The Best American Poetry

Miscellany from Rome [by Moira Egan]

We're watching the European Parliament Election Returns. The center right is winning, and that's no news, but it's far from the triumphs that have been predicted by Mr. B______ in the past few days. And he's not telling whether Kaka' is going to Madrid until tomorrow, after the elections.

* * *
I have learned a new Italian word. It's "gossip." Imagine!

* * *
There is a wonderful shop in Rome where I found some much-needed summery shirts. It's called POEMS. Now I have some shirts whose labels say POEMS. I love to wear POEMS.

An Aqueduct Runs Through It [by Moira Egan]

[Moon through aqueduct on the Villa ________ grounds] 

It's been a rough several weeks, hasn't it? It's hard to say much in the face of these days of loss after loss, though I do want to send out my love and sympathy to those who've lost someone close to them. But that almost seems like it's all of us: one really heartening thing has been to see how this community has pulled together in caring and support. 

I'm not usually the kind of person who walks around with Bible verses spinning around in her head, but lately I have been, and thanks to the useful hippie mnemonic of The Byrds' version of this song, here's what I've been singing as I walk among the ruins and the dust:

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; 

a time to rend, and time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace...

That greatest hit brought to you in Ecclesiastes 3, King James Version.

Close Encounters of the Royal Kind [by Moira Egan]

[Tropical Weather Patterns in the Eternal City]

Please excuse my radio silence, which was mostly due to having spent the past couple of weeks bopping around with my mother, who timed her visit to coincide with two Bob Dylan concerts here (one in Rome, one in Florence) and who had never been to Paris and decided that her daughter would be a good tour guide. (Thanks Mom!) Well, Florence was evocative and lovely as usual, and the City of Light was its usual beautiful and welcoming self (I say that with no irony; I love Paris). More on close encounters with Dante, Petrarch, and Montaigne later, but for now, here is the funny story about Her Royal Highness (Ma'am), the Keats-Shelley House, and poetry prizes.

Another poem by Deborah Digges [by Moira Egan]

I am so sad to hear of the death of Deborah Digges. She was one of my professors at Columbia; in fact, she was the instructor of my very first graduate workshop. Over those months, she made a couple of infinitely useful comments about my work, things I still sometimes think about when writing, and certainly when teaching. Another thing she often did was to credit the "source" of a particular assignment or prompt or way of looking at a poem. "This came from Larry Levis," or "This is what Gerry Stern said about..." I think it's valuable to pass that information on to students, to let them know they're part of a continuum of poets and teachers.

I always loved her poem "My Amaryllis," which first appeared in Ploughshares and then in The Best American Poetry 1992 (edited by Charles Simic). Here it is.

Terremoto in Abruzzo [by Moira Egan]

[from our visit to L'Aquila in October]

[Vincenzo Pinto / AFP /Getty Images]

Many thanks to the people who've written to ask if we're ok. We are fine here in Rome, and feeling very grateful for that.

I wrote about the days we spent in L'Aquila back in the fall, when we visited with Mark Strand, who was there to receive a prize sponsored by the town. As part of this prize, the poet is asked to speak to high school students, and to prisoners, in addition to giving a reading in a more traditional setting.  We met so many lovely people who were not just amazingly kind and generous to us, but who consistently showed us the great love that they have for their beautiful city. 

You've seen the pictures. There are people who've lost everything. Last death toll: 179. My heart and prayers go out to them.

More on Pizza, Pasta, & Poetry [by Moira Egan]

[another sunset shot over the Colosseum]

People often ask, "So how's the poetry scene in Rome?" and of course there are two very different answers. I'd say the Italian poetry scene is pretty lively, with a lot of young and/or energetic poets who also edit, publish, write criticism, and give lots of readings in various venues around town. In fact, one of our friends, Marco Giovenale, and several other Italian poets, will be giving readings sponsored by Poets House in New York in May. So go if you can! 

