Mother Country, 1912

 

We leave our mother country

like farfelle breaking from cocoons,

drying our wet, crumpled wings 

outside the white shell.

Too early.

It is still winter, look at the

ice sliding in the river below.

We cross the ocean

the way flowers do,

bleached by salt

and soaked in the white

foam of sickness,

our nectar

a memory in the old country.

We write our names on a long

list. Our wedding: March, too

early for spring. Our race: Italian,

long faced. Our name: Filippi,

not Philips. F-I-L-I-P-P-I.

We build our casa

with beams and bed frames.

We keep our pennies in a jar,

pennies from coal heaps  

and cindering lungs.

But we nurse our memories

where our hands grow strong:

Palenta, to slice for the children.

Chicken, their necks to wring.

Grapes, to crush under our feet

for grappa. We hide the barrels

in the woods.

We rub our rosaries, shine

our shoes, and sing farfelle

songs. The children echo

in honey voices and sleep

like wild flowers,

soft faces yawning

into summer.

But sometimes at night

we rock in our sleep

the way we rocked on the sea,

wings full of ice,

aching for spring.

Original Version:

 

                                   

I. Farfelle, 1912

 

We leave our mother country

like farfelle breaking from cocoons,

drying our wet, crumpled wings 

outside the white shell.

Too early.

It is still winter, look at the

ice sliding in the river below.

We cross the ocean

the way flowers do,

bleached by salt

and soaked in the white

foam of sickness,

our nectar

a memory in the old country.

We write our names on a long

list. Our wedding: March, too

early for spring. Our race: Italian,

long faced. Our name: Filippi,

not Philips. F-I-L-I-P-P-I.

We build our casa

with pennies for beams

and bed frames. Pennies

from carving coal heaps  

with cindering lungs.

But we nurse our memories

where our hands grow strong:

Palenta, to slice for the children.

Chicken, their necks to wring.

Grapes, to crush under our feet

for grappa. We hide the barrels

in the woods.

We rub our rosaries, shine

our shoes, and sing farfelle

songs. Carmella, three, sits

on a knee, claps and flaps

her tiny arms.

II. Carmella, 2012

Come in, sweetie, sit down.

Frankie can grab you some milk from the fridge,

goat’s milk. Try some. Mama mia, it is good. From

the little store.

I had a little white goat growing up. She’d come running

up to play on our crooked apple tree. She was a darling.

Then dad took her away. I knew, but we didn’t ask

questions. Her tree was in the orchard by the garden

and a hole. We used magazines for toilet paper

and boiled water from the creek. A bath, once a week,

youngest first.

How do you like the milk?

We’d let ours stand, you see, and scooped the cream

off the top. Ah, then we’d spread it over homemade bread.

And how we loved to steal dad’s grappa grapes. We learned

every curse brought back from the mother country.

Do I miss Italy? Oh no, sweetie, I was never born there.

I went for the first time with Frankie, oh, fifteen years ago.

It all came back to me. That’s what Frankie says, anyway.

Mama mia, mom! He says, I couldn’t keep up with you.

All those words we spoke at home as children, sweet again

as butter on my tongue. Grazie, buongiorno, la nostra Italia,

it is the most beautiful place in the world.

Only there it all came back. Someday you must go too.

Did we like growing up here?

Well, we owned two shoes, the best pair for Sundays. Yes,

just two. I feel sorry for you children today. Too many shoes

to wear, too many dresses to want.

We were happy then.

We didn’t know any different.

          

a dream in jazz

Studying in Starbucks, watching

the pen scrawl on my cup blur

while Nat King Cole murmurs soft as powered

sugar             the world still is the same, you never change

it and rain glazes the umbrellas outside

as his piano dances me

onto an old trolley,

winding through Seattle

watching jazz drizzle

through a cloudy window, swinging

in half sleep

            so find yourself somebody

                        to love

men and women shuffle in

and ping

            ping ping

go their nickels in a tip jar

they shake off their tinted blue hats and adjust

the rose tinted feathers in their hair

            at last my love has come

                        home whispers the young bride

in her friend’s ear and a bent man rubs the check

in his pocket            the livin’ is easy

cars slide by, slow

under street light’s brick glow

and shops sell the latest

lamp shades, wood toys, mink coats

            je vois la vie en rose

the trolley rings to a stop for me

and i skate away on the lake

frozen between 3^rd and Pike Place

below salmon zip and badip in muted trumpet

bursts, then disappear beneath the bass line

            la mer
                        des reflets changeants
                        sous la pluie

