Italian Pictures

2 0 00

Italian Pictures

July in Vallombrosa

Old lady sitting still

Pine trees standing quite still

Sisters of mercy

whispering

Oust the Dryad

O consecration of forest

To the uneventful

I cannot imagine anything

Less disputably respectable

Than prolonged invalidism in Italy

At the beck

Of a British practitioner

Of all permissible pastimes

Attendant upon chastity

The one with which you can most efficiently insult

Life

Is your hobby of collecting death-beds

Blue Nun

So wrap the body in flannel and wool

Of superior quality from the Anglo-American

Until that ineffable moment

When Rigor Mortis

Divests it of its innate impurity

While round the hotel

Wanton Italian matrons

Discuss the better business of bed-linen

To regular puncture of needles

The old lady has a daughter

Who has been spent

In chasing moments from one room to another

When the essence of an hour

Was in its passing

With the passionate breath

Of the bronchitis kettle

And her last little lust

Lost itself in a saucer of gruel

But all this moribund stuff

Is not wasted

For there is always Nature

So its expensive upkeep

Goes to support

The loves

Of head-waiters

The Costa San Giorgio

We English make a tepid blot

On the messiness

Of the passionate Italian life-traffic

Throbbing the street

up

steep

Up

up

to the porta

Culminating

In the stained fresco of the dragon-slayer

The hips of women sway

Among the crawling children they produce

And the church hits the barracks

Where

The greyness of marching men

Falls through the greyness of stone

Oranges half-rotten are sold at a reduction

Hoarsely advertised as broken heads

Broken heads

and the barber

Has an imitation mirror

And Mary preserve our mistresses from seeing us as we see ourselves

Shaving

Ice cream

Licking is larger than mouths

Boots than feet

Slip

Slap

and the string dragging

And the angle of the sun

Cuts the whole lot in half

And warms the folded hands

Of a consumptive

Left outside

her chair is broken

And she wonders how we feel

For we walk very quickly

The noonday cannon

Having scattered the neighbourвАЩs pigeons

The smell of small cooking

From luckier houses

Is cruel to the maimed cat

Hiding

Among carpenterвАЩs shavings

From three boys

вАФOne holding a barвБ†вАФ

Who nevertheless

Born of human parents

Cry when locked in the dark

Fluidic blots of sky

Shift among roofs

Between bandy legs

Jerk patches of street

Interrupted by clacking

Of all the green shutters

From which

Bits of bodies

Variously leaning

Mingle eyes with the commotion

For there is little to do

The false pillow-spreads

Hugely initialed

Already adjusted

On matrimonial beds

And the glint on the china virgin

Consummately dusted

Having been thrown

Anything or something

That might have contaminated intimacy

Out

Onto the middle of the street

Costa Magic

Her father

Indisposed to her marriage

And a rabid man at that

My most sympathetic daughterвБ†вАКвБ†вАФвБ†вАКвБ†вАФвБ†вАКвБ†вАФ

Make yourself a conception

As large as this one

Here

But with yellow hair

From the house

Issuing

Sunday dressed

Combed precisely

Splosh!

Pours something

Viscuous

Malefic

Unfamiliar

While listening up

I hear my husband

Mumbling

Mumbling

Mumbling

at the window

Malediction

Incantation

Under an hour

Her hand to her side pressing

Suffering

Being bewitched

Cesira fading

Daily

daily

feeble

softer

The doctorвБ†вАКвБ†вАФвБ†вАКвБ†вАФвБ†вАКвБ†вАФвАКвАЬPhthisisвАЭ

The wise woman

says to take her

So we

following her instruction

I and the neighbour

Take herвБ†вАФ

The glass rattling

The rain slipping

I and the neighbour and her aunt

Bunched together

And Cesira

Droops across the cab

Fields and houses

Pass

like the pulling out

Of sweetmeat ribbon

From a rascalвАЩs mouth

Till

A wheel in a rut

Jerks back my girl on the padding

And the hedges into the sky

Coming to the magic tree

Cesira becomes as a wild beast

A tree of age

вАЬIf Cesira should not become as a wild beast

It is merely PhthisisвАЭ

This being the wise womanвАЩs instruction

Knowing she has to die

We drive home

To wait

She certainly does in time

It is unnatural in a Father

Bewitching a daughter

Whose hair

down

covers her thighs.