Sunday, January 04, 2004

Poem for Sunday

Night of Terror
By Giuseppe Belli
Translated by Miller Williams

You're not going back out, as mad as you are?
Look, I don't like the way you're acting tonight.
Jesus! What is it? What have you got under there?
Holy Virgin, you're looking for a fight!

Pippo, my darling, you're not in any shape
To be out there carousing around town.
Pippo, listen to me, for pity's sake.
Okay, give me the knife. Just put it down.

You're not going out. I'm not yours anymore
The minute you leave. Cut me, go ahead.
There's no way you're going through that door.

Look at our sleeping angel. What a surprise
Not to find his father beside his bed
Smiling at him when he opens his eyes.


From today's Poet's Choice in The Washington Post, a poet of whom Edward Hirsch writes, "The 19th-century Italian poet Giuseppe Belli (1791-1863) created sonnets that are small, explosive, highly compressed dramas...Belli had a strong theatrical streak and liked to tell stories. He had a tough, streetwise wit, a terrific ear for slang, and a deep sympathy for working people. His poems are cunning, ironic and robust."

We're off to see the Wizards (wow, I've always wanted to write that!) My parents have tickets and were going to take the kids, but my father caught a terrible cold at the Rose Bowl and is letting us go to the basketball game and use the parking pass. With luck the rain will hold off till evening, and we will get to walk around Chinatown and the Shakespeare Theatre area.

has decided to kill people with David Wenham and Hugo Weaving in Russian Doll (warning: nipple-pinching).

I am very, very, very behind on comments and e-mail again...will work on that tonight!

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