the bells rang out
seven times
for seven sorrows.
"you are not welcome
here,
never welcome
to spit on my streets."
(she told luna,
the moon reflected
on cold sheets)
she told the stories
she knew,
of red tongues
devouring sandpaper.
burnt on the horizon
she reminded me
of the woman i was
afraid to become.
i still prayed
for the lambs,
shorn and shattered
who drip blood on stained glass.
she threw curses
at the feet of the fortunate.
a child on one hand
and in both eyes.
i have
a story.
she said,
the poor
are not
the dead.
Author notes
when i went to italy, outside of st. francis' basilica, there were these women, who couldn't have been more than thirty, but they looked old, and they looked tired. they were begging for money outside of the basilica, and we were waiting in line to get in. one of them stood in the center of the road, and waited for a car to stop, went up to the window, and asked if they could spare some change. in italian, demanding someone give you money sounded much more beautiful.
when you didn't pay them, they spat at your feet and said things in italian that turned out to be curses, for bad luck. the image of the one woman, in the road, cursing the cars, has never left me.
A contest entry
- and the orchestra plays on by autarky.
750 points, ended May 30, 2008, 11 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Critique:
Comments
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a most interesting write this is...very well done, congrats on the silver...
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this is really, really well written, especially the impact of the ending. there are some amazing lines that I want to quote but can't, because I'd probably end up pasting half the poem. the stanza about the moon seemed irrelevant compared to the rest of the piece, but other than that, I loved this.
spectacular job. thanks for entering!
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