The answer to the other question, as to how the English-language poetry scene is doing, well, let's say it's a work in progress. But progress is being made. Just the other week, for example, I was able to welcome my house-guest Claudette by saying, "We're going to a poetry reading tonight!" We took the #3 to Trastevere and walked over the wobbly-cobbles to John Cabot University. There, Carlos Dews artfully introduced Robert Polito, who was reading from his new book, Hollywood & God, which, if you don't already have, you should go out and buy.

Happy St. Paddy's Day [from Moira Patricia Brigid Egan]

who, bloody hell, can't seem to get the pretty images from the YouTube into her post. 

Meanwhile, I have me' annual Spring Cold that has fallen upon the very Saint's Day of my Persuasion, so Damiano and I are not out celebrating with the many Irish who live in this town, nor with the Italians who are Irish on this One Day in the Pubs, so instead we've been a-singin' and a-dancin' at home to these:

something from the olden days, as it were

and from the more modern, and yet still arse-kickin' and can't we please all just get along days, go here

and if ye' be needin' something slightly more American with yer Creature, go and get your Whiskey in the Jar.

  

Slainte to ye' all.

Wine, Women, Cheese and Song [by Moira Egan]

Pretty good stuff, at La Barrique on via del Boschetto

When I write that inevitable, _I Moved to Italy and Now I Have to Write a Book About It_ book, an entire chapter is going to be devoted to Raffaele and Sandro, our butchers. Their shop is on the storefront street level of our block, and it is a "veritable cornucopia" not only of really exceptional meats (vegetarians, don't fear, I won't talk about that right now), but it also has an entire wall of great wines, many of which are absolutely affordable, and even the top ones are always in the "best value" category; and they carry cheeses from Sardegna and Puglia; and Carnaroli, the best rice in the world for making risotto; and amazing sausages from Calabria and Tuscany (the latter made from Chianina beef); and I could go on and on here, but instead I will do that in the inevitable book.

Now, however, I write about Raffaele and Sandro because the other night, they hosted a "degustazione" in a gallery/performance space right downstairs, and it was one of the best social gatherings that I've attended since I've lived here.  When I was in the States last month, I noticed that Americans (in spite of everything going on right now!) smile frequently. You look at them, they smile. Romans, not so much. You look at them and they ignore you, or they scowl, or they check you out to see that you don't match up to their Prada expectations. But at this festive "degustazione," everyone was smiling. And, according to our host Raffaele, the evening wasn't over until we had some poetry!

Postcard from Perugia (and many other places) [by Moira Egan]

["I summon to the winding ancient stair"? no, we went round the long way. Perugia at night]

These days, for me, jet lag in this direction is much worse than jet lag going to the States. Going that way, my clock is just a little off, so I get to pretend that I'm a morning person (ha!) But coming back this way, I zap right up at 3 in the morning and I'm wide awake until 5 or 6. I'm only happy about this now  because it gives me more time to read Words in Air, the letters between Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell, as I'm sure you know, and if you haven't gone out and plonked down the 45 dollars (or however many Euro it was; I think we got it through Amazon.France--quelle bonne idee pour nous expatries! and I'm not putting in the diacritics because they mess up everything!), please do.

It's a wonderful book, full of humor and love, intelligence, pathos and literary gossip. Last night, for example, I went from EB saying "I feel awful about Hemingway's suicide" to talking about organizing the gift of a Brazilian dress for little Harriet Lowell: "Or how about a monkey instead of a new dress? He would adore your various typewriters and might learn to pick out Beat poetry." Yes that was EB, not me!

Love Sonnet by John Updike [by Moira Egan]

Love Sonnet

In Love's rubber armor I come to you;

                                                       b

                                                  oo

                                                        b.

                                                c,

                                                   d

                                                   c

                                                   d:

                                                e

                                               f--

                                                  e

                                                    f.

                                                       g

                                                    g.

[R.I.P.]

