Poems from Genoa

Electric Prayers

A coin is slowly pressed
Into the metered switch
The electric votive candle
Beneath the statue of the Christ
Illuminates the gloom in the Jesus Church

The candles flickering
Light hesitant as the prayers
It signifies is timed
To last until the penitent
Rises signing a cross on bowed
Forehead before leaving to cross the square

These small acts
Of faith and devotion
Are reminders that faith
Is not the preserve of foolish
Unthinking belief rather
The recognition that our time here
Is contingent on so many
Accidents of fortune so many mishaps

These electric prayers
Signed with the metered light
Of the votive candles timer
Flickering as a projectionists
Whirring reel spools the film

Casting dark shadows
On the screen until in brighter
Light the tapestry unfolds time
Itself passes until with a final breath
Life passes into the metamorphosis of death

Lemon Marmalade

As light snow falls
The hiss of car tyres
On the street outside
My window soften and
I hear the whisper
Of the years turning

Snow falls as this year
Becomes the next and
Our promises to ourselves
Are made and broken
Again before the new
Year is old enough to care

I may leave you again
You may be unfaithful
Again, but we will bear
The pain again and again
Until after the summer
Has ended and the snow
Returned again

And we will be left
With the sweet scent
Of Lemons full of
The suns memory
In the marmalade
You made last autumn

Smithson in Life and Death

Fame and fortune follows the path of the well born legitimate
Hero of the time but the half acknowledged mistress weeps

What constitutes the particular chemistry of a lady’s tear drop?
Heartache, heartbreak, heart-ease, heartfelt, hard-heartedness

As women seek to make their way in the world-weary world
Of men they must accommodate the fortunes and mis-fortunes

Of love. So his mother sang by his cradle as he slept she wept
The inquisitive child grew to wonder what makes a lady’s teardrop?

As the candle light played on her face and the tears glistened
On her cheek the flames prismatic colour fused with the dreams

That over-powered. As the night’s dragons closed in, plagueing
His sleep the questions continued to puzzle the child’s mind

As he grew older and the tears grew less his attention turned
To Tabasheer, milky blue tears that flow from the bruised joints

Of Bamboo which lie at the healing heart of the Ayurvedic salve
Confounding his peers with learning and methods of enquiry

And as he enjoyed his new found success tears gave way
To scientific debate and in the City’s coffee houses he asked

How can there be improvement? the coffee we drink is so-so
The coffee house philosophical society made its mark espresso

He tested Zinc by taste in dilution first grinding the rock and chewing
Before roasting it like his coffee experiments and sniffing the brew

So Zinc under his tutelage became reclassified as carbonate not oxide
And was renamed and displayed not Kryptonite but Smithsonite

In the coffee house society Smithson’s method was debated
A glass phial closed with cork to allow the exit of air. The New World

Also was praised for its scientific enquiry its freedom and its coffee
For Smithson his final journey as Barrista took him to the mercantile

City of Genova where death claimed him and doubtless
Lady’s tears were shed at his passing, perhaps bathing his grave

And in time his restless soul was raised again and he was moved
Following his fortune, to the New World he hadn’t known in life

The Accordionist in the Square

Morning:

Early washing dries
Beneath a window
Above a dusty street

Daily bread
Freshly baked
Displayed in the local store

As the sun rises
The apartments
Open to the day

People set about
Their business greeting
Neighbours in the street

Cars are started
Seats adjusted
The drive to work begins

Dogs are walked
Their daily exercise
Free to run in the local park

They pause to interpret
Yesterday’s messages
Answering in kind

The trees glisten
With the morning dew
Drying in the warming sun

In the piazza
The accordion player
Plays a faintly recognisable tune

He smiles in greeting
Hoping for a tip
To pay for his morning caffé

The neighbourhood
Quickens with the passing
Of the hours and the morning sun


Afternoon:

As the day passes
The pizzeria opens
For the lunchtime crowd

The trattoria
Fills with a gaggle
Of giggling girls ordering glasses of wine

Stores close
Shutters lowered
As the afternoon trade slackens

The cafes and bars
Fill with the exchange
Of idle gossip the flower sellers

Pass by offering
Roses for a pretty lady
A Euro or two for the wife or girlfriend or both

