Two Poems

Poetry / David Kirby

:: Big Meal with Gioachino Rossini ::

                         I tell my students not to use words like Beauty and Truth 
because, first, nobody will know what you mean and, second, 
                         nobody cares—they’d much rather go on a picnic with somebody 
               and try to make out with them or roast a chicken or have 

		          their oil changed and tires rotated than sit around and worry about 
whether or not such actions are beautiful or true. Yet when I am 
		          in Florence, whereas most people hurry to the tomb of Michelangelo 
               in the church of Santa Croce or gather in front of the monument 

		          to Galileo there, I always bend a knee before the sepulcher 
of Gioachino Rossini and think, beauty! Where would we be 
		          without The Barber of Seville and William Tell? Why, there’d 
               hardly be any popular culture at all, no Daffy Duck or Tom 

		          and Jerry cartoons or Lone Ranger, all thanks to this jolly 
fat man who composed so beautifully. Or jolly-seeming, 
		          I should say: who knows what joy lurks in a man’s heart,
               fat or not, and the same goes for the heart of a woman, 

		          though to comment on a woman’s size is something no man 
would ever do, or at least no gentleman. As for truth,
		          there are two ways to look at it. Think of that James Bond movie 
               in which James Bond is trapped in a hall of mirrors and thus 

		          faced with multiple images of the villain, so that it is only 
when he shatters all the mirrors that he sees his enemy 
		          in the flesh, suggesting that we, too, are surrounded by distractions 
               which we must eliminate in order to get at the truth, 

		          which is imminently getatable. Then there is the school 
that says no, truth is a rabbit in a briar patch, that when 
		          you reach in and try seize it by the neck, you put your hand 
               on the spot where it used to or will be but isn’t. So which

		          metaphor do you like, the hall of mirrors one or the rabbit 
in the briar patch? Wrong question, since it assumes that truth 
		          can only be expressed in words, whereas the truth that springs 
               from Rossini’s music is no less true for being inarticulatable

		          any more than a beautiful dinner is less so for being anything 
other than itself. Gioachino Rossini, how I would love to sit down
		          to table with you. Let’s start with some antipasti misti, 
               then on to the pasta course: ravioli filled with ricotta and spinach

		          for you, and for me, fettucine with ragù. Now for the hard part, 
which is fish or meat? Okay, meat: we’ll have fish next time. 
		          One of us should get the veal chop and the other the veal cutlet. 
               It doesn’t matter to me, either; let’s just get both and decide 

		          when the plates arrive, though we’re also going to need some 
side dishes, a plate of fried zucchini flowers, maybe, and artichokes 
		          sauteed with garlic and parsley. Okay, and now to the essential: 
               what shall we drink? Brunello, Barolo, Barbaresco, Nebbiolo, 

		          Sagrantino—why, the very names sound like your lyrics! 
You like Haydn, don’t you? Of course you like Haydn, probably 
		          for the same reason Keats did. Keats said that Haydn was like 
               a child, “for there is no knowing what he will do next.”

		          May we not say the same of your Figaro? “Everyone asks for me, 
everyone wants me,” Figaro sings, “women, children, 
		          old people, young ones,” and no wonder: “I am the luckiest, 
              it’s the truth! Ready for anything, / night and day / I’m always 

		          on the move.” That’s the way, isn’t it? Moving from one thing 
to another, no matter how big or small the thing, how long 
		          or short the journey. Look, the antipasti! Often you were left 
               in the care of your aging grandmother, who had difficulty 

		          supervising you, so while your father played his horn 
and your mother sang, you were left in the care of a butcher
		          and later apprenticed to a blacksmith—no wonder you’re 
               at home in the heart of the ordinary people, of a barber, say, 

		          or a serving girl. This chop is bigger than that cutlet, 
and I want you to have it. No, no, I insist. I’m putting 
		          my foot down, Rossini! Pass the vegetables, please.
                “One can’t judge Wagner’s opera Lohengrin after 

		          a first hearing,” you say, “and I certainly don’t intend 
to hear it a second time.” Ha, ha! Strong passions, Gioachino, 
		          strong passions! You say, “Give me a laundry-list, 
               and I’ll set it to music.” How about a cheese course? 

		          Oh, that’s right: you’re the one who says ice cream, always.  
Sempre gelato: if every politician had that as his or her 
		          campaign slogan, they’d all get elected, and then where 
               would we be? And if you can make a sonata or a cantata 

		          or an étude or a scherzo out of a laundry list, 
think what you could do with this beautiful dinner 
		          we’re having! I’m glad the restaurant is playing Bellini
               and Donizetti tonight. I bet you’d feel silly if we were

		          listening to The Lady of the Lake or Cinderella. But I just 
want to say that when I listen to those works on my own, I feel
		          more in touch with the times in which
               they were composed yet closer to something that’s bigger 

		          than this world, that’s infinite, even, that dishes up 
more love, compassion, excitement, gentleness, 
		          more good of every kind than I have already.  
               Music doesn’t teach us anything; it teaches us everything. 

