Poems by Valeria Melchioretto
The Old Man and the Mountain
The old man lived on top of the mountain
and the mountain lived on top of him.
He was a warrior, a cynic, a martyr,
imprisoned by the swastika yet survived.
The old man, my father, was from then on alone,
was as scarred as the mountains and as distant.
He turned my childhood into a silent waiting room
from which my bravest doll was exiled.
Every evening he disappeared into his world
to water his cross with unwatered wine.
Thorns blossomed in the back room of his mind.
Eating the daily bread of resentment was the way.
Speaking German was banned from our home,
so as children we whispered it in the dark.
He had never worn brown shirts, yet they tied him,
timeless time ago when he became a prisoner.
So many painful thoughts pushed into oblivion
by the sound of snoring cathedrals
in the name of those who have not felt nor touched
that invisible mountain handed out by history.
Twice the earth was dug over to mark the change of season;
first the harsh ground of the fields, then the grave.
Endless winter melted suddenly, flowing into rivers.
I went and planted potatoes on top of the mountain.
Concerto
The grand piano is in the pockets of my mother's apron.
When she rested her hands there I could hear endless echoes, hollow
as Chopin's Waltz in E flat. Lonely sighs choking on orchestrated dust.
Mesmerised I spent years pulling on that apron as if to stretch sounds:
into presence, luring thoughts from subtle to substantial.
Throughout the seasons clothes pegs were born from those pockets.
Pegs the size of piano keys tuned to a whisper. So many pegs
the whole night sky could have been suspended by them on a line
reaching from the buckle of Orion's Belt to the W of Cassiopeia.
Long after nightfall she'd take her apron off, harmoniously, single handed.
Tape Recording
For my birthday please mother, tape record the hideous cricket sound
from your unfenced back garden, from between the immaculate
marigolds, the ever grey sage, where the honeysuckle petals fall.
I entrust you with this hi-tech task at twilight: summon the crickets
on St. John's day after the church bell of the last Ave Maria has cradled
itself to sleep. Record the trembling creatures that make a sound so thick,
they fill the air as polenta filled your cauldron on Sunday after mass.
Thick as your pulse before I had a thumb, a memory or a desire of my own.
Much later I will play the recording backwards until I can imagine
your voice calling my name, the way you used to call me in after it was
too dark to play 'heaven and hell', worried the devil might snatch my soul.
Venice is Burning
Sestina for Casanova
Come my Sweetest let's drift down the Canale in my gondola.
Come closer so that our bodies may melt through soft lips into union.
Lips so vivid and gentle, just like petals of priceless, Turkish tulips.
My head is spinning with the intense humming of your divine name,
it resonates in my heart's lower chambers. Your intent being so glass
clear, makes the world fall away as if we were on a remote island.
Your gripping company makes this place seem less of a boring island.
It is impossible to get around and enjoy life without a gondola.
You will see, one of these days my house will burn down due to the glass
blowing factories. I wrote a petition to stop them but their Union
keep the workshops going. So instead of vesting my energy, in the name
of tolerance let them get on with it. Better that than trading tulips.
If I was a bee I would desire nothing more than to explore your tulips.
After all, the hottest fire of Venice is the fire of the heart. No other island
burns in quite the same way. Forgive me, what did you say was your name?
Some evenings I stay in, dwelling on lost love, feeling like a gondola
out of water. Contemplating that marriage is just an 'economical union'.
You see these concerns rob my life-force, make me feel shattered as glass.
Saying that; nothing is as striking as your hair, it shines like Murano glass
chandeliers, your perfume must have been made from rare, exquisite tulips.
It is your voice that seduces me into believing in a deeper meaning of union,
deeper still than the pleasures of bare flesh. Remember: No man is an island.
Boats are made for long journeys across endless water. Not so the gondola.
The gondola is made of a different kind of wood. Let me whisper you its name.
I like a spicy life-style. Hot on the palette. Love has more than one name.
Women love me because most other men have a heart as cold as glass.
Some women go as far as to send for me, pick me up in their gondola.
When I get there it is my job to revive them like fading, tired tulips
while their husband makes a business trip to a near by island
not in the slightest realising that their wife is about to betray their union.
I have never promised anything to anyone, least of all ever lasting union.
Marriage is for those girls who are bored and tired of their maiden name
and hope to find fortune rather than a man. They really want a treasure island
with all the trimmings and a lover on top. I adore women and raise my glass
to their health and generosity. Sometimes I get them presents too, not tulips
though. I would not like to be seen holding a bunch of flowers in a gondola.
Feelings overflow this island, so if glass has to be broken
in order get a union going, so be it. Never will I mention a lovers name.
I shall rather plant tulips in my gondola and learn to walk on water.
