I found these poems in my Mother’s papers. (She died in 2003 – it’s taken me a while to get around to sorting them.) I think they show a guilty conscience on my part. (It would also help to know Italian, especially in the first one.)
My life cannot be seen as having worth,
Especially in reference to you.
I’m immature, and filled with my own view,
My words do not have depth, in shallow earth
Meant only for the wind and famine’s dearth,
Eventually to be sown anew,
Repeating what I know to be so true:
I have been undeserving of your mirth.
Tomorrow see us living out our days,
Eternally at odds with these two thoughts:
Virility is this man’s way to be
Offensive, while your gentle woman’s ways
Leave your virginity in Love’s soft knots…
Ergo: che cosa serả di noi?
27 May 1985
And ev’rything I touch just turns to mould…
So said the silly blighter to the judge,
Sad as it seems, there’s more that I must drudge
Up to your eyes, before this Court of Old.
My memory is good, so I’ve been told:
Events long past still help me bear a grudge;
Throughout my life I’ve faked; I’d even fudge
Heroic acts, if doing so would hold
Eternity at bay. What must I endure?
What punishment must now be meted out?
Oh, Gracious Sire, please grant me one last word:
Regardless of my sins, just reassure
Some Scorpios and leave no doubt;
Tell them I understand the things I’ve heard.
29 May 1985