The swollen Arno overflows, only the wicked river knows
A trail of umber sediment, borrowed nuggets of rose-gold
Beneath the merchants tables, its soft, princely belly gored
The flower of the Medici on laden, merchant-vessels moored
A tale told, a crucible of fire, bonfire of vanities, lust and desire
Firenze sleeps, artisans, courtesans both, purple, plush & bored
A cradle for a renaissance and Arno’s sacred arthouse store
GLOSSARY – savonarolA – Piero and the exile of the Medici: 1492-1494 – bonfire of vanities tuscany
#NOTE – I have never been what you might call a rhyming poet or written what you might call poems of form or open to exegetic or critical poetic analysis (No negative judgement on poems like these intended or implied). I have always tried to write in a more open, Kerouac-style of prose for want of a better explanation. Perhaps like the Beat-style poets of the 60’s/70’s, where feeling and emotion are more important than form.
I have suffered the occasional criticism for this and in a somewhat futile attempt to silence the inner demons who taunt, I entered a poetry society and whilst there, I entered this poem in a competition. It brought me some rave reviews from a few notable American poets who commented that it was ‘the real thing’ and also some criticisms – such is life but I actually like it because it seems to me, to meet the criteria of the competition and describe the history of one of the world’s ‘great’ art cities – Florence.
What do you think?