Lamento per l'Europa

Lamento per L’Europa



Terra del Sole Calante
Calderone ribollente in famelica disperazione
Per ritrovare i sapori del Passato.
Tu cerchi di proiettarti in avanti
Sull’energia della Tua logica
E di speranze non ancora idealizzate.
Tu invochi la Tua storia
Per rinvigorire le Tue fantasie.
Ti avvinghi stretta al Tuo orgoglioso io
Screpolato e corroso dalle intemperie.
Ti sforzi di far crescere nuovi fiori
Dalla putredine delle Tue tormentate memorie.
I Tuoi giovani, annusati da squadre di cani al guinzaglio,
Violentano-odiano nei Tuoi stadi
Strisciati con allettamenti elettronici
A premere morbidi e colorati bottoni di plastica.
I Tuoi vecchi serpeggiano stancamente verso ministeri della sanità in rovina
Dove i medici si trastullano con i moduli
E riempiono schedine del totocalcio.
I Tuoi vicini dell’Est—
Arroganti, sordidi—
Si aggrappano a Te
Pretendendo rudemente ciò che bramano e credono dovuto.
Tu, Europa, siedi imbalsamata—
Impregnata dei succhi del Tuo spregevole tempo che fu.
I Tuoi politici dilettanti spiegano bandiere
E i loro poteri vergognano—
Vergognano!—
Questo Nostro mondo.


Anthony St. John

Poetry by Me, Anthony 6

Tame Tennis


Beer and Pretzels and Tennis
Loosen tense muscles and senses,
For all to enjoy
With oodles of joy,
Hours of “ping-ponging” sessions.

Conk…Conk…Conk…Conk!

Sets and Aces and Matches
Strengthen thin biceps and triceps,
For flights of delight
With thews oh so tight,
Yet sporting no cuts, no scratches.

Conk…Conk…Conk…Conk!

Nets and Chalked-lines and Outskirts
Contain vain outbursts and outcries,
For frivolous rows
With curtsies and bows,
This slugfest of introverts!

Conk…Conk…Conk…Conk!

Conk, conk!


3 July 1987

Poetry Italy 10

Stradivari


Don Stradivari is not with us,
And for his art there’s made faint fuss.
Go to Cremona!
Sniff the aroma!
Of false notes,
Of bank notes.


1 August 1987

Poetry Italy 8

Spring Sprung


Spring has sprung
Among the crud
Of concrete slabs
And slimy waterways

Green life pushes
Through the pall
Of gooey gook
Drooling gloomy
Blobbed globs

Spongy respiratory organs wheeze.
Blood-pumpers rattle on to a deep freeze.
Gray cells slush drugged on all sides at their ease.


2 May 1987

Poetry Italy 7

Emollient Mounds of Flesh
Under an Olive Tree


A pudgy pudendum
Sullied with ringlets of silky short black hairs
Blurts out its lush onto the grass.

Pounds of muscle and fat
In rounds and carnal lanknesses
Lay on green ovoid fruit stalks below the mass.

Yellowy greens.
Leathery leaves.
Oily sardines.

A syringe there.
A condom there.
A tissue there.


2 January 1987

Poetry Italy 6

I BAMBINI (The Kids)

Son of God...dropped his guard
Sent a child...mild and wild
Hurled to world...curled and furled
Little prune...month of June
Close the shop...a new pop
Gather round...joy abound
Start the feast...call the priest
In his dank...he is swank
Make him vain...let him reign
In his crib...GUCCI bib
Baby made...mother staid
Paper pants...infant rants
Spastic hands...mark demands
Father there...stuck to chair
Mother's mom...orders calm
Mother's dad...looks so glad
Mother's friends...help to cleanse
Little tyke...all alike
Eyes alert...still no hurt
Ecstasy...family


12 December 1986

Poetry Italy 5

GLI UOMINI (The Men)

Proud and firm...is their sperm
Spurting out...years throughout
Well-dressed men...gold-filled pen
Squeezing dicks...hardened quick
Sticking them...in a gem
Walk on high...eyes to sky
Sport is tops...all else stops
Bet a game...want of fame
Sporting news...offers clues
Ball in hand...book in sand
Mamma's home...got to phone
Wife's the queen...hardly seen
Clean his shoes...he's with blues
Wants to dine...serve his wine
Press his tie...or he'll die
Honor him...cuddle him
He is king...all must sing
Number one...race is won
He is best...by God blessed
Family...Italy


10 December 1986

Poetry Italy 4

I GIOVANI (The Young)

Past adieu...now is new
Sunday mass...beardless sass
Crumbling stones...button phones
Holy creams...T.V. screens
Brownish monks...fleshy hunks
Sacred dreams...LEVI jeans
On their bikes...no one likes
Speedy cars...ugly scars
Push to start...where's the Art?
Print-out sheets...frozen meats
Dancing late...study hate
Chewing gum...US fun
Modish dress...Psychic stress
Schools of old...very cold
Press to use...Light a fuse
Mom and Dad...all is bad
Soccer match...police catch
Mary Jane...must refrain
Pregnancy...you don't see
Out of school...jobless fool


9 December 1986

Poetry Italy 3

LE VECCHIE (The Elderly Women)

Called it life...being wife
Look at me...sad to see
Now it's done...it's no fun
Husband's gone...can't go on
Dressed in black...there's a lack
Up the stairs...not in pairs
Hairs in braid...on the fade
Blotchy skin...fingers thin
Shriveled breast... sunken chest
Lacking zest...to digest
To the street...it's a feat
Push the mop...need to stop
Wash a dish...clean a fish
Take a nap...fill a gap
Monthly check...social wreck
Doctor's bill..helps to kill
Little heat...fatty meat
Setting sun...where's my son?
Off to bed...soon I'm dead
Jesus Christ!...Be precise!


5 December 1986

Poetry Italy 2

LE DONNE (The Women)


Look at them...some like men
Hairs cut short...not for sport
Faces tough...hairy rough
Voices gruff...off the puff
Hallowed eyes...show their cries
Wedding bands...dig their hands
Kitchens clean...for some scene
Furry coats...smelly soaps
Boots that click...with the tick
Leather shoes...leaking glues
Fica wet...take a bet
Children near...there's no fear
With no thought...to abort
Off to church...at a lurch
Touch the Pope...must be hope
Pasta's up...let us sup
Sips of wine...when they dine
Black is white...is their might
Only way...is to stay
Men behind...very kind


3 December 1986

Poetry Italy 1

I VECCHI (The Old)


There they are...in their bar
Speaking loud...in their crowd
Sipping wine...all the time
Eating cake...without break
Playing cards...without odds
Bragging sports...sagging thoughts
Puffs of smoke...drug these folk
Dressed to kill...some so ill
GUCCI Goo...PUCCI Poo
Taking pills...not for thrills
Watching girls...without curls
Sighing song...for so long
Touching pricks...not big sticks
Blow a fart...it's an art
Not to work...it would hurt
On the dole...without goal
Going home...all alone
Not in search...not to church
All so bored...all's a fraud
Full of shame...Full of blame


1 December 1986