a child on his father’s shoulders points

at the stars jiggling tambourines above           

and a man’s smoky saxophone song

spills into the street light

while the children giggle and clap for more
            they'll learn much more

                        than i'll never know

soon it will be a White Christmas and

the Old Speghetti Factory hauls in a giant tree

for everyone to hang up their prayers

and poems

i watch mine throb and glisten
in the firelight

            i'd tear the stars down from the sky

                        for you

says the old man who lends his arm

to his dozing wife

and they bob, his cane bouncing

into the night
if that isn't love

            it will have to do

shops close

doors lock

and the city hums into sleep

i sit alone on the trolley

watching the lights blinking, slinking

over the bridge, into the water

            the best is yet to come
and I wake

warm

from all this jazz

nostalgia

magic.

Dear Mr. Darcy,

Seattle is purgatory.

Believe me, I feel halfway

between London and Portland,

sacked from hip surgery, fog headed,

sipping tea in desperate need of sugar

cubes, listening to the peck, peck, pecking

of that clock. And the neighbors! Muddying

traffic in herds or cowering like mice at a crosswalk.

Why you see such hope for Americans is beyond me.

Darcy, don’t tell me to be sensible. You cannot persuade

your dear aunt to feel any better after attending your

engagement party in such a fragile state. Such a vexing

encounter with that woman! I cannot even mention

her name.

Don’t you understand? You are our world’s last hope

of chivalry. Men are slowly re-descending into ape-hood while

women trudge on. English women, of course. Your American

prize is already on her way to becoming a chimpanzee.

Don’t personalize this, dear. London’s Bridge didn’t nose

dive in one day. Why, I am simply fine-tuning your foundations.

Now that you are convinced to break off the engagement,

a proper courtship evades these seven deadly women:

First, Diana, a deity of sincerity and charity:

            She was the gem of Britain! My last hope in politics,

            gone. Women like her who open their hearts and their

            arms for the world will be eaten by it. Your wife

            must have a refined heart, Darcy, not a team of paparazzi.

Second, Juliet, of equal tragedy:

            These women are hopeless romantics, frantic to write your

            names in the stars and hook up in bars. I’ve only heard

            rumors of this nonsense, mind you.

Third, the Martha Stewart types:

            crafty.

Fourth, Rachel, the costly woman:

            Darcy, I have no intentions for you to become a polygamist,

            even if you waste fourteen years to buy her.

Fifth, the restless traveler:

            She takes the road less traveled, as some say. She lives

            in trains, or worse, her own imagination. She will have

            horrible table manners, Darcy!

Sixth, the bothersome bookworm:

            I hear of a vampire series that rattled senses. Reading

            such rubbish tells women gallant men must sparkle

            and climb trees. I simply won’t have it.

Lastly, the crudest concoction of all,

that woman you have since disposed of,

she settles! Like a deflated cake, she drops
out of college to answer telephones, dirties her

pants walking in the rain, loves hairy dogs, long talks,

bread, and bubble baths. She worries not for her wedding

day or resume. Worst, she needs neither to be fulfilled! Beware

her fiery prejudice, lest she melt your pride. Oh, that Elizabeth Bennet

will poison a marriage! Don’t you see what this is doing to my poor nerves?

Oh Darcy, if you find that a new woman

of interest passes my list, consider if she

has my tastes and virtues.

Then you have succeeded.

Your affectionate aunt,

Mrs. Catherine

Original- with many more sassy cultural references:

Dear Mr. Darcy,                                                                       

Seattle is purgatory.

Believe me, I feel halfway

between London and Portland,

sacked from hip surgery, fog headed,

sipping tea in desperate need of sugar

cubes, listening to the peck, peck, pecking

of that clock. And the neighbors! Muddying

traffic in herds or cowering like mice at a crosswalk.

