We spent the first afternoon of the new year in Pisa.
The leaning tower with a fallen angel on the lawn near it made us feel as if we’d walked into someplace dangerous.
What could have taken down such a ginormous messenger? And why?
And, had the same force tried to take out the tower, leaving it with its magnetic slant that draws thousands of pilgrims and onlookers as we on this cold winter afternoon? For a geo-technical engineer, as M is, the building is more than messenger, it is a harbinger and admonition for what could go wrong.
The rest of the spectators seemed oblivious to how these monuments were blaring warnings. Perhaps they were in denial or still hung over from new years reveling. It was hard to tell.
This scene seems like something people see and say: “You should write a poem about this…” And, it reminds me of Amanda Earl’s “Ars Poetica 3”:
A poem, not all poems, but some poems, or maybe just this
poem is uncertain, it falters. A poem crawls on its belly out
of shadow, but avoids full-on sunshine. A poem is made
from ashes, nightmare, solitude, erasure, the unknown. It
names itself or it doesn’t. A poem cannot fully articulate or
understand the pattern of synapses made by the brain. A
poem is a long sentence or a line or a group of lines or a
school of images, a fish that swims through uncertain
Read the rest of this poem at the link below.
- Celebrate National Poetry Month this April with Poem in Your Pocket Days: https://www.poets.org/sites/default/files/poeminpocketday_2017b_0.pdf