poem english8

Unfolds before me,
The far stretch of the azure,
the unexpected
That drew such joy beyond words,
Overflowing and extending
Together with the pond water
To the melted sea and welkin
So tranquil and endless
In the winter sun, in his amiable gaze.

In your deep and tender eyes,
I saw that stretch of the azure,
the enchanting
To which I wanted to get close

Fay Lang RETURN

THE GROVE

There was a grove,
midway between
the swings
and
the Merry-Go-Round,
where S.V.O. boys
liked to be,
on warm summer days.

Here, around two picnic tables,
in the spreading shade,
boys engaged in friendly give-and-take
or
lazed the day away -

finding empty shells of locusts
at the base of trees
a fascinating thing;

mimicking one another
rolling with a merry laughter;

doing comical "Knock Knock" Skits
or
singing army songs
by Irving Berlin;

tossing pop bottle caps
or
metal washers,
trying to make them land in dirt holes
fifteen feet apart.

Often, in the grove,
the air was electrically charged,
with lots of talk
of up and coming boxing matches
between the great Joe Louis
and
fearsome contenders such as
Jack Dempsey
and
Max Schmelling,
or
brawling "Two-Ton Tony" Galinto!

Virgil Gelormino RETURN

PURE OF HEART PEOPLE

Run away,
don't turn you back,
more than the warm wind
...run than the dust, than the din,
than that gigantic wave
that is about to swallow us,
to drag us...in a black abyss!

Then in the "Ground Zero",
the quiet after the torment,
the howls, the cries, the terror,
and then ...not real
...the silence stays over all.

The flags now wave,
tears rule the faces,
sparkle the gold of the heroes,
and the steel of the sharp swords,
who begs, who is despaired,
who amazed tries to understand,
and they ask them self... why so much hate?

Only a hope we can have,
only a ray of white light
we can see down to that black tunnel,
it confirms us that God
is ready to save All,
without distinctions of religion,
culture, extraction or colour of the skin,
provided that all are clear ...

...PURE OF HEART PEOPLE

Carlo Ceresa RETURN

LOVE STORY

In a place i did dwell
I met a guy i loved so well
he came and took my heart from me
but now he is gone and set me free
he sat another girl upon his knee
and told her things he neer told me
now i know why she is pretter than
i
I ran home and cryed upon my bed
Not a word my mother said
My dad came home late that night
They searched for me left and right
He went up stairs and my door he broke
And they found me hanging on a rope
He took a knife and cut me down
And in my pocket a note they did found
"Dig a grave, dig it deep,
Marble stones from head to feet
And on the top, place a dove
To show the world i died for love!"

Sasha Herrera RETURN

TO MY PARENTS

Lost by a Goddess
Somewhere in Spain
Brittled by thunder under my name...

Two steps he took
And looked around
After a taste of joy.
Nobody smiled.
And he discovered
A ray of light
Under his shirt.
It was lost by a Goddess
Somewhere in Spain.
She molded the concept
He asked her away.
She broke the chant
And I came along
Too old in my thunder
That brittled my name.

Erica RETURN

You have an angel's voice

__"You have an angel's voice", said the lover to his mistress,
he closed his eyes and pictured her, and more as he liked her than as she really was.
But they both knew a real angel wouldn't have done what every night they do,
the common memories, the different thoughts, the passion of the mortals.
__"It's not an angel's voice, it's mine, a sinner's", she replied,
"just sweetened by my feelings, my fears and the pleasures I share with you".
And they both knew a real angel would have never felt the sense of vacancy,
the humans feel till the moment the two halves meat and blend in one.

The lover paused, and both of them heard an angel bewailing...
An angel's lament from up the Heavens, asking to gain the human voice...

Helena Mammi RETURN

HELP ME

Walking, never look at faces,
no name in the crowd, lonely hearts.
People, coming from no place,
going to nowhere, sorrow and pain.
No hope, no more expectations,
no past , no tomorrow, empty lives.
Ruins, this world is my prison,
no love, no compassion, a living Hell.
Let the life draw all the curtains,
grow a flower in your heart,
let the sun dry all your tears,
smile to me, give me your hand.

Help me, help me, somebody help me,
help me, help me, walk by my side,
help me, help me, love one another,
help me, help me, do it now.

Eva Magou RETURN

SHE WAS DIED QUIETLY...

She was dying quietly, in the dream.
In the dream there was boat in harbour,
And just like in bygone, forgotten spring
The sad bird was crying,
And that man with a silvery sword
Was walking on sparkling grass,
And snowy field - behind his left shoulder,
And starry sky - behind the right one.

