Another day, another poem written. The poet is sitting at another cafe, and, having just drank his cafe doppio, he's decided to transcribe a few of his poems from the last few days, and maybe turn some of his further journal entries into a further storyline of sorts.

Let us begin with the poems, taken from the little notebook which he's previously mentioned in another one of his little autobiographical shorts here on the Reedsy blog, a wonderful little black notebook which his fiancee has gifted him.

THE FIRST POEM: Snug

The box of vino rosso

which I sip from as I read from

the paperback copy of "Il grande Gatsby"

(dear me, how intelligent and wise the Italian way is,

the way in which they utilize the capital letters in their titles

as if in a sentence format)

is so cheap

that the bottom fold (ain't no bottom)

of the box is unglued (why am I drinking box-wine, anyway?)

so that it doesn't stay in place if you try and set it down on a flat surface,

and sitting here

on a park table (my behind is on the table and not the bench seat,

imagine that)

watching the blue-pink sunset

and listening to the cicadas and the traffic and the birdsong

I try to stand up the box next to me on the table,

but the box won't stand up,

so I hold it

under my left armpit,

snug (like a French baguette), as I write.

Forgive this, or not,

if not, straight in the stinky armpit you go.

SECOND POEM: Sop

Those who

write hermetic and solitary (symbolic)

poetry and works

have a place.

One refers to Celan, Paul.

Imagine living

through that-

being so dehumanized

and then living only on your own written page-

& then the riverbed.

THIRD POEM: Night

There's an orange light that shines

From behind an almost heart-shaped bush.

I keep looking at it.

Stiff tendrils, now wild,

If trimmed, might make for a

Complete scene or two;

If not,

In the armpits of my many constellations-

Wet grass, and some wet toes,

Those of a many-wiled man sitting

With his behind on the table and not the bench seat,

Drawing some pretty words

With his many kept colors.

FOURTH POEM: A Thought for a Notepad Still Afloat

The contents of my bag (tote)-

A fat book (Dante's)

A skinny device (MacBook)

Some pens,

& a thin pad (notepad),

Before I sit on the bench by the train station

I set my tote-bag down on it

And, setting it down,

The bag's held-vertical contents

Shift, and one slips.

The thin notepad

Attempts an outward bound run-for-it

And tries to slip itself through one of

The cracks in between the wooden planks

Which make up the bench seat,

The bench seat, this particular one by the train station

Ticket machine, is made up of three parallel planks

Set in a row, kept in place by three perpendicular aluminum bars,

And, as I was saying, I set down my bag,

And, right through the space between the wooden planks,

slipped my thin notepad,

But the tote-bag

Kept it, along with all its other contents

From slipping away,

Kept the notepad afloat.

FIFTH POEM: Little Poem

Nixon once used

two fingers

to win a place

in office-

The President

I use it

to order two waters

at a little cafe-

parched from my espresso

Due aqua, por favore...

And so those are the five poems, all written on the pages of the little black notebook, the lovely little gift from my fiancee. I am now thinking of how grateful I am that I did not find, as I originally desired to, a copy of an Italian translation of one of Bukowski's works, but rather, found Fitzgerald in a little tobacco shop, and quite without looking. If I had found one of Charles Bukowski's works I might have continued to imbibe shit wine and write sham poetry. I suppose here I can transcribe another journal entry of mine, which I scribbled into the little black notepad as I drank my espresso this morning, just before I decided to go and grab my MacBook, to further dish out another short story on this here blog.

The entry for today: Augusto 3, 2021

I've been turning over in my head for a few days now the way in which the beginning lines of "The Great Gatsby" were translated into Italian.

In the original Fitzgerald uses the words, spoken through his timeless narrator Nick Carroway, In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

Now, in the Italian translation, or, should I say, in the one which I happened to read by way of this particular paperback edition which I picked up in a little tobacco shop, reads differently than the original purport coveys, or so I think. I will not quote the Italian translation's depiction of the first sentence here, I will merely speak of it in the terms of my own understanding. It reads of Nick's remembrance of his father's advice as a means of putting a stop to certain mental agitations. The difference is subtle, to be sure, but it strikes me as somewhat too different. Not a very good translation of one of the best classically written novels of the past three centuries. To turn over, remembering a father's advice in a somewhat detached but fond manner, or, to remember said advice in order to put a stop to some phantasmic mental agitations? One can only wonder at its closeness or disconnectedness, the disconnectedness being the point of my own opinion and the striking point of my argument here. Yes, one can only wonder as one has no life-experience when it comes to the Italian forms of thinking and expression, or the deep cultural and artistic repertoires which are doubtlessly connected to these, my own, types of one-sided, self-understood contradictions. One can only be grateful to have an Italian copy of Fitzgerald's great novel, to be utilized in learning the language of the beautiful place which I now call home.

Thank you, Frances. Thank you, Dante. Thank you, Italia. Also, Italia, great job there winning the 100 meter dash in the "2020" Olympics. Va bene. I no longer root for the United States of America, as you can well see. And, as I write these words, dear reader, sto sorridendo.