The Unknown
From my mother I inherited a path paved with Gallbladder stones,
wide as childbearing hips, twice as long as impatience.
From my father’s side I inherited stories he told with his eyes.
Stories of death that no one mentioned, deep as afterthought,
he might have heard them like whispers from a war prisoner bed.
Mother would say thoughts were like boats, they need an anchor.
Nobody in our family could navigate an afterthought but it shook
our imagination like seasickness until we were green under our rosy cheeks.
In his sleep his eyelids flickered as if a factory was constructing nightmares
daylight didn’t want to know about. Now I choose my path with care.
Lazarus Proposes Marriage
I haven't been dead long but I was dead long before I died. Never
did I sleep with whores but for four nights I slept with death,
the one that lays down with everyone. Marry me and puke in my face.
When alive I was a poor and cowardly man, I couldn't confess
my festering feelings. The way you move me holds me in place
therefore hold me, set me free to feel the vortex in my blood.
This is my last attempt to reach into life. All you can hope to inherit
is my fast fragmenting family and my wedding gift shall be the touch
of sores solitude has inflicted on my empty hands. With them I will make
us a bed of autumn leaves on which we shall consummate our passion
till snow will cover us. I have not returned for Christ's sake
but for yours. So be mine in the name of the worms that have eaten
my flesh and the crows that have sat on my grave, please be mine.
Naming Clouds
For Luke Howard (1772 – 1864), of Tottenham, Namer of Clouds
In this corner of my life, happiness comes like a local Chinese take away.
I take up the hobby of collecting clouds, crowd them into my afternoon,
measure them for volume, name and catalogue them. Not an original pursuit.
It is almost a tradition since the namer of clouds lived in this neighbourhood.
Persistent the spiders now take over each corner, weave webs with the consistency
of clouds in which my thoughts get caught like winged things. They are arrested,
suspended by sticky threads, thin and temporal as hope. Perpetually trapped.
I force myself to stick to business and weigh the humid constructions in the sky
by means of great scales from the judgement hall. Scales with which the heart
ultimately must be weighed against the body. When night falls, I suspend
judgement about empty or full hearts and certain flesh, kiss each cloud
good night and wait, wait, wait for dawn to fill the corners of my eyes.
Seven Sisters
Between me and my seven sisters we had them all: breathtaking
circus acts you just want to die for as they camped on the Green.
We were dizzy and blinded by the glitter-glamour of the eighties.
Life smelt of cats' piss, patchouli, melancholy and faintly
of chrysanthemums picked the day the marquee went up.
No fights over who would get who. We accepted our fate.
The one who kissed the fire eater ended up with minor burns
while another madly fancied the tight rope walker but he never
came down to earth. He was like a budgie caged by the tent.
When the crafty midget run off with the savings it became obvious
things could not work out. The clowns in their many masks looked
even paler. The magician emptied his hat but the juggler didn't care.
He still kept up to six hearts suspended, only to drop them all when
his passport came through. The impresario had the skill of throwing
knives and luckily missed his victims. He only left the wounds of lovebites
as if they had been inflicted by a flea circus set loose. We were
all itching and scratching until the buggies rolled to the post office.
I dreamt the Dreamer of the Absurd so it was hard to wake up
but when I did the circus had gone. Even the grass grew back
the very next day or so it seemed to me while the sisters kept
waiting for the next season, for the next bunch of chrysanthemums.
House without Roof
Lavender lingers on the threshold like a delayed mourner,
blocking the entrance to a past heavy with rot. Migrating
birds report no news but shrill comments about foul air
while filling cracks in their nests where the roof used to be.
In the entrance hall the forest has covered the ground, branching
into the nursery while rain draws thick curtains on either side
of the open window. Sound of rain fills the spaces between
stones like muffled gossip, each drop mentions my full name.
Squirrels, red with embarrassment, hid in kitchen cupboards.
In blue rimmed tin plates gravel mixes with moss and mould,
a soup which moves slowly towards what everything is heading for.
Roof and owner have become permanent tourists leaving the house
like an open grave. A single sock and an unopened letter
balance on a shabby armchair while nettles bloom in the fireplace.
Their touch blisters and burns wild as buried passion. I should
remember why no wind or rain can put out these green flames.
Frost will set them back but frost takes its time. (By then I will
remember.) Ivy rushes over stained plaster heading in no specified
direction, towards something which is at home beyond the cloud
tiled sky. As I witness numerous wood lice waiting for a landlord
(but frankly any lord would do) sleep falls into me as if I had applied
to lodge in limbo. In a damp, moon lit room, walls seem as thin
as skin behind which everything happens. I find my body is neither here
nor there, heading towards nothing only the North Star shares my secret.
© Valeria Melchioretto