Just above the Cyclops Restaurant,
up stone steps smelling of eucalyptus,
broods the bookstore, breathing the decay
of tarnished roses pasted under the noon rain.
Inside, life is made of words . . .
–Excerpt from “Booksellers, Taormina” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in Gradiva.
I swim like a fish
through vowels bubbling
in the fountains of Villa Borghese.
My tongue grows consonants,
coins in Neptune’s bath, my lips
become fins in the Trevi . . .
–Excerpt from “In Rome” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago, 2016). First published in PoetryMagazine.com.
. . . Somewhere else people are dying,
but here, the living are lifted
into the morrow, turning down
their beds as lights go on all over
the city where Dante dreamed
of Beatrice on his way to Paradise.
–Excerpt from “April in Florence” in Edges by Donna Pucciani (Purple Flag, Chicago 2016). First published in Summerset Review.
life limps along
without crowds and Michelangelo.
Graffiti is the conversation here,
stray dogs, trams, markets
with Moroccan leather and shoes
made in China.
–excerpt from “Outside Rome” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective/purple flag, 2015). First published in PoetryMagazine.com
A full moon spells memories
of Cousin Rosetta’s kitchen,
six hours south, where the family
gathers for pasta and eggplant,
local cheese, miraculous meats.
Crossword puzzles in Italian and English
pepper the night with random words.
Our foreign tongues peck the air
like sparrows hungry for seed . . .
–excerpt from “Letter from Italy” in A Light Dusting of Breath by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective/purple flag, 2015). First published in PoetryMagazine.com.
Salvaged from sand
breath of gods
fizz of Tyrrehenian ebb
and flow warm to the touch
cool on the cheek where
fingers thumbed it smooth
a slow massage of the moon’s hands
in tides talking among themselves . . . .
–excerpt from “Beach Stone, Calabria, Italy,” by Donna Pucciani. First published in Chariton Review.
Posted in Books, Journals, Poems
Tagged beach, Calabria, death, eating, food, fruit, Italy, Mediterranean, ripeness, stone, strawberries, summer, sun, Tyrrhenian