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nearly30yearsitalian

~ Daily observations of life in Rome and further afield from a single, working mother either entirely competent or confused in two languages, two cultures, at least two mindsets.

nearly30yearsitalian

Tag Archives: Poetry

The Oyster Chairs

29 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by nearly30yearsitalian in Nuances, Verse

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Tags

images, nostalgia, Poetry

My grandmother’s living room was not large but warm and inviting. One entered either from the dining room, through the main entrance to the house, past the secretaire in the corner with the oil portrait of my mother wearing a red handkerchief hung above it or –much more commonly– through the kitchen with its warn and warm sand-toned linoleum floor and corner bar and sink placed just opposite the door to the basement where my brother would one day live and hide for a spell. This would become just one of a series of long and short spells.

No matter which way you came into the living room, you faced a rather intricately carved wooden hearth whose bookshelves framed the fireplace. In front of these book shelves where books like The Italians and Italian Idioms lived, flanking the fireplace, were two oyster chairs. I don’t remember if they were called oyster chairs or if only my grandmother called them oyster chairs or if I just dreamt about their being called oyster chairs one day and there they remained in my mind as oyster chairs.

She’d had them recovered in the 80s with a soft velour in varying tones of pale yellows. Their shell-like shape swiveled on an invisible mechanism, hidden by the fabric. The arms were covered with protective sleeves of the same fabric. The chair to the right was nestled between the black, baby grand piano to the back of the room and the right side of the fireplace. It tended to stay put, never teetering, carefully placed on the carpet and just in front of the small window leading out to the screened-in porch on the side of the house. The chair on the right got little use, for the view of the TV was blocked by its twin. It would be used most often on holidays and visiting Sundays for unwrapping presents and conversation.

The swiveling, soft yellow oyster chair on the left was also positioned carefully on the plush red carpet which covered all of the living room, entranceway, staircase and dining room. However, it often shifted ever-so-slightly so just a tiny bit of its intricate, invisible base went onto the slate floor in front of the fireplace, causing it to be off kilter and not only swivel but tip. Here my brother perched and hung and jumped and swiveled. Yet he was not a little boy. He was a big, strong, high school athlete who, bowl of ice cream in hand would take a running lead from the kitchen and land on the delicate oyster swivel chair with a thump. His legs splayed over the protective sleeve, he’d swivel it around, still holding his ice cream in one hand and reach for the remote control with the other. My grandmother would make a plea to “go easy on the furniture” but to no avail. Not because he didn’t adore his grandmother but because he didn’t equate the running down of things with the running down of people.

For years I watched the once identical, soft yellow swivel chairs become different from one another. One carefully preserved, well-positioned and poised, the other tattered, unbalanced, bruised, its slip covers worn and threadbare, its bones creaking.

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Nothing Happened

17 Saturday May 2014

Posted by nearly30yearsitalian in Nuances, Toiling in Rome, Verse

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

girl power, italy, Poetry, rome, storytelling, women power, women's rights, women's safety

Late afternoon sun warms the urban ladder.
Mediterranean promise lies behind its rays.
A light, sultry, dust-carrying desert wind lifts the grime of the inebriating city.
Time is running low to this experience of rebirth –
a Renaissance of her own – from midwest to mid-Med.
Learning hides behind every corner, life lessons coming fast and furious.
Lessons of world struggle, history’s shifting poles of power give pause.
Independence comes through the panes of a speeding train, the pains of growth spurts.
Significance creeps through everywhere, through every crack in the asphalt, in every sprayed tag.
Courage, faith, steadfastness arise, filling her core.
Everyday a new discovery, everyday a new blessing.
All this, she thinks, as she scampers down the metal framed staircase.

Observations skills keen, she sees his furtive backward glance.
She advances aware, her newly fortified armor up.
Rounding the bottom rung, he pounces.
Arms flail, breath caught, fragments of rumpled suit and razor stubble betray social ineptitude.
Escaping as quickly as he attacks, she runs back up the rickety metal staircase towards the masses.
Thank goodness, she repeats to herself and later to her caregivers, nothing happened.

