinue reading “Some Amazing Women Part I”

Mute spies.In plain sight. Laundry strung from house to house, half human shapes projected on poles out into the street. Sweaters and dresses flapping down, skins stretched out to dry. Dante’s Inferno. The twisted souls of sheets. A revealing, a revelation, of what the city on the whole keeps out of sight. Conceals but ultimatelyContinue reading “Mute Spies”

Una disgrazia. In other words what bad luck to be in Italy and not be able to eat Of all places – Italy! You might say but the same could be said of Spain, or France. Of Morocco. Or Hong Kong. But Italy! A greater misfortune cannot be imagined. Spaghetti alla carbonara. Tagliatelle with truffles.Continue reading “Una Disgrazia”

There’s a monument in what looks to be a park, hemmed in by a sandy area reserved for cars and the wall of a derelict building, once a hospital. Twelve trees, holm oaks, magnolias, an evergreen, shade the little-used road and the nondescript grassy areas littered with dried leaves, a few plastic bottles and aContinue reading “A Monument to Those Who Died”

Who am I? Is there a real “I”? It may all depend on how others see me, now and then. But it also depends on how I see myself, now and then. I look in the mirror. A face looks back at me. It’s not someone I, whoever that I is, recognize as me. WhatContinue reading “Who Am I?”

As you and the bus on its way back down to the funicular cross paths, the black and white striped cathedral rise up silhouetted against the sky. After studying the gold and colored mosaics and the sculptures on the facade that promise redemption or the tortures of hell, you cross over to the Corso, oneContinue reading “One Man’s Grand Tour of The City Part II”

COFFEE, WINE, AND LANGUAGE Languages do fascinate Antony, as they do me. And he is also trying to master essential German with the help of one of his regular clients. With regards to English, the other day he came up with a list of “o-u-g-h” words, the different pronunciation of which he had mastered. though           Continue reading “Blue Bar Part II”

All depends on chance – or does it. We talk. We read. We are constantly playing with words. Sometimes our introduction to an author,  to a character, to a book, depends on chance. Although perhaps that is generally the case in most encounters, real-life or on the printed page. Sometimes though, what sparked my interestContinue reading “Words and Wheels Part I”

It certainly is rare that one reads a book from cover to cover in one sitting. That’s where bookmarks come in. Perhaps only in the form of folding the corner of a page, dog-eared as they say, or by using a slender bookmark with reference to another book by the same author, or perhaps byContinue reading “Postscript”

A friend lent me a book. Not in itself unusual. The book, an English translation of Pirandello, Il fu Mattia Pascal. The late Mattia Pascal, came from a used bookstore, so my friend was not the first to read it, although it is in pristine condition. I do have Pirandello in Italian and I hadContinue reading “Who Wrote These Notes?”

There’s a shelf in the corridor leading to my bedchamber  with small figures vying with each other to be heard. They are indeed vying to be heard, for they are whistles. Most of them in simple terractta, some painted in bright colors, childish in their delight.  Several have written underneath Caltagirone and the date, oneContinue reading “Whistles”

Names again, given or inherited. Although I’ve written about names before, it somehow seems a universal, non-stop, subject. What’s in a name. It’s curious how we relate to people with a specific name. Let’s see. I have quite a few Davids on my list. Three I’m actually on speaking terms with and several others areContinue reading “Names Again”