Nostalghia For Bagno Vignoni

The Piazza d’Acqua.  Andrej Tarkovsky came
Here, rhyming with his creation Gortchakov (a poet
Like his father), who, in turn, would stroll the same
Time-worn locations, brought (and misled, so it
Seems) by the guide Eugenia, following in the foot-
steps of his compatriot, an eighteenth-century composer, un-
named.  The home-sick writer finds himself put
On the spot by the lunatic Domenico: he is the one
Who must bear across the waters a lit candle to save
The world – and himself.  The ersatz biographer at last
Traverses the almost-empty baths’ wet pav-
ing, and somehow regains Mother Russia, and his past.
No such tangled plot drove us to the square;
And unlike others we walked on air.

(29.3.1997)

The Distance

A lad, apt for nonsense and foolish acts,
I walked (alone) a new-found city, along a road
(The fifth) of Heaven and Hell – or so, when taxed
To name it, the natives had me believe.  Bestowed
(At first) with massy civic monuments
Of classic and rococo cast, sudden there came
A switch, as stark as white to black. Hence-
forth, a dismal view of dwellings, shame-
fully neglected, decrepit, the people poor, down-
Trodden, sad.  And as I passed among
Them, most fixedly at me nigh all the town
Did stare.  Then, a lady of pitying mien and young,
Said: “You do know you're in Harlem...?”  And I was much
Amazed: for I’d heard that day not a word of Dutch.

(28.3.1997)

Sailing To Tuonela

Arriving at the terminal hall of the western docks
In Helsinki, I entered into limbo.  I thought
I’d hop on the early boat to Tallinn, but flocks
Of Finns, obviously on the razzle, had already bought
Up every ticket.  Weirdly, they milled around
With empty suitcases and holdalls, rather as though
For a stay that did not require clothes.  I found
A place just before departure.  So
Lucky, it seemed – until I boarded what
Turned out to be a ship of fools, packed to the gunwhales
With merrymakers drinking like there was no tomorrow.  Blunder-
ing outside, I saw in the distance a dazzling spot
Amidst the morning’s night: a swan, circling over the funnels
Of a vessel – also full, but fathoms under.

(28.3.97)