Tom Was Silent a Moment. Then He Looked Over at Douglas There in the Dark

Stradaline

Italy Poems

2006

Ryan McCarl

For Pamela

Tom was silent a moment. Then he looked over at Douglas there in the dark.

“Far-traveling. You make that up?”

“Maybe yes and maybe no.”

“Far-traveling,” whispered Tom.

“Only one thing I’m sure of,” said Douglas, closing his eyes. “It sure sounds lonely.”

Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

Waiting at the Station, Riomaggiore

This is what I came here to feel –

standing on the station platform

at Riomaggiore, it’s morning

and the seabreeze and train-smoke

blend with a backpacker’s cigarette.

Nothing is familiar

save the feeling of this pen in my hand,

the scratching in an open journal.

An announcement in three languages

and I watching the tunnel

for that first moment when the lights appear.

Home sleeps in the predawn hours

somewhere across the ocean.

Beneath the Tracks

Exhausted by tears,

I am slumped at the edge of the pond

and filled with emptiness.

I must think of this place,

this preserve beneath the tracks,

and realize that it will still be here

when I return.

The birds sing on

and pay no attention to our small sadnesses,

our palefaced fear of time.

Trying not to think of my empty hand,

I am reminded of a painting:

An enormous field of spring and life,

broad brushstrokes of light

across the canvas, a rising sun –

and tucked in the corner, a man, head in his hands.

Looking Upward

Beyond the checkered café window

a man and woman stop,

shield their eyes, and look upward.

They say something to each other

and walk on.

Senza Luce

Speeding through vineyards and red-orange hills

without warning the train enters a tunnel

and for thirty seconds all is black,

the reflection and the window gone,

the page blank in my lap,

the song from home in my ear

and thoughts of her the sole continuity,

the thread from which I hang—

Everything changes with a turn of the head

and who was there is an ocean away,

and the mountains to the east

are obscured and then gone and back

in the windows of a passing train.

Easter Sunday

How to pass this long afternoon?

Sun trickles through the stiff blinds

and then fades from the room.

Cartoon-noise in the background

and everywhere the heavy air of laziness.

I am awake and there is much to do

but even the Easter churchbells

cannot stir my heart.

Time crawls slowly on, and this is it,

this is my life, what will never come again –

but my legs are heavy

the air is cold

the suitcase is packed and I am still here.

Gare Monaco

Every station is sad at night

when the benches are empty,

the ticket-windows shut.

The lights are lower

and the scattered travelers speak softly.

An old woman sweeps the floor in silence,

a girl whispers something in her lover’s ear

and he touches her hair.

Côte d’Azur

At the seaside bar in Nice, I sat alone

at the table by the piano.

The night moved anxiously forward –

lights flickered

along the curve of the water,

a group nearby was laughing.

The piano man plays a familiar song

and I smile: one step closer to home.

Penso a te, penso a te.

And then: Baby don’t you wanna go

sweet— home— Chicago?

Montecarlo, Dusk

I am crosslegged on a stone pier,

writing. No one is near.

A fish shuffles by in the water,

the whitening waves beat and beat

into the pebble beach.

Wind and the shivering and clicking

of flags against their poles.

I only just arrived, and soon I will leave –

an hour’s walk to the station

and the sun’s last light will fade

behind the mountain.

Pisa, 3 a.m.

In that long moment between dark and dawn

I walked home from the station

after the night train from Genova.

A cold wind swept refuge

across a cold street,

glass crushed beneath my shoes.

Bottles lined the brick railing of the riverside.

Afternoon

I am always asking

time to move faster

as I shuffle from block to block

and cross the long plazas

that stretch between the streets.

First an afternoon, then an evening

I reading on my bed and pasta on the stove –

an hour at a time, and soon, soon.

What You Want to Hear

Yes, yes I love it here –

oh, yes the dinners are perfect,

you should taste the wine

No I’ll never forget it

I promise to take pictures

ah, yes once-in-a-lifetime

experience, you’re right

Reading Barth

Reading this sort of thing

I must keep

my guard high

and my intellect chaste –

perhaps he is right, it is true.

But this truth

should be seen safely,

from a distance –

I would like to nod

and jot quotes

and think: “How wise.”

And then

scribble a comment

on the last page

and put him back upon the shelf

with all the others.

A Day in Rome

I am tired

and the sun is low in a patch of clouds.

It was a day, such a day,

and now it is sinking into the sea.

Today I appeared in so the corners

of so many eyes, there and gone –

if you pause the film

at just the right instant

you’ll catch me mid-stride, walking

on sore feet toward the Stazione Termini,

walking, map folded away,

trying to fathom

the stories upon which I step,

asking why are we lightfooted in Rome

if wefeel that terrifying coldness

when we step on a grave –

But, of course,

some machines work so well

that it is no use taking them apart.

You’ll understand them no better

and it will take a philosopher

to distinguish your curiosity from despair.

Much better simply to walk

and keep the map and timetable

in your pocket, knowing at least

that you are going in the general direction

of where you belong

and when the list at the station

clicks, turns, flashes the city-names

you’ll be there, you’ll catch the train

on time, you’ll fall asleep

watching the sun darken

over the Tuscan hills.
Pause

Some time has passed

since I began walking this city

without thinking or doubting the way –

I start out, a door closes,

the scene changes, a dog barks

and I know where to eye the gate;

I wait

five seconds for traffic to thin

and then step boldly

into the intersection, waving

and whispering “thank you,”

because that is what she does –

and I walk on and hold my bag

a little tighter as I pass the stadium

and smile a bit when the tower

first appears above the trees –

It is all familiar now, old news.

But it is not my life.

Sixty mornings ago today

I kissed her and stepped out

for a moment

and now it is time to go home.

Lontano

Very far

like a blind man

they’ve taken me away

-Giuseppe Ungaretti

Natale
I do not want
to throw myself
into a labyrinth
of streets
There is
such a weight
on my shoulders
Leave me like this
like a
thing
left
on a
corner
and forgotten
Here
I feel nothing
except
warmth
Just I
and the somersaults
of smoke
from the fireplace

-Giuseppe Ungaretti

The Sea-shell

O sea-shell, daughter

of the stone and the whitening sea,

you amaze the minds of children.

- Salvatore Quasimodo

Ryan McCarl studies international politics and languages at the University of Chicago. He edits the West Michigan Observer, and his writings have been published bySojourners, The Muskegon Chronicle, The Colorado Daily News, The Chicago Maroon, and 1000 Typewriters.

He maintains a blog at

Ryan McCarl Stradaline 1