Luigi Marchini

Luigi Marchini was born in London but now live sin Kent where i have run  a writing group for many years.

I have  been published world wide (including two of your anthologies!) and i have also judged many competitions in Europe and in Asia.

I do not believe in different nations but one world. We are all equal.

 

ESPAÑOL:

Luigi Marchini nació en Londres, pero ahora vive sin Kent donde he dirigido un grupo de escritura durante muchos años.

He sido publicado en todo el mundo (incluyendo dos de sus antologías!) y también he juzgado muchas competiciones en Europa y en Asia.

No creo en diferentes naciones, sino en un mundo. Todos somos iguales.

 

Gnocchi and Barolo

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

It wasn’t easy, my hands more adept at

holding pens, making love than kneading

one kilogram of potatoes, five hundred

grams of plain flour together, beating,

squashing the mixture – King Kong

and the citizens of New York or me exacting

revenge on my brother via his perfectly formed blue

plasticine models of a Spitfire or the Titanic.

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

Later the family sat down to dinner - gnocchi

resplendent in a Bolognese sauce,

a 1998 Barolo standing guard. The gnocchi

could have been better, I admit; the dumplings

weren’t smooth, my hands not powerful

enough to do the deed; the Barolo, however, tasted like

the scent of Dolce Gabbana Light Blue

pierced by the early morning sunlight, and its

colour was red gold.

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

My mother cooked gnocchi on my eighth

birthday - it was a different family that sat down

to dinner then; no more can I see my grandmother

at the head of the table, smiling always - La Giaconda -

or my aunt always on my right, so close I could touch

her dreams: now there are daughters,

wives, nephews but they were not there on

my eighth birthday.

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

My grandmother and my aunt, did they

eat gnocchi on their eighth birthdays?

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

Did Garibaldi and Mazzini taste gnocchi before

they spilled blood the colour of Barolo uniting

the country that bore my grandmother,

my aunt? Did Mussolini devour gnocchi before

marching on Rome, or just before he got his

comeuppance: his body trussed up,

a bloody pig heart, not beating; and if

he did was it washed down with a glass

of Barolo, Chianti, or a crater full

of fear? Did Verdi savour gnocchi as he composed

Macbeth, and planned Luisa Miller, Rigoletto

while on the same continent the Irish

starved? No potatoes for them,

just grass and weeds for the lucky ones; those alive

herbivores now, like the mule deer, the prairie dog.

One wasteland is like any other.

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

I can still taste the beef and tomatoes

of the sauce and if I squash my

tongue between my teeth I can squeeze out

little bits of potatoes; and I can still see my grandmother,

my aunt - only now they are dining with the Giuseppes

and Benito, company for potatoes

and the shells of deer and rodents.

 

WE LOVE THE SMELL OF NAPALM IN THE

EVENING

for the Catonsville Nine

 

We are inside, easy

like striking a match

a blow for peace.

There is paper, lots.

They won’t listen, their ears

deaf to reason

alert to battle.

How many people must die?

How high must the smoke rise?

How black must the bodies char

before they say no

to war?

This is our war

we will use their weapon.

There is paper, lots.

Nine of us

here in Catonsville

surrounded by paper

draft files

death warrants.

Pacifists=criminals.

Conscripts=dead bodies.

Bring out the napalm

it must be better to burn

paper

than children.

 

Just hoping it will all go away

‘The bloodiest wars in history have been religious wars’ Richard Nixon

 

Wine turns to water.

 

Hours choked back by many hands, turned

round so the host is returned

to his mother

to the choreography of disciples

while the stained ones hide,

play dumb. Light shines through

on an unthinkable scene,

the apocalypse of men and women,

backs turned to the altar

like mosquitoes rusting on an alchemic scar

of flesh and blood, stuck solid to the Amen        

 

but striving to escape, to remember before beliefs

led to wars supposedly fuelled

by oil fields full of angry palms that itch.

 

DOCILITY

 

I want to speak another language other

than that uttered in Fallujah and Phnom Penh.

I want to form different words than

those heard in Belsen and Vorkuta.

 

No more mephitic carcasses or

perforating screaks.

 

And so my khaki uniform keeps

my carbine company - locked away,

shut off from impulses as I write.

For now I know -

the pen is lighter but mightier

than the rifle.

 

History recalls how cruel the flood can be

 

We built a house

out of wet books, sodden

after the creek

burst its banks.

 

Water took,

still loots,

everything

except these books which

we can no longer read.