		          Yes, yes, it’s late, but do let’s take a digestivo, 
a grappa or Sambuca or both. It can’t hurt—
		          well, it can, but who cares? 
               Tomorrow we’ll wake up with information and sore heads.

:: My Crappy Saint ::

                         Try not to be dissatisfied with organized religion, reader.
          It works for the people who believe in it, and it offers
many satisfactions to those who don’t. Take me: 
                         at the little church on the top of the hill in Fiesole, 
a brother of the Franciscan order is just coming off his shift 
                         at a perpetual prayer vigil and pauses when he sees me

                         and smiles, so I ask him why he and the others pray all night.
          That’s when the devil’s out, he says. Good answer, yes? 
How I loved the Church as a boy: the Latin mass, the incense,
                         the guilt, the certainty that my enemies would roast in hell,
the statuary and stained-glass windows. You can imagine 
                         how excited I was when I came across a calendar of saints,

                         one for each day, though the saint for my birthday 
          was not Michael or George or Gabriel with a sword and shield
or at least a trumpet but Saturninus, whose unpronounceable
                         name just looked dumb to a 12-year-old eager for hunky male
role models who stopped wild animals in their tracks,
                         parted seas, brought the dead back to life. All Saturninus

                         did was piss off a bunch of pagan priests in Toulouse
          because they stopped receiving messages from their gods
whenever he was in the neighborhood, so they subjected
                         him to “a great variety of indignities,” according to the old
chronicles, and had him dragged by a wild bull until dead.
                         The chronicles also say he went by the name of Cernín,

                         Sadurní, Sadurninho, Sarnin, Satordi, Saturdi, Saturnin,
          Saturnino, Serenín, Sernin, and Zernin, as though the old
chroniclers themselves didn’t know how to pronounce
                         a word that sounds more like an adenoid condition
than a name. You say Saturninus, I say gesundheit.
                         But I wasn’t mad at you, Saint Saturninus; it’s just that 

                         I wanted a  marquee-name saint: John the Baptist, say, 
          or Thomas Becket, or at least one with a cool name, 
like Leo the Great. Then there’s Joseph Moscati, 
                         Alphonsus Maria de Liguori, Bernard Scammacca . . . 
why do so many saints sound like mafiosi? A really 
                         cool saint would be Saint Margaret of Cortona, patron 

                         of homeless people, midwives, single women, people 
          who are tempted sexually and who are mentally ill 
(not the same group, but think about it), people ridiculed 
                         for their piety, and tertiaries. What are tertiaries? A tertiary
is composed of lay members of a religious order,
                         that is, men and women who do not live in a monastery

                         or convent but who wear the habit and participate 
          in the practices of that order. Everybody wants to belong 
to a club, to the Catholic Church, say, or the mafia. 
                         I belong to the biggest club ever, ex-Catholics. 
Most of us are good people, I bet, or at least interesting ones. 
                         We should get together and find out. The young Franciscan 

                         who tells me they pray at night because that’s when the devil’s
          out also says the rates are cheaper then, and when I ask what 
he means by that, he says it’s like long-distance calling: 
                         everybody prays during the day, so at night, there’s less traffic. 
During the day, he says, students pray for good grades, 
                         women pray for grandchildren . . . at night, it’s just us.


From the writer

:: Account ::

In the fall and spring, I give pret­ty much all of my spare time to my stu­dents, so the sum­mer is when I real­ly get the writ­ing done. This sum­mer espe­cial­ly was pro­duc­tive in ways I had­n’t imag­ined. Bar­bara and I rent­ed an apart­ment in Flo­rence for three weeks, and the first day there, the poems start­ed gush­ing out like water from a fire hydrant. Ital­ian cul­ture alone gives you a lot to think about, and when you add the Catholic Church on top of that, it’s as though the world is writ­ing the poems and I am its sec­re­tary. We’d have our cof­fee in the morn­ing, go out and look at art, come back for lunch and a nap, and then write well into the evening; since Ital­ians eat lat­er than we do over here, we’d go out at 8:30 or 9:00 and “eat like priests,” as the Ital­ians say. I was raised Catholic but let it go when I dis­cov­ered sci­ence and girls, yet I still love the archi­tec­ture of the great cathe­drals, the men­tal rig­or of orders like the Jesuits, the com­pas­sion that so many nuns and lay peo­ple show when they care for those the rest of us have for­got­ten. These days, poet­ry is my religion.


David Kir­by’s col­lec­tion The House on Boule­vard St.: New and Select­ed Poems was a final­ist for the Nation­al Book Award in 2007. Kir­by is the author of Lit­tle Richard: The Birth of Rock ‘n’ Roll, which the Times Lit­er­ary Sup­ple­ment of Lon­don called “a hymn of praise to the eman­ci­pa­to­ry pow­er of non­sense.” His forth­com­ing LSU col­lec­tion is Get Up, Please. For more infor­ma­tion, see