Vedi Napoli e poi muori* (Part One)

Outside it is wet. It has just rained again, though I took time to slosh through the yard and look in on the new growth. The Barberry bushes have all put out minute leaves after a fairly aggressive trimming. New growth is also happening on the spirea. And, of course, the tree in the backyard is busy pushing out small scarlet buds. It’s been warm overnight as well as during the day so winter is winding down hard.

This past weekend I read a lot of Kathleen Dean Moore and Aimee Nezhukumatathil. If you must be inside on these cloudy, weepy days find writers who write such stunning things. Find writers who delve into such tender and beautiful subjects about families and love and place. Find writers who remind you that place and belonging comes about often. I was reminded as I read about an uncommon love I have for a volcano.

"*Vedi Napoli e poi muori ("See Naples and then die") was a common expression, echoed most famously on his grand tour by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, to identify Naples as the most naturally and artistically beautiful city in the world; so beautiful that one needn't look upon anything else after seeing it. (from Global.risd.edu)"

I started writing this meander and realised I wasn't ready. Thinking about Vesuvio makes me realise I need a bit more time. Here's a poem I wrote a long while ago:

                                Miracola
 
                San Gennaro is the patron saint of Naples -- his fame rests on the relic, 
                allegedly his blood, which is kept in a glass vial in the Naples Cathedral.
                Of solid substance, it liquefies 18 times each year.
 
 
On the street I say, “Slow down, my American ear
cannot catch your words,” tardare – orecchio – verbosita
each day’s careful lesson: patience and conjugation.
 
Yet in the church there is no mistake
this liturgy has not changed in two thousand years.
My slow ear devours the prayers.
 
Here there is no youth: each obsidian eye
on the priest, has watched before,
each face borrowed from Ercolano’s walls,
is raised toward the light.
 
I imagine fluency in both language and belief
as though I know the son and certainty.
But I am here with my neighbor’s passport,
her sympathetic tongue.
 
Faithless and mute I watch dust turn to blood.