Translations

 

I'm reading blackberries, translating them to clafoutis.

It is the day after the day of translations, the letters 

and their combinations played like chesspieces 

across the indeterminable board, vast and extraordinary

as the famous piazza where life itself has often been

played out, between the great Basilica and the timeless cafés,

where erstwhile spies, or lovers lost or not yet happened on,

or in the old days Mozart, Byron, Casanova, men with 

one of those "ways with words," and in that sea of chairs

and little tables too contessas, students of art history, sopranos

all sit whiling away hours, watching others wait and watch, 

sip cioccolata in tazza, caffè del Doge, un calice di Champagne

—or a bottle in its entirety, translated in a sorcerous instant

to frosted silver, moonrise, glass.  One of the nocturnes 

of the magician of tones famous for eking light from night. 

 

 

 

image:  James Whistler, Nocturne:  Blue and Gold, St. Mark's, Venice