Why you see such hope for Americans is beyond me.

I write in this dreary daze because I hear your power of persuasion

has prevented a peculiar family from Vegas scandal. Intriguing.

Should I suspect one of their sisters of slaying your sensibility, I take

it upon myself to revive you. Darcy, you simply

can’t let your good upbringing rot.

These dark days, chivalry is a dusty Mona Lisa, movie theatres mummify

cordial exchanges, emails erase calligraphy, and yet the new millennium

marvels. Big Brother might already be watching

men opening doors with buttons, men zoning out of women’s words

like frightened zoo animals. Why else do so many live at home until thirty? Clearly,

Darwin’s theory climaxes and curves in my generation. Men are slowly

re-descending into ape-hood while woman trudge on.

Don’t personalize this, dear. London’s Bridge didn’t nose dive in one day. Why,

I am simply fine-tuning your foundations.

Now, a man of such a dying species must avoid these seven deadly women:

The first tragic beauty: Diana, a real deity of sincerity and charity. Women like her will break your 

heart, Britain’s, and all the children in reach of a beanie bear. 

The second tragic beauty: The Juliets of today, the hopeless romantics, frantic

            to write your names in the stars and hook up in bars. How medieval. 

Third, the Martha Stewart types: crafty.

Fourth, a costly woman: Remember Jacob’s love for Rachel? Waste not fourteen years

            in mad pursuit. Polygamy loosens all propriety and sends you to purgatory.

Fifth, a Downton Abbey fanatic:

            How easily happy she is, never setting foot in a real abbey, hoping for no road             untraveled, seeing no importance of being earnest. How dull her lot in life.

Sixth, the bothersome bookworm:

            I hear of a vampire series that rattled senses. Reading such rubbish tells women gallant men must sparkle and climb trees. I simply won’t have it.

Lastly, the crudest concoction of all,

the woman I so worry of:

she settles!

Like a deflated cake,
she drops out of college

to answer telephones, dirties

her pants walking in the rain,

loves hairy dogs, long talks,

bread, and bubble baths. She

worries not for her wedding day or

resume. Worst, she needs neither to be fulfilled!

She will find your reserved manner disdainful and proud.

You must beware this woman’s fiery prejudice, lest she melt

your pride. American women like this poison a marriage, Darcy.

Break any knots you have tied with her,

and promise me,

            you are never ever

            ever

            getting back together.

Oh Darcy, if you find that a new woman of interest

passes my list, consider if she has my tastes

and virtues.

Then you have succeeded.

Your affectionate aunt,

Mrs. Catherine

God in Seattle

I think if God stepped into Seattle, he’d stand on the Ave in black pants,

maybe a hoodie, maybe as a guitar junkie. He might smell

from all his walking. He wouldn’t need a tip jar. I think if I listened

to his song and stepped into his gaze, he would shake up

all the institutions inside of me.

See, I speak of freedom, and I dream of it

in lecture halls, elections, new years resolutions, shiny cubicles, friendship solutions,
cleaner cuticles, Real Change dollars, and wedding cake kisses where the grass is always

leaner.

But my words serve to smother my other lover, keep her undercover

in the dark of my soul arteries, the tunnels where my life pulse

beats to the rhythm of my own drum.

She is the institution who sorts neighbors and friends into folders, a tab for the beautiful,

a tab for the ugly, for those admired, for those who make me feel guilty, for those who

shop or starve, for those who smoke weed, for those who button up high, for those
worthy, those unworthy. Sometimes

I forget you share my humanity,

I deny that

the hierarchy starts with me.

Might I rearrange and blame and maim

the institutions, the churches, the societies, the people

who abuse, who cause me to loose

my dignity,

the seed still lies inside of me.

If I travel in one pair of sandals,

collecting dust in all my travels,

building blisters and wrinkles,

I can not, will not, let anyone
important wash my feet.

God in Seattle just might kneel to.

What if

God has a better drum,

and a better name,

and a dream

that still plays.