She awoke, and plugged in the MacBook. The screen lit up, and she opened the file she had to re-check. The old list of pregnancy tips, the one which she once used four years ago when she was pregnant with her first child. James and Paola were, at the outset of this story, about to celebrate their fourth marriage anniversary. They were getting ready to take a short vacation to Naples, and Paola was riddled with a nervousness about the idea of traveling, thinking about her pregnancy. On the way: her second child: on the way to a new life here on planet Earth. The four years which had passed since the marriage were filled with such a wild and inexplicable romance, the stuff of magical and mystical essences combining, filled with the type of romantic extravagance about which one only reads in novels and sees take place in the movies. There had been born, just about seven months after their marriage, a little girl: born the following Spring after the wedding, which had taken place in the Autumn. Their sweet, little daughter was now three and a half years old. The new child's gender, the little angel in utero, was as yet unknown during this short story's promptly outset; yet Paola felt somewhere inside her a deep, motherly knowledge that this, her next child, would be a little boy: another little ray of sunlight.
Upon searching for the file, she saw another, a pdf., which caught her eye. It was a series of five poems which her husband had once sent to her, all those four years ago. He had written them just after they got married, one afternoon, after they had gotten into a fight. The beginning of their marriage had proved itself, though not without some shaky fireworks.
She smiled. His poetry had been published just after the birth of their little girl, yet none of his published legacy contained the personal poems which he would write for her from time to time, personal poems like the little pdf. which she opened after reading the pregnancy tips a few times over.
The pdf. file filled the MacBook screen.
The poet's legacy and the legacy of his Muse.
Her eyes grew large and watery as she let herself be led back into the past. The legacy of his poetry was alive, yes, quaintly and somehow, and he was trying to publish another book of poems at the time of their little trip to Naples. Vague and untouchable thoughts about the past arose in her head as she stared at the open pdf. file. But this little part of it would forever remain hers, she thought, and hers alone.
Hers alone, or so she thought that sunny Sunday afternoon....
Cinque Salviette; or, Five Supposed Romantic Love Poems
written by thy faithful lover
For you, Paola
Grazie Cielo; a poem
I will write
No further
Rancid, ugly poems
Where I unwittingly reference
Bukowski
And her, my wife,
In the same breath- besides this one, of course
Because she does not like Bukowski’s writing
Nor does she like me writing poems
About her
In which, though I write them filled with love and
Inspiration,
I also mention Bukowski’s lines
That is not my idea of romantic,
She says
And she’s right
And I love her so
So I’ll write her something
She’ll like
Something like
A poem
About old women
Walking up and down the streets where she, once upon a millennium’s bend, spent part of her adolescence
Saying to each other quietly,
Grazie cielo
Use More Wipes; a poem
Our cats
Wake me up
Sometimes
I’ll learn to live with it
Their poop smells horrible
And sometimes it’s messy
But I clean it without a word, and I enjoy doing these little things for you,
I’m already used to the smell
And I love them
And take care of them
Further Wipes, For My Love; a poem
One doesn’t even notice
One’s shirt is half unbuttoned and untucked
Until one is in town
Eating a meal
At a somewhat busy restaurant
And one
After eating a first bite
Looks down to wipe
The crumbs off of one’s trousers
Thank you, love,
For eating with me
(I had my laptop open, and a picture of you filled the MacBook’s screen)
Thank you, love,
For staying with me
When I spilt my food- messy bites-
And thank you for staying with me
While I noticed the crumby trousers
And the half unbuttoned shirt
And so wiped
And buttoned
And then you called me back
You called me back home
Wiped and well buttoned
And, with a shirt still untucked,
Married
Thank you, love
Bookstore Blues, Libreria News; a poem
Sitting outside
The bookstore
I’m staring at the Italian translation
Of Raymond Carver’s collected poetry
Just got off the phone
With my wife
She’s taking me back
We had a bad fight last night -don’t ask-
Happy tears
Take the passenger-seat
Of my eyes
I look up
From the bench I’m sitting on
The bookstore
“La Picolla Libreria”
Here in the village of Levico
I see books displayed
Including Carver’s translations
In the window
One of them
A children’s picture-book
The cover picture-
A young boy, a few years old,
Holding the hand of his Grandma
His Nonna
And, looking at this children’s picture-book
And its cover-picture,
The tears take the wheel
Joyful tears take the driver-seat
Of my heart
And, looking up, I see a cloud
In the shape of a heart
Now, surely
The cloud isn’t very heart-shaped
But, I introspect:
If I ever saw anyone
Who was in the shoes like the ones which I’m wearing now
Circumstancially
If I ever saw anyone
Who was experiencing the circumstances which I am now experiencing
Who looked up
And didn’t see a heart-shape
In the clouds,
I’d say they were absolutely crazy
And now I wipe my tears,
Tears of deepfelt joy and gratitude,
On the sleeve of my shirt
As two old women pass
Walking along the cobblestones
By the bookstore window
They are saying
To each other
As they watch me in my bittersweet and bench-ridden melancholy,
Grazie cielo
Why?
I haven’t a clue
I don’t know who their God is
But after speaking to my wife on the phone
I’ve been thanking mine
Grazie cielo,
Says the American in Italy
On the melancholy bench
As he has deep thoughts about
His future children
And his wife
And their life together
One More Poem; a poem
Children play
Outside the bookstore
I hear them playing
I’m about to leave
I’m almost on my way home
To you
The children outside the bookstore, they’re chanting the word ‘Mami’
As I purchase Carver’s poetry at the register
And me,
I’m on my way back to you
Back to you
And that germoglio
Who sprouted in your perfect womb
At the perfect time
In the perfect place
On the perfect planet
In the perfect country
With the perfect people
All under a perfect sun
Children play
Outside the bookstore
And I’m on my way home
Back to you, love
fin
….Years after James’ poetic legacy had died, well into the second half of the 23rd Century- well after his words had spurred on poetic inspirations in the hearts of many and opened the eyes of many and then died and faded out of existence- the little poems he wrote for his beloved Muse, his Paola, would end up living on, as she would have then passed them on, would have passed them on as her legacy, first to her daughter, and her daughter would have passed them on to her daughter, and her daughter would have by then passed them on further, and so on, the long life of the story of a family’s beginning, with an end nowhere in sight.
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2 comments
A warm and heart-filled story. This particular stanza grabbed me as my standout favourite; Happy tears Take the passenger-seat Of my eyes Cheers! :)
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This is profound and lovely. Thank you so much for sharing your talent :)
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