All's Not Well Along the Arno

Dante’s shade cast its uneasy shadow over

the heart’s weald last night. Everywhere we turned,

Hades’ torches flickered and pawed round memory’s door.

 

Our old enchantress, Venus, whispered ‘All’s not well

along the Arno …’ La Vita Nuova’s cheap wine

has soured into a morning’s vinegar.

 

No longer enamoured by poetry,

Portinari’s daughter has turned bittersweet.

Wary of my constant revisions, the never-quite

 

straightforward promises, she has, I sense, become

the fiercest of critics, indifferent

to the crimped roses of my paper garden.

 

And now, with the inevitable turn of Autumn

frost stirring along the banks of our idyllic

river’s sanctuary -- I hear Dante 

 

Hell’s awake, Hades' in the house.'

Ken e Bujold

Reviews

[Ern M. Yoshimoto]

i am speechless! loved it!

[W. Barrett Munn]

A different ending. Who knew the Arno flowed through Hell.

[emmajoygreen]

Such an academic poem, sir! Names scattered amongst beauty. Nothing quite write in the Arno flow, even thirst will suffer as the third season shivers in its should-be colourful glory,

'.. she has, I sense, become the fiercest of critics, indifferent to the crimped roses of my paper garden.'