Academia.eduAcademia.edu

Poems

1999

Maundy Thursday, the night of Dante's descent into hell. In the middle of my life. Derailed. Off the track. Just so this tender anemone blossom that was love, or might have been, is crushed, bloody petals

Differentia: Review of Italian Thought Number 8 Combined Issue 8-9 Spring/Autumn Article 32 1999 Poems Elizabeth Pallitto Follow this and additional works at: https://commons.library.stonybrook.edu/differentia Recommended Citation Pallitto, Elizabeth (1999) "Poems," Differentia: Review of Italian Thought: Vol. 8 , Article 32. Available at: https://commons.library.stonybrook.edu/differentia/vol8/iss1/32 This document is brought to you for free and open access by Academic Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Differentia: Review of Italian Thought by an authorized editor of Academic Commons. For more information, please contact [email protected], [email protected]. Elizabeth Pallitto Kata basis Maundy Thursday, the night of Dante's descent into hell. In the middle of my life. Derailed. Off the track. Just so this tender anemone blossom that was love, or might have been, is crushed, bloody petals along the via dolorosa. 0 Adonis! said the goddess. That's what you get for loving a mortal,sweetie. Poetry is no help, Dante. The dark forest. Error. I wallow in it. A strange man desires me after one drink. Old love seeks me out. But I will have none of it. To Carthage I am headed, burning. I see my destiny: it looks like Dido's falling into a pyre, but wait: on closer inspection, it is just a bonfire of the vanities. "Vain silly girl, puella aeterna, what is your problem?" said my alter ego, this is not a tragic age just a violent one. Words exploded. into piles of paper, and burnt in the sun as under the magnifying glass of too much analysis; while in the cool dank cave of the heart you create images, move closer to truth through shadows on the wall. Tonight, now showing in Plato's cave, Shadesof Reality, the primordial movie. DIFFERENT/A 8-9 Spring/Autumn 1999 336 DIFFERENT/A Repossessing Love's Bolt (after Lucian, Ovid, Dosso Dossi and the bombing of Yugoslavia) Quick as aflash of lightning, your guarded smile dropped its guard like the March sun winking as it passes through a cloud. These days the skies promise sweetness in their smell but deliver tempests from Jove's frowning brow, and thunderbolts to underscore his rage. From the Olympian safety of CNN, targeted areas read as red patches, a Jove's-eye view. From the grund, it is as if Jove's bolt was unleashed to destroy manking-even smart bombs can't tell hospital from weapons factory, school from church, or a medieval Serbian landmark from the battle of 1389 against the Turks. Every culture has an epic, a story in which they are the heroes. Now Jove is occuped with butterflies, with cucumbers, with creating a less disappointing race in this age of iron, while we are the ones fashioning bolts of fire hurled from the sky. Meanwhile the king of gods bides his time in painting, but he has not forgotten the bolt by his side, in case we piss him off too much. Lycaeon thought his could outsmart Jupiter, and ended up with claws, electric bloodshot eyes and a fanged snarl, howling at the moon.