Poems May 2008:Sommascona, Olivone, Festa de la Mama, Sbiti

February 24th, 2011









Sommascona

If Sommascona really

exists then people can live out

through anything, remains on
a bluff looking down at life.

These are some cows with
souls so big
they stare right through you.
Funny how I end up on private farm
again, they built a mot, pit, to keep
bull away from the cows.
What can they build to keep me
away from Sommascona,
just another village to contemplate.

~~~

One knows birds chirp
at daylight. In Val Bedretto,
where Franca coughs at night,
birds also sing at twilight
as the baby goes to sleep,
they say the same celebration.
Don’t we talk for no reason?

Why birds chirp
they just do
same as we,
same reason we live,
Why be silent.

~ ~ ~

Sommascona

Just another village
to contemplate
whether to go up
to entrap myself in
another mystic
farm village
that never
changes
like you and me.

~ ~ ~


Olivone

If you know life, and Rosario
with all the tractor people
here, could Rosario drink
himself out of jobs?
He actually drinks himself
into them.
Everyone who works real jobs
on the streets, the campagna,
wear ponytails are hard-driving drinking.
They all work, and drink to work,
and work to drink.
Rosario’s just another man in the village.

~ ~ ~

Olivone is a place
where tiers
restaurants
people,
the drinkers
all fest
day by night,
as if wine
was day, beer night.
If ever was
reason to believe in
boredom, the best way
possible, come here.

With so many tractors
per square layer in Olivone.
You would think Rosario’s
jobs would lose away.
“No.”
There are plenty of jobs.
jobs for Rosario,
tractor people,
you never notice them
until they see you.

~ ~ ~

At Arcobaleno, Rosario sat
at the table 11:30 a.m.,
white wine at his hand,
talking the “eh jah” dialecto.
He would have kept talking,
talking the tractor talk, if I did
not slap him on the back.
No one even looked up that much.
This is just another mountain outpost,
fancy is the hotel, but these are mountain
workers, as hard as they be, Olivone,
is nexus Swiss. These people are
really just people being themselves
In a place where time makes
everyone like an old painting,
still moving.

They dress modern, but each
glance and unique moustache,
these are wild people drinking
all day as if the Alps
gave them permission.

When you know a friend
whose father scales down
Luzzone Dam
Swiss Alps
playing accordion, this is
aria, falling between
cracks where life
lets us fall.

~ ~ ~

Luzzone

Rosario’s father scales down
dam Luzzone playing
accordion, this is how life
is played out.
Only Rosario’s father
could imagine this dam,
first place.

~ ~ ~


La Festa Della Mama
Val Bedretto is
two-day event, Sunday, June 15, 2008
annex Monday National holiday.
Even Rita’s son came by today,
tough man, hard eyes crunched
me as okay, as Rita said
goodbye, even her son comes
Monday,
He left the wood
messy on the front,
rainy, wet wood,
same way Rita left
after her Chemo treatment.
Rita’s a mother.

~ ~ ~

Bedretto

The old men wave at you
with their arms, their canes
flip up with their arms,
they’re not saying hello,
they are yelling at you
dialecto Italian.
“Get the hell out of here.
vai touristi, stranieri.
fai hai basso strato desotto.”

They’ve been waving at me
for six years. You’d think they’d know me,
straniere.

~ ~ ~

All Acqua

When one person alone
in Alps, Festa Della Mama
family extended, 4 dogs,
share Coca-Cola, wine at All’Acqua.
on the way back, I passed them
by the strata.
Time, space bend between
arc where people stay
tethered we know or not.

Today in Italian,
they sung the song, “I’m a believer”
by The Monkees,
Earlier they did, House of The rising
Sun Italiano.
It never stops
infectious Rock

~ ~ ~

Two Nights of The Scoppa

Fact that family showed up to play
scoppa 2 nights in a row
Osteria Novena is a testament
to family ties after last nights
blow-out, when Doriana
blew out her vocal cords
at her father.
“intenso.”
They are back for another night.
Father, daughter, brother and Aldo.
Don’t mess with Aldo,
he says nothing but a quick
comment at end of game -
careful motion.

~ ~ ~

How many blow-outs
after Festa Della Mama can
this family have in Val Bedretto?

Tethered lives play card
games all night.
Franca listens, watches, serves
all day. No one knows
work but her.

~ ~ ~

Quiet is the empty time,
Val Bedretto before Nuffenpass
traffic crosses
over by the thousands.
Today, nothing
but dead-enders
like me.
Soon hordes of German lovers,
motorcycle clubs, sports car
exhibitions, all race down.
Story is
only families
silently whisper Festa Della Mama.

In the Festa Della Mama
is not a fest for everyone –
some never had, or buried
mama, only silent quick
points touching between
what was
what will never be
La Festa Della Mama
is not always a festa.

~ ~ ~

Olivone gardens

They celebrate families a little different here.
They sat out under
umbrellas at the hotel
garden
17 old ladies, live band.
Little celebration mothers
don’t get all year
all year round no
where else.

~ ~ ~

La Festa Della Mama

People treat their mama’s
different here, like how
mama’s are treated long
time before people
invented universities,
mama’s taken out
for brunch.
Everyone else –
this is not your day.
The Sunday drunks leave,
wood tables get clothed.

~~ ~

Arcobaleno

When too many times
word Arcobaleno is
seen, heard, worked
eaten at, there is
No more reason
to learn after all
life’s lessons are given
over and over again.
Then the student is
the teacher.

~ ~ ~


Franca lives
winter complete
solo
in Ossasco.
No one does
that in these Alps
unless you are
a mountain.
I never knew
a mountain
that can cook
so good.

~ ~ ~

These types of European
teenage girls should not
dress like that with
those bodies inside
hotel cafeteria,
Hotel International au Lac.
It will take me all day to recover,
or finish rejoicing.

~ ~ ~

The bats sweep by my window
again, different city, different
window.
These bats are small devils.
the bat that flew in my room
in Gruyere was a monster,
vampire bat. Something
in a movie, King Kong, and
I am lost on an island.

~ ~ ~

We all know the Alps
feed, cook us dinner, but what of
these people that stay lonely
to their thoughts all winter,
enough snow, close the Alps
for months.
Franca don’t care,
that’s a vacation from Idealism Alpine.

~ ~ ~

If you want to find Rosario,
you have to know where
to look, it’s somewhere
between the cracks, sitting
at a table with other Swiss-
Italian men, drinking white
wine at 11:00 a.m. Sunday.

You can find him in Olivone
by asking anyone else
between the cracks, sitting
at a table at Il Centro Bar.
Same way you find anyone.

~ ~ ~

Sbiti’s universe is a glide
from scene to scene, where
every entrance is pain, every
entrance pleasure.
Bern’s unsung artist suffers at Les Amis
all night, disappearing back to his den, triumphantly
exiting Paul Klee Zentrum. His art will hang in special expo
3 weeks, that never happened,
so Life does imitate
life, acorns, street artists,
so all nature, work unknown things to be discovered.

~ ~ ~

Sbiti always has art for
$ale, at Les Amis,
he hunches
over, smoking, talking, if ever an
artist’s life was invented all before.
After, Sbiti decided to
give starving, struggling artist life a try,
As if a ‘living art form.’ It worked, he’s
Booked at Paul Klee Zentrum for a
Gallery show, nicht.
As he exited knowing me from drinks at
Les Amis, he unfurled a
Large work rolled up.
As if Paul Klee exited, and sold
me his masterpiece for 30 Francs,
imagine.

~ ~ ~

*self-portait, photo, reflected from bar across steet- Cafe Des Pyranees, Bern, 2009, September