USA

karren@alenier.com
Word Works email goes to editor@wordworksdc.com
Opera mail goes to poet@steinopera.com

NEAPOLITAN LOVE SONG

Dirty Napoli: couples

in little Fiats, newspapers

visoring the windshields. Laundry

curtaining the alleys. Cameoed

mamas arguing with heavy

hands. Pickpockets and ordinary

cassanovas loving up bus-bound

tourists, wedged between sweating

natives. Vesuvius visible

only after a thunderous

rain, quietly coughing

fluttering ash. Dead fish

floating in her bay.


winner of 2003 Moving Words contest, printed on a broadside by Arlington County, Virginia, Cultural Affairs Division

AFTERSHOCK

The door to Santa Lucia stands

ajar, the only invitation

in Montefalco for prayer.



On the walk outside,

Checko, the mynah says ecco.

Then ciao. He whistles



as if he knows how beautiful

women are. Was it

a three? Was it a four?



The Sagrantino wine bled

from the broken glass

because the table was pushed.



Basso profundo, our father shaking

the earth. Get to your

feet! The natives say



Saint Francis displays

his anger for selling his

name. His basilica crumbles



in Assisi after a five

and nearly a six. Echo

this Sunday, a three



maybe a four. Che bella giornata,

the black bird calls. The sun cracks

through the clouds, we feel



no rain.

SOME MEN

                                    run

with the bulls. May 15

in steep Gubbio streets,

they sprint with wooden

candles. Ten men, 700

pounds of carved

maple.

                           A sea

of brothers cheer

as the three

cheri---each topped

with a saint: Antonio,

Georgio, Ubaldo---rise

15 feet.

                      The meaning,

religious or pagan, floats

out of reach while the young

clerk, hands pressed

to heart extols the tradition,

"my father, grandfather,

great-grand... We do this for love."

ROCKS

In the Boboli, we follow

the path timidly less rocks

gather momentum, turn



the Avenue of Cypress

into avalanche. Two

poets, one western,



one eastern, speak

sotto voce of family

in the gardens



by the Arno. Both bore

sons---one lives

in America, plans



to marry; the other lost

his footing, his

life climbing



the Himalayas.

CANTO DI CAPRI

The cock crows. I awake facing the sea

from Capri. Emotion like Italian

conversation comes up like the sun,

rising. Last night, thunder

cracked over the sea lighting

the way to Africa; I could walk

on air, a Madonna floating

above the hillside chapel ascending

to Anacapri. My dreams

and days are colored with magenta

of bougainvillea -- flowers, flowers,

flowers and men singing unabashedly

the canzoni d'amore. Despite the winds

that whisper winter, why should I go

home? I'll live in a grotto furnished

with blue coral, cover myself with lilies,

dine on calamari, and smile forever

like a slice of the moon.



First published in --Connections (College of Southern Maryland:
LaPlata, MD)

© All Copyright, Karren Alenier.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.