In the piazza
The accordion player
Plays the same recognisable tune

Smiles in greeting
Hoping for a tip
To pay for his lunchtime Foccacia

The scooters
Are parked in the tightest
Of places as the riders stop for lunch

The interior of the taxi –
Drivers favourite bar
Is cool as the barrista works flat out

Offering the coffee
For which he is known
Espresso, Americano, Caffè Macchiato

And above the piazza
The shutters close
As the old retire to their afternoon beds




Evening:

Pasta cooks in the pot
The Ragu is warming
In readiness as footsteps sound on the stairs

The dogs become
Restless as the family eats
Knowing that it will soon be time

To check for messages
Again leave their mark
Again by the fountain and the trees

Soon it will be time
For the evening
Passeggiata as families walk round the square

Pausing maybe
Trying to name
That same vaguely recognisable tune

The accordion player
Plays. As they pass
He smiles in greeting hoping for a tip

Every day he plays
The same vaguely
Recognisable notes in a sequence

That resembles
A familiar tune
Similar to one his mother sang

When he was a child
It’s comfort for him
A warming memory as he sits in the square

And dreams
The dream of an old
Musician carefully pulling his blanket

Around his shoulders
And settling for the night
Before another day in the familiar square begins

The Ferrovia Genova Casella Railway
(Tuesday, 28th December 2010)

Genoa falls below as we begin the steep climb
Winding between mountains and a distant sea

Wheels singing on worn rails
As we climb slowly through St Antonino

The switchbacks turn through short tunnels
As the single Carriage train is hauled upwards towards Campi

The higher we climb the views over the autostrada
Replace the view of the Genoa Stadium below Pino

The forest rises towards the castellated hills
As the carriage pulls its heavy load through Torrazza

Here the terraced vineyards step higher up sun filled
Hillsides where the grapes ripen above Sardorella

Ancient Olive trees weather the winters before
Returning each year laden with fruit in Vicomorasso

The two Olcese, CH and TU are passed before we notice
Just a sign, Segnelare Rosso marks the nearby road crossing

As the train pulls over the crest of the hill before
Beginning a downward path towards Molinetti

Occasional passengers stand to leave the train
Small halts that serve the nearby villages, Musci

And on to Canova, before the final switch of track
Where the driver changes cabs and the train pulls

Forward over the trout rich stream halting briefly before
Returning from Casella with passengers for Genova

Aubade for the Shortest Day
(After the painting Cimitiere en Provence byFrederic Montenard)

As the year turns the days lessening is done
And the shortest day draws slowly toward its end
Now the year grows steadily and we begin to taste
Spring even though the winter snows have not yet
Thawed but the signs of new life begin to emerge

These same signs in the lives of humankind the tell-
Tale signs of age, the greying, the slowing, without
The renewing of life, for people as winter follows
Autumn there is no spring ahead just the steady
Decay as life begins its final descent to earth

Some approach this time with settled optimism
Some with fear and anxious dreams of darkness
For others there is a raging against the dying
Of the light accompanied by the loss of senses
Reason that had served so well the dis-embodied
Voice of one who has become a stranger to himself

I take my chance with the darkness, launching
Myself into the coming night as though unafraid
Cursing the darkness, raising a glass in defiance
Toasting the gods who claim their victories
Before lying down to sleep through the years
That lie ahead, the rhythm of this eternal sleep
Will last for far more lifetimes than have been lived

And there will be no spring to warm the earth
No re-current pulse of life awakening the sleeper
Of the age, no return of summer, no warmth
To make the grave a less solemn cold bed
Only memories, only the name by which I
Was known, sieved through the memories
Of those who knew me until finally lost

And in a graveyard some future traveller
Might pause by the dried flowers on the dust
Covered stone and read my name and ask
Who was this man and what became of his
Hopes and dreams, his words and songs
Now all lost, all gone and pause to reflect
That his own final chapter has just begun

© Geoff Smith
Genoa
Wednesday, 22 December 2010