Nothing happened.
Except that instead of falling into warm, fitless sleep each night, she replays the sound of those metal stairs in her head, her heart beating fast against the silent walls.
That happened.

Nothing happened.
Except she no longer walks anywhere unaccompanied, her newfound independence taken hostage in a fragment of a second. Her self-assuredness under siege.
That happened.

Nothing happened.
Except that her smile ever-so-slightly lost its brilliance.
Her glance ever-so-slightly suspects.
Her voice holds a veiled apology.
That happened.

Happy exploration of new pathways is now tantamount to a six-year-old walking down a shadowy hallway to a dark bedroom during a thunderstorm.
Venice’s romantic canals reflect threat.
Rome’s gelato has lost its creamy lustre.
Sleep lacks rest.
Study brings unwanted mental meanderings.
That happened.

From girl to woman in an instant
she discovers solidarity among women and women-loving men.
She will overcome and find power within.
Women are not playthings.
Women band together, find strength and come back stronger and more fierce.
This happens.

 

In My Square

14 Saturday Jul 2012

Posted by nearly30yearsitalian in Verse

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Tags

Aperitivi, Men, Poetry, rome, Summer, Women

There is a man
in my square.
He saunters, he struts,
he stares.

Dressed in white with gold Ray Bans –
the 70s kind that make you cringe –
his steps are fueled by his attention binge.

I can see him sprawled out on his wedding bed
his mind and his body filled with heated dread
following his afternoon sleep brought on by pasta and wine
as he begins to rise, rubbing his creased, sweat-filled brow with scratchy white linen.

He smokes, a cigarette dangles from his loose lips.
His head darts, skimming the Foschi crowd at aperitivi time.
He salutes with a hand held close to his hip
Or waves slightly more animatedly with a wink of an eye.
But then, just then, he catches her eye
And off with a cinematic swoop come the gilded Ray-Bans,
His cigarette drops and is squished by his outdated, pointy-toed, summer lace-ups.

Buona sera, bella,
His eyes dancing up and down and up with a pinpointed scan,
How gorgeous we are tonight, he hums
And they scan once again.

And along comes his wife with the gorgeous green hair.
How stark the distinction between brainless and smart,
How completely ridiculous he seems playing his part.
And with grace and confidence she takes her leave
While he trails after, a tiny boy in an ill-fitting linen suit.

Blur

29 Saturday Oct 2011

Posted by nearly30yearsitalian in Verse

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

adolescence, adolescenza, bambini crescono, poesia, Poetry, raising children, trains, treni

È partita a bordo il frecciadipiombo-
un pisciatoio su rotaie-
in ritardo e stracolmo di faccie brutte
mia figlia che quasi non saluta
disperata nelle sue angoscie adolescenziali
mentre a destra e sinistra
sfrecciano i frecciarossa e argento lucidati
puntualmente mezzo vuoti
e io mi ritiro nel sottofondo
di una libreria di stazione
dove una volta
pochi attimi fa
un Harry Potter
una fata
una favola tutta neve e nuvola
spazzava via ogni lacrima.

Insonne

05 Tuesday Jul 2011

Posted by nearly30yearsitalian in Verse

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Tags

Poetry

Night swallows me,
my breath
my thoughts
my hope
my dreams.

Sleep beckons artificial,
begs pleads demands
smooth
dark
soft
strong.

Leaves

05 Tuesday Jul 2011

Posted by nearly30yearsitalian in Verse

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Tags

Poetry

Leaves once green, supple, taut, glistening
Wither, burn, sharpen, fragment.
Branches limp.
Seeds fall, fly to thin, shattering death.
Worlds collide. Planets clash.
Mouths courteous and ravenous betray.

Nuances Toiling in Rome Verse

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