Sicilian Vespers

I cherish the early mornings,
The smell of coffee and warm succulent bread,
As the sun saunters in like Cagliostro,
Promising riches and eternal life.
Death, like almond blossoms,
Smells sweet and falls on my head.
(Frutti alla martorana in the pasticceria window:
Perfect marzipan imitations
Of peaches, oranges and prickly pears…)
And I think of Goethe fleeing fame
And the dark skies of Germany,
Under a false name, over a barrel,
Nodding at the Masonic handshake of time,
Seeing Venus in every chambermaid’s rump,
Measuring Greek statues with ponderous delight.

In the Galleria Regionale in Palermo
The fresco The Triumph of Death:
In the centre Death the Archer
Rides a ghostly horse with ribs protruding
As he plucks off bishops, kings and ladies,
While all around the elegant people
Entertain themselves, oblivious,
Playing music, chatting, riding out to hunt,
And only the poor and diseased
Are aware of Death’s presence
And turn to him, entreating release
From earthly misery.

In the Oratorio del Rosario di San Domenico
The allegorical statues of the Virtues
Saucily model the most opulent fashions,
While all over the walls anarchic putti
Ride piggyback on one another,
Mischievously yanking each other’s willies.

In the Convento dei Cappuccini
The mummified corpses of thousands
Hang on the catacomb walls
According to their earthly station,
Dressed in their everyday clothes,
So many children among them.

I walk though the Villa Palagonia in Bagheria,
Like Ferdinando Gravina
Under the sign of his coat-of-arms,
A satyr holding up a mirror
To a woman with a horse’s head;
(Vicious jealousy as he spies on his young wife,
Every twist of her body and mind
He must possess,and deny to others,
Every glory of his own madness
He must force upon the world)
The stone monsters in the garden,
Leering, writhing, sneering, snarling,
And the house fitted with strange distorting mirrors
And furniture made of broken teapots,
And chairs with spikes hidden under the cushions.

In the ruins of Motya
I stand before the tophet
Where Phoenician women would sacrifice their firstborn
To the goddess Tanit;
In the museum stand hundreds
Of burial urns and funeral stelae
For the infant victims.
And here are the tiny ornamental braziers
Used by Phoenician ladies
To burn myrrh and spikenard.

The Torre di Federico II in Enna,
High among the mountain clouds,
Absolute centre of Sicily:
The Emperor built this octagon
To mark the hub of the Trinacria;
Ascend the spiral stairway
To the top,and grasp the entire isle
With the mind,believing in one
Geomantic design,submitting
All earth to the heavens.

Uncanny light of Strómboli,
Melancholy abandoned isle of weird musings:
Climb, climb the volcano ,
Red sparks flaring up from the firefountain
As the god rumbles below;
Your dreams’ smouldering magma
Will light up the night.