Olga Plaksina RETURN

SISTER EUPHEMIA

A ready smile,
a quiet way,
the joy and candor
of a child,
Sister Euphemia taught first grade
at St.Vincent's
in September
nineteen thirty-five.

From her I learned
on opening day,
I had a family name,
when at my side
she bent
and
printed out
each letter of my name.

Quite short,
she'd stand upon a stool
to teach with flash cards
or
the faces of a clock.

In soft but solemn tones,
she'd tell us,
ever that we say,
three "Hail Marys"
to our Blessed Mother,
every day.

St. Vincent's passed.
The years flew fast.
Her memory lapsed;
yet her words held fast.
for ever since she bade us
in first grade,
I've said my three "Aves".

Virgil Gelormino RETURN

IT'S USELESS...

E' INUTILE...

It's useless
to put the guitar out of tune
without you
because it doesn't sing

the whole thought
which runs
and doesn't understand
whether it pursues itself
along the beach
as it wouldn't know
whom to find
beyond your tears
made of red flowers
that remind me
the best things
when I loved you

like remembering
the smoke vanishing.

Andrea Leonardi RETURN

( Tranlation by Marisa Bordiga )

ACT OF LOVE

ATTO D'AMORE

Sometime in that fine hour
Between activity and slumber,
Clenched in that strange stasis
When all emotion freezes
As her features sear his eyes -
Then somehow she contains
The sudden rippling effluxions:
A refulgent star, a startling light,
The recrudescence of joy in the Universe;
Two lovers’ unwitting homage to past ages,
The renaissance of time.

Robin Buchanan RETURN

THE ORPHANS' BIG DAY

"The picnic!
The picnic!"
The children shrill,
"July the 4th
is almost here!"
The biggest day of summer,
the biggest of the year.
St. Vincent's Orphans Picnic
fast draws near.

Expectancy peaks,
the world turns pink,
as hammers sound
and workmen pound
fresh white lumber
into picnic stands.

From waiting trucks
the volunteers
from every part
of Columbus Town,
bring the food,
bring the drinks,
bring the prizes
for the games of chance.

When at sundown, work is done,
brightly festive picnic stands
dot St. Vincent's entrance grounds,
from its Main Street gate
to its chapel front.

The day of the 4th
dawns bright and clear.
Heaven always seems to smile
upon that day.

Toward mid-morning
the playground nun
has the children
form in lines.
On each outstretched palm
she places
one thin dime,
one bright gleaming dime.

With dime in hand,
the orphans scatter
on their once-a-year run
of the entrance grounds.
Here they mingle
with the people
from Columbus Town.

From a high band stand,
way in front,
comes the rousing sound
of the orphan band,
led by Cincione,
volunteer maestro,
of the band.

And now appears,
through the alley gate
the bishop of the diocese,
faithful visitor to the children
every Christmas and Easter day.

From his residence steps away,
the chaplain of St. Vincent's
springs through his yard
to greet his bishop
and kiss on bended knee
the ring of His Eminence

On the entrance grounds, the children
guarding close their dime,
make their rounds of the picnic stands,
mid the whirl of roulette wheels,
the sounds of the orphan band,
and the raffle vendors' cries
to buy a chance
on the brand new car
perched high above the picnic crowd.

With one half dime
the orphans buy
a hamburgher,
or an ice cream cone.
With the buffalo nickel change,
they buy a coca cola,
or a great big bottle of Virginia Dare--
grape, orange, root beer, or cream soda.

The reveling continues on and on,
through dusk and into evening,
until at half past eight,
Franciscan sisters
herd their charges to their dorms.

At bedtime, silence is the rule.
As the orphans sit upon their beds,
and slip into their nightwear,
they hear the grownups
playing bingo in the courtyard
down below.

Adrift at last in dreams,
they see and savor once again,
the wonders of their Big Day.

Virgil Gelormino RETURN

THE BOY CALLED BINGO

As the orphans lie
in quiet slumber
two floors high,
they hear the bingo numbers roll
from a caller standing just below
a window of their dorm.

And as they doze,
some hear numbers
that are their own-
laundry numbers given
when first they entered S.V.O.

In a bed,
by the window,
outside of which
the caller has his role,
lies a boy called "Bingo",
whose laundry number is
thirty-three.

On and on,
litany-like,
the numbers from the caller roll,
until at last he hollers out:
"N Thirty-Three".

"Bingo"! shouts a grownup voice
from the couryard down below.
"Here I am"! shouts Bingo,
from his window
above the crowd,
hurling wide its shutters,
popping out his head.

Virgil Gelormino RETURN