THE STONES OF VENICE
pale oarsman on his way to the city
You saw
a rowboat coming from the Lido.
The
oarsman’s rudder was a stave of glass;
His oars
two stockfish; burly of frame he seemed to
You,
through sluggish strokes, to hint of tenderness.
His
countenance was pearly in its sheen.
His eyes
like phantoms gazed towards the mainland,
His lips
were trembling wordlessly. He seemed
Entranced,
enraptured by what flimsy dreamland?
You
studied him from the Campanile through
Opera
glasses - caught your breath, when, pale as
Marble,
he hauled his bulk up on the near-shore.
You saw
him toil. His movements now appeared more
Jerky,
till he began to come apart, to
Crumble
into blackish, repulsive pieces.
the labyrinth
We found
out in the Calle delle Case
Nove we
could go no further, admitted
We’d
lost our way. Oh dear, we were now facing
3am
plus. Above, the stars acquitted
Themselves,
in quite unmatched magnificence, of
All
their accepted, decorative duties.
We could
but praise the light they shed - the sense of
Place
their beacon gave, alas, was muted.
At
quickened pace we hurried back, through all
Those
alleys, lanes, those passages and byways -
Meeting
no living soul in all the tried ways -
Faster
we went, still faster, glimpsing all
At once
a bridge we thought we could recall!
Thank
God! we cried, collapsing gently sideways.
the dream of a village lad
The
quays, I know them all now, the alleyways
And the
Palazzos. Makes me feel real warm.
I’ve
left my heart behind here, lots of places,
(And on
the Academy bridge my arm,
The
Rialto my kidney. And my liver -
Left at
the Arsenale I recall.)
Oh,
Venice as a city can deliver...
Though
it’s a peep-show and a magic-hall.
Here you
can snuff it in the poshest style
In some
old locked-up mansion stuffed with riches,
Even a
swindler needn’t feel a heel.
Oh, on
my exit, hope you’ll stand awhile
On one
of the huge Grand Canal’s fine bridges
And
watch me gliding past just like an eel.
chinese lanterns and festoons
On board
a ceremonious, decked-out sloop
They
passed the rows of undermined old houses.
And from
the formerly well-trodden stoop
The
one-time water-pipes stuck out like hoses.
They
proudly passed through locks in need of pitching.
We’re
putting out to sea, they sang aloud.
Their
jerkins were embroidered with gold stitching
From the
caboose their emerald swelled out.
The
smoke still came from the now distant housing
Dead
sand was swirling in the gutter-drain.
Upon the
water old stoves drifted, drowsing,
Though
all was miles behind their craft’s long train.
No
sooner did they hear the sea carousing
Than
they sank too. Like someone with no brain.
the city
Here
dead birds roam, above the towers the grandees
From
times so long since flown are gently floating,
The
graveyards now are higher than the Andes!
Quiet,
laddie, quiet. (Calm down.) This is worth noting.
You can
of course remember the first hour
That we
were here? The square becoming round,
The
footman emperor, the water fire,
The sun
a leper and the club-foot sound?
(Keep
quiet, calm down: it’s only poetry,
It’s
only turns of phrase.) But ow! That roar
Of the
dead in the water, listen, more,
Listen
how your entire life is in touch
With
everything that hankers back to such,
And not
with god-knows-what or he-or-she.
the stench
Today
the stench was really twice as bad.
From
every chink thick smoke rose to the sky
That
almost made you gag. The dregs that had
Come
gurgling upwards looked like bile or lye.
And from
the rebates percolated gas.
You
asked the gondolier to move on faster.
You saw
in houses cracks in walls and plaster
And how
the paint was peeling off en masse.
‘Hurry,
please, hurry!’ You would bear no more
That
canal sewer full of slurry, slime,
And
sought Palladio’s cathedral door.
But you
were stuck there in the leaden sump
At the
palace of Peggy Guggenheim,
That
old, decrepit, vulgar Yankee frump.
in the night
The
street musicians on San Marco square
Departed
at the signal from the two Moors.
You
scarcely heard, borne on the distant air,
Their
chorus’ and the clock-tower’s final tremors.
Over the
stones there scurried scraps of paper.
In some
quiet gallery you sat, unseen.
The
lights that first had been the square’s slim tapers
Went
out. Only the cobbles softly gleamed.
Then all
at once the Sirens were heard singing.
So rare.
So high. The setts danced to a samba.
A
pinnacle collapsed. The Moors were floored.
The
waves slapped round your legs, now gently stinging,
The
Sirens shrieked and whistled round the ramparts,
From the
basilica a fire-gush roared.