The balls of cloud

 

blackened, bleak (were they ever bright?)

carry on bleeding

lumps of despair from which

there is

no shelter. Still.

 

A hole in the roof

but no rainbow to marvel at.

 

The red wheelbarrow

floats away along with

the second edition Moby Dick

 

while a large boat sails past.

 

 

 

 

Gnocchi and Barolo

 

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

It wasn’t easy, my hands more adept at

holding pens, making love than kneading

one kilogram of potatoes, five hundred

grams of plain flour together, beating,

squashing the mixture – King Kong

and the citizens of New York or me exacting

revenge on my brother via his perfectly formed blue

plasticine models of a Spitfire or the Titanic.

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

Later the family sat down to dinner - gnocchi

resplendent in a Bolognese sauce,

a 1998 Barolo standing guard. The gnocchi

could have been better, I admit; the dumplings

weren’t smooth, my hands not powerful

enough to do the deed; the Barolo, however, tasted like

the scent of Dolce Gabbana Light Blue

pierced by the early morning sunlight, and its

colour was red gold.

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

My mother cooked gnocchi on my eighth

birthday - it was a different family that sat down

to dinner then; no more can I see my grandmother

at the head of the table, smiling always - La Giaconda -

or my aunt always on my right, so close I could touch

her dreams: now there are daughters,

wives, nephews but they were not there on

my eighth birthday.

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

My grandmother and my aunt, did they

eat gnocchi on their eighth birthdays?

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

Did Garibaldi and Mazzini taste gnocchi before

they spilled blood the colour of Barolo uniting

the country that bore my grandmother,

my aunt? Did Mussolini devour gnocchi before

marching on Rome, or just before he got his

comeuppance: his body trussed up,

a bloody pig heart, not beating; and if

he did was it washed down with a glass

of Barolo, Chianti, or a crater full

of fear? Did Verdi savour gnocchi as he composed

Macbeth, and planned Luisa Miller, Rigoletto

while on the same continent the Irish

starved? No potatoes for them,

just grass and weeds for the lucky ones; those alive

herbivores now, like the mule deer, the prairie dog.

One wasteland is like any other.

 

I made gnocchi yesterday

 

I can still taste the beef and tomatoes

of the sauce and if I squash my

tongue between my teeth I can squeeze out

little bits of potatoes; and I can still see my grandmother,

my aunt - only now they are dining with the Giuseppes

and Benito, company for potatoes

and the shells of deer and rodents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WE LOVE THE SMELL OF NAPALM IN THE

EVENING

 

 

for the Catonsville Nine

 

 

We are inside, easy

like striking a match

a blow for peace.

There is paper, lots.

They won’t listen, their ears

deaf to reason

alert to battle.

How many people must die?

How high must the smoke rise?

How black must the bodies char

before they say no

to war?

This is our war

we will use their weapon.

There is paper, lots.

Nine of us

here in Catonsville

surrounded by paper

draft files

death warrants.

Pacifists=criminals.

Conscripts=dead bodies.

Bring out the napalm

it must be better to burn

paper

than children.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just hoping it will all go away

‘The bloodiest wars in history have been religious wars’ Richard Nixon

 

 

Wine turns to water.

 

Hours choked back by many hands, turned

round so the host is returned

to his mother

to the choreography of disciples

while the stained ones hide,

play dumb. Light shines through

on an unthinkable scene,

the apocalypse of men and women,

backs turned to the altar

like mosquitoes rusting on an alchemic scar

of flesh and blood, stuck solid to the Amen        

 

but striving to escape, to remember before beliefs

led to wars supposedly fuelled

by oil fields full of angry palms that itch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DOCILITY

 

I want to speak another language other

than that uttered in Fallujah and Phnom Penh.

I want to form different words than

those heard in Belsen and Vorkuta.

 

No more mephitic carcasses or

perforating screaks.

 

And so my khaki uniform keeps

my carbine company - locked away,

shut off from impulses as I write.

For now I know -

the pen is lighter but mightier

than the rifle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

History recalls how cruel the flood can be

 

We built a house

out of wet books, sodden

after the creek

burst its banks.

 

Water took,

still loots,

everything

except these books which

we can no longer read.

The balls of cloud

 

blackened, bleak (were they ever bright?)

carry on bleeding

lumps of despair from which

there is

no shelter. Still.

 

A hole in the roof

but no rainbow to marvel at.

 

The red wheelbarrow

floats away along with

the second edition Moby Dick

 

while a large boat sails past.