25 May Poeta! Poeta!
One by one each child dressed in a white robe with a white lily in hand marched in a single file line down the middle of the street. Parents and photographers lined the side walk with Canon cameras and iphone videos while the children smiled and mushed towards the church. I walked beside the proud parents as if I were a distant cousin to a family in the small town. I didn’t belong, and although people could sense I was an outsider, I still blended behind the mass –secretly hidden in every precious photo.
There was one man, however, who called me out from the rest. After the crowd had disappeared in the church, I turned to walk back to the nunnery I was staying in, and that’s when he approached me. I was cradling my Inferno book as if it were my small child in need of protection. I held it close to my chest with the title facing out for all to see when an old, plump, white haired man chased me down the street.
“Mi scusi, scusi” he said.
When I stopped to make eye contact with him he pointed at my book with such enthusiasm.
“Poeta! Poeta!” he repeated –pointing to the book and then to himself. “Mi poeta!”
“Mi dispiace, non parlo italiano” is all I knew how to say.
He smiled at me and laughed, but continued to point and repeat the word “poeta”.
My friend, who was with me, flipped through her Italian phrase book for the word when it hit me that he was simply saying he, like Dante, was a poet.
Strangely, he invited us into his house where poetry and drawings wallpapered the room. Letters were scattered along an end table, and a stack of papers were piled high in two towers on the kitchen table. The man was pleased. Before a minute had passed he turned on his stereo to a beautiful classical Italian instrumental, and he rummaged through one of the towers of paper. He pulled out a specific sheet and cleared his throat. When the music was just right, the man started to recite one of his poems.
Although I couldn’t understand the worlds, he delivered it with such passion and emphasis. The music and the lyrics morphed together to create a beautiful Italian song. When the poem and the music stopped together, he smiled and handed me his poem to keep.
He recited a few more poems with other instrumentals, and after several tracks, he handed my friends and I a fake rose for each of us before bidding us ado. We walked together –practically in tears because of the beautiful moment.
This particular moment was my most memorable and favorite time. Despite the fact I couldn’t understand the man’s poetry, It was still beautiful to hear the Italian language roll of the tongue; and to think, this is all because this man spotted my copy of Dante’s Inferno; because poetry is more than just the language, but knowing how to appreciate it.
