VENEZIAN PASTICHE
The mosaic composition
of fish-scaled memory
a calm window of sea
still can’t outshine.
Pasticcio’d salt and spray
just silt enough to live on.
A gilded lily-pad of faith’s
cantankerous weather and
pride’s rapturous vapours.
No trees, no roots – but routes:
arterial sluicings of acqua alta,
capillaries of mixed-blood lines.
Damp esplanades of parting
and misty wharves welcoming
feigned love, forced loss.
A 3D pop-up adrift beneath
urbane skies; Canaletto Mecca
of a world beyond its own
ship-wrecked Mass.
Flotsam nest of dreams.
I’ve been here before – at this
sober end of a carnival night
that’s passed without sleep and
hopes to be home by morning.
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I'm doing a ppt on Italy at the moment and it's interesting to recall the language of the fan as the beautiful ladies signalled their intentions to eager suitors with a mere movement of the fluttering fan. There was a whole vocabulary of messages that the cognoscenti understood and acted upon. Imagine the glittering ball and finding out who's really behind that mask ... alba parietti? Ciao!
Sheila
happily, dear Kate, I can share your impressions. -gene.
Be always safe,
Karen
The last stanza brings memories of those dreadful hours waiting in no mans land for the flight home. And making the most of the final, endless, hours.
I see city streets paved with water, a claustrophobic bricks and mortar jungle too dense for any plant life to grow, with the stench of ancient pride, that would rather sink in its history than be modenised to survive. Beyond that, my pretty friend, I'm lost xx
well done
fee
Blessings,
Christine
Regis