[New-Poetry] Italian mail

[Anny Ballardini]

I am not the only one, then!

I wanted to send in this poem found on They Heydays of His Eyes:

M. DEGAS TEACHES ART & SCIENCE AT DURFEE INTERMEDIATE SCHOOL Detroit, 1942

Philip Levine
He made a line on the blackboard,
one bold stroke from right to left
diagonally downward, and stood back     
to ask, looking as always at no one
in particular, "What have I done?"
>From the back of the room Freddie
shouted, "You've broken a piece
of chalk."  M. Degas did not smile.
"What have I done?" he repeated.
The most intellectual students	
looked down to study their desks,
except for Gertrude Bimmler, who raised
her hand before she spoke.  "M. Degas,
you have created the hypotenuse
of an isosceles triangle."  Degas mused.
Everyone knew that Gertrude could not
be incorrect.  "It is possible,"
Louis Warshowsky added precisely,
"that you have begun to represent
the roof of a barn."  I remember
  that it was exactly twenty minutes
past eleven, and I thought at worst
this would go on another forty
minutes.  It was early April,
the snow had all but melted on
the playgrounds, the elms and maples
bordering the cracked walks shivered
in the new winds, and I believed
that before I knew it I'd be 
swaggering to the candy store
for a Milky Way.  M. Degas
pursed his lips, and the room
stilled until the long hand
of the clock moved to twenty-one,
as though in complicity with Gertrude, 
who added confidently,  "You've begun
to separate the dark from the dark."
I looked back for help, but now
the trees bucked and quaked, and I
knew this could go on forever. 

  ----- Original Message ----- 
  From: David Graham 
  To: NewPoetry: Contemporary Poetry News &Views 
  Sent: Wednesday, March 26, 2008 9:33 PM
  Subject: [New-Poetry] Italian mail


  Maratea Porto: The Dear Postmistress There

  I run up the stairs too fast every morning

  and panting for mail, I stagger inside

  and there she sits wagging a negative finger.

  Her frown is etched in and her mouth is sour.

  Niente per voi, today.

  This is Odysseus. I've come a long way.

  I've beaten a giant, real mean with one eye.

  Even the sea. I've defeated the water.

  But now, I'm home, pooped. Where's Penelope?
  Niente per voi, today.

  My name is Joseph and this, my wife Mary.

  we've had a long journey and Mary is heavy.

  The facts are odd. The child could be holy

  and I wonder, have you a room in your inn?

  Niente per voi, today.

  I'm Genghis Khan and this is my army.

  We've conquered your land. Now we want women.

  Bring them today at high noon to the square.

  After we've had them, we'll get out of here.

  Niente per voi, today.

  I'm Michelangelo, here to make statues.

  I've lugged this damn marble all the way from the Alps.

  I'll need a large scaffold and plenty of ropes,

  a chisel, a mallet and oodles of wine.

  Niente per voi, today.

  Oh, heroes of time, you're never a hero

  until you've endured ten days with no mail.

  Slaughter the stars and come home in splendor.

  She'll always be there at the end of the trail.

  Niente per voi, today.

  --Richard Hugo.  Good Luck in Cracked Italian.  World Publishing Company, 1969.


  ========================================
  David Graham
  grahamd at ripon.edu


  Home Page:
  http://web.mac.com/drjazz


  Poetry Library:
  http://web.mac.com/drjazz/iWeb/Site/DGPoLibrary.html
  ==========================================







  On Mar 26, 2008, at 2:57 PM, Anny Ballardini wrote:


    Ah you wouldn't if you lived in Italy, after a while it becomes something like panic. You receive things after months
    and months
    and
    m
    o
    n

    t
    h

    s




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