My Words

Understanding the World through words

Tag: Dante

Dante’s Place-poem

 

I wonder if Dante’s poetic place
smack in the middle of purgatory,
(it’s where all poets go after death)
all the great ones find themselves there.
Even those who never had a book deal.

After a hearty breakfast
of Huevos Rancheros
and hot steamy cafe con leche
go fishing—

In that vast ocean of metaphors
where one finds small,
sometimes shadowy,
plump, and juicy enjambments
perfect for otherworldly poems.

Then after a nice lunch of
lamb meatballs on crunchy
Dutch bread topped off with
Belgium beer,

We take a walk in the garden of similes—
Where there are lush trees full of ripe fruit
like cherries ready to be plucked, joyfully
collected in our gilded baskets.

Dinner is roasted Chilean Sea Bass
marinated in garlic and cilantro
served with a delicate glass or two
of buttery California Chardonnay.

It’s during this time
Neither in heaven or hell,
that
we recite our daily poems
one-by-one
like grace is
said after
a lovely meal.

Terza Rima-Poem

 

Poets don’t go to
heaven or hell
they stay in purgatory
in the twilight
of Earth’s domain.
To bring living poets to madness–
reciting sublime lines in their sleep;
then forgetting them when they wake up.
Or while driving their cars on errands and never
remembering that beautiful saying
that pops-up.
Dante wrote about
it in terza rima:
How poet’s when they die are gathered
into the bosom of the poet’s den;
each bringing their expertise—
how beautiful it was to be alive!

Salty Vinegar Potato Chips

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Blanket Of Memories

The cold afternoon sun
Shines onto a desolate
East end field,

Where my
Father stood
Reading a tattered
Bound book,

The Divine Comedy.

Canto’s of infernos and

Delicately turning pages—
Absorbed in Dante’s
Lyrical words.

Quietly, I place the
Kindling in that hole
I made in the frozen Earth.

The fire finally stoked:
I position the poetic sacrifice
Into a blanket of personal flames.

Like a child is tenderly
Placed into its own warm crib.

I watch it burn, slowly,
Methodically, transfixed
By the licking of combustion
And heat.

The book slithers—

The words are on fire,
The words raise towards
Heaven in
A column of wailing smoke.

I built my own inferno,
A personal
Inquisition , poetic words
Condemned to an
Auto de Fé.

In retrospect,
I see the irony,
I feel the anguish of
That personal holocaust
That left me with
tears, ashes, and
An urn full of memories and guilt.

On Dante

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On a desolate
field
I found myself
reading Dante
A long time ago.

The weight of the
book clasped in
white fisted
a double grip.

Surrounded by mountains
on either side.

While the black
of the typeface
was juxtaposed
against the white
nebulous sky.

I start a fire to keep
myself warm.

Under the heavens,
I stoked the fire with
The Poet’s own words.

The fire roared
Shamefully, I recall
On that distant
winter day.

Standing naked
before my father;

Riddled with guilt, and
warmed by the
fire I had staunchly
built.

For a time I percieved
that the poets’s words
went back to the inferno.

I’m mistaken,
the inferno
I built—

is the
intolerance
I store in me.