For your listening pleasure [by Moira Egan]

[another photo of Mark Strand & Damiano Abeni by Mario Ventura]

Just for fun, and/or if you happen to be studying Italian, you now have the opportunity to listen to two interviews with Mark and Damiano on RAI, the Italian national radio and TV network. Links below.

Mark Strand reads in Rome [by Moira Egan]

Damiano Abeni and Mark Strand (photo by Mario Ventura)

Well, that was fun! The Cultural Center Foundation of the St. Stephen's School was the setting for a very nice reading by Mark Strand. Reprising my role as reading-hostess-lady, I had the pleasure of introducing; then Mark and Damiano read, in English first, followed by Damiano's Italian translations. 

During the reading, I was standing over by the book table, looking out at the audience. It was wonderful to see, in addition to students, teachers, doctors, lawyers, and butchers, something like a Who's Who of contemporary Italian poets, writers, critics, and publishers. I had an irrational doom& gloom flash (I don't know, is it being Irish that puts these weird thoughts into my head?), similar to the one I had many years ago at the 92nd Street Y, when almost all of the poets who had each translated a Canto of the Inferno were in the same place at the same time: Please God don't let the ceiling fall in, what would we do for poetry?

Full Moon through Ruins [by Moira Egan]

And whew, what a spectacular full moon it was: moon at perigee and in Cancer (whose sign she rules, no less; and my sign, yes, I confess). 

Busy days here in Rome: many many polyglot parties. I think I've figured out a path toward instant improvement in my conversational fluency in Italian: try to speak French! It seems to work: try to speak a language that's been billiarding about in your head for what, 35 years now, and Hey presto, the one you sputter around in, day in and day out, often frustratedly, turns out to be the default. Really, in my next life, I'm going to be a neurophysiologist and draw up a map of where all this stuff happens in the brain: This is your brain on French. This is your brain on Italian. This is your brain on poetry. This is your brain on Kant.

Right now, this is my brain on tired and busy, if happily so. We Baltiromans are exceedingly happy that the only pro football team that's named after a poem is moving right along in the play-offs. (And I've been teaching Damiano how to say GO RAVENS in a Baltimore accent. He almost has it.) 

And really, as promised, Massimo Gezzi's interview with John Ashbery from POESIA. Soon. Meanwhile, buon anno!

The palm at the end of the holiday season [by Moira Egan]

And tomorrow is Epiphany.  What epiphanies have you had lately?

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Coming this week: John Ashbery in Poesia (#234, to be exact).

Buon Anno [by Moira Egan]

Happy New Year from 2009 in Rome!!

Roman Holidays (ii) [by Moira Egan]

When I first saw the blue and white lights, I thought it was some weird reflection.

Roman Holidays [by Moira Egan]

Merry merry!!

Literary Rapallo: a mini-quiz [by Moira Egan]

 [Antico Castello in Rapallo harbor. The poet of question #1 lived in one of the houses up the hill]

1.  This Irish poet described Rapallo's coastline as a "thin line of broken mother-of-pearl along the water's edge" and spent much time writing (automatic and otherwise) in his Rapallo Notebooks.

a. Patrick Kavanagh

b. Austin Clarke

c. Padraig Mac Aodhagáin

d. William Butler Yeats

Strikes are general ... [by Moira Egan]

all over Italy.  

(Though I guess we're feeling somewhat blessed to be inundated with water rather than with fire, as has been happening in Greece.)

Tomorrow there will be another general strike: trains, buses, postal services, schools, pretty much everything will be completely shut down for four hours.  Air traffic, however, will be unaffected, in case you're planning to fly over here.  

But in tomorrow's manifestazione, there will also be a literary presence: lo "sciopero dell'autore" -- the authors' strike.  

Reading & Writing & [by Moira Egan]

[after the rain]

I just love Harvey Hix's "20 questions" idea for guest bloggery this week. It's so interesting to see the diversity of responses--and I'm looking forward to more of HLH's musings on his findings.

Meantime, I have a question to put out there as well. What do you read in bed?