ER VOTO (The Vow)
Senti st'antra. A Ssan Pietro e Marcellino
Ce stanno certe moniche befane,
C'aveveno pe voto er contentino
De maggnà ttutto-quanto co le mane.
Vedi si una forchetta e un cucchiarino,
Si un cortelluccio pe ttajacce er pane,
Abbi da offenne Iddio! N'antro tantino
Leccaveno cor muso com'er cane!
Pio Ottavo però, bona-momoria,
Che vedde una matina quer porcaro,
Je disse: "Madre, e che vò dì sta storia?
Sete state avvezzate ar monnezzaro?!
Che voto! un cazzo. A dio pò dasse groria
Puro co la forchetta e cor cucchiaro".
English
Listen to this one. At San Pietro e Marcellino's church
There are such nasty nuns,
Who, as a vow, had the bad habit
Of eating food using their bare hands [1] .
Just imagine if a fork and a spoon,
A small knife for cutting bread,
Could be an offence to God! They almost
Licked the dish like dogs!
But the late Pius the Eighth,
Who one day saw that filth,
Told them: "Mother, what does all this mean?
Have you been brought up in a dump?
Damn that vow! God can be praised
Although using a fork and a spoon".
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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Related quotes
Objector
In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon
to ward off complicity--the ordered life
our leaders have offered us. Thin as a knife,
our chance to live depends on such a sign
while others talk and The Pentagon from the moon
is bouncing exact commands: "Forget your faith;
be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face
annihilation unless all citizens get in line."
I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere
other citizens more fearfully bow
in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state.
Our signs both mean, "You hostages over there
will never be slaughtered by my act." Our vows
cross: never to kill and call it fate.
poem by William Stafford
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LA PENALE (The Fine)
Li preti, già sse sa, fanno la caccia
A 'gni sorte de spece de quadrini.
Mo er mi' curato ha messo du' carlini
De murta a chi vò dì 'na parolaccia.
Toccò a me l'antra sera a la Pilaccia:
Ché giucanno co certi vitturini,
Come me vedde vince un lammertini,
Disse pe ffoja: "Eh buggiarà Ssantaccia!"
Er giorn'appresso er prete già informato,
Mannò a ffamme chiamà dar chiricone,
E m'intimò la pena der peccato.
Sur primo io vorze dì le mi' raggione;
Ma ppoi me la sbrigai: "Padre Curato,
Buggiaravve a voi puro: ecco un testone".
English
A well-known fact is that priests go hunting
For money of all sorts and kinds.
Now my vicar has decreed a sixpence fine [1]
For anyone saying a foul word.
It was my turn, the other night at the Pilaccia inn:
As I was gambling with some coach drivers,
When I lost a silver coin
I said in anger: "Damn Santaccia!" [2]
On the following day the priest, already informed,
Sent out the sexton for me,
And inflicted me the penalty for that sin.
At first I tried to put forward my reasons,
But then I cut it short: "Father Vicar,
Damn yourself too, here's a shilling" [3] .
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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LA SCERTA (The Choice)
Sta accusì. La padrona cor padrone,
Volenno marità la padroncina
Je portonno davanti una matina,
Pe sceje, du' bravissime perzone.
Un de li dua aveva una ventina
D'anni, e du' spalle peggio de Sanzone;
E l'antro lo diceveno un riccone
Ma aveva un po' la testa cennerina.
Subbito er giuvinotto de quer paro
Se fece avanti a dì: "Sora Lucia,
Chi volete de noi? parlate chiaro".
"Pe dilla, me piacete voi e lui",
Rispose la zitella; "e ppijerìa
Er cicio vostro e li quadrini sui".
English
This is how it went. My master and mistress,
Wishing to have their daughter married
One morning brought in front of her
Two very respectable persons to choose.
One of the two was about twenty
Years old, and had shoulders wider than Samson's;
While the other one was known as a rich man
But had a few grey hair.
Immediately the young man of the couple
Started saying: "Miss Lucy,
Who of us do you want? speak frankly".
"Really, I like both of you",
Answered the girl [1] ; "and I would take
Your tool [2] and his money".
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No
Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."
poem by Michael Drayton
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Sexual Soup
A man so sick that the sexual soup
cannot save him -
the chicken soup of sex
which cures everything:
tossed mane of noodles,
bits of pale white meat.
the globules of yellow fat
like love...
But he is a man so sick
no soup can save him.
His throat has healed into a scar.
Rage fills his guts.
He wants to diet on dust.
I offered to feed him
(spoon by spoon)
myself.
I offered my belly as a bowl.
I offered my hands as spoons,
my knees as tongs,
my breasts as the chafing dish
to keep us warm
I offered my navel
as a brandy snifter.
"My tongue is gone," he said,
"I have no teeth.
My mouth is with my mother in the grave.
I've offered up my hunger to the air,
my nostrils to the wind,
my sex to death,
my eyes to nothingness & dust."
"What do you lust for then?"
I asked.
"I lust for nothing."
poem by Erica Jong
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LI FRATI D'UN PAESE (The Friers of The Village)
Senti sto fatto. Un giorno de st'istate
Lavoravo ar convento de Genzano,
E ssentivo de sopra ch'er guardiano
Tirava giù biastime a carrettate;
Perché, essenno le gente aridunate
Per cantà la novena a ssan Cazziano,
Cerca qua, chiama là, quer zagristano
Drento a le celle nun trovava un frate.
Era vicino a notte, e un pispillorio
Già se sentiva in de la chiesa piena,
Quanno senti che ffa ppadre Grigorio.
Curze a intoccà la tevola de cena,
E appena che fu empito er refettorio
Disse: "Alò, frati porchi, a la novena!".
English
Listen to this story. During last summer one day
I was working at the monastery in Genzano [1] ,
When I heard upstairs the sacristan
Swearing like a trooper.
Because while the people had gathered
To sing the novena [2] for St.Cassian,
The sacristan, looking for the friars high and low,
Could not find any of them in their rooms.
Night was approaching, and a whispering
Already came from the crowded church,
So listen what Father Gregory did.
He ran to sound the dinner bell
And as soon as the refectory was full
Said: "Hurry up, lousy friars, to the novena!"
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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The New Knighthood
Who gives him the Bath?
"I," said the wet,
Rank-Jungle-sweat,
"I'll give him the Bath!"
Who'll sing the psalms?
"We," said the Palms.
"Ere the hot wind becalms,
"We'll sing the psalms."
Who lays on the sword ?
"I," said the Sun,
Before he has done,
"I'll lay on the sword."
"Who fastens his belt?
"I," said Short-Rations,
" I know all the fashions
"Of tightening a belt!"
Who gives him his spur?
"I," said his Chief,
Exacting and brief,
"I'll give him the spur."
Who'll shake his hand?
"I," said the Fever,
"And I'm no deceiver,
"I'll shake his hand."
Who brings him the wine?
"I," said Quinine,
"It's a habit of mine.
"I'11 come with his wine."
Who'll put him to proof?
"I," said All Earth.
"Whatever he's worth,
"I'll put to the proof."
Who'll choose him for Knight?
"I," said his Mother,
"Before any other,
"My very own Knight."
And after this fashion, adventure to seek,
Sir Galahad was made--as it might be last week!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Seth Compton
When I died, the circulating library
Which I built up for Spoon River,
And managed for the good of inquiring minds,
Was sold at auction on the public square,
As if to destroy the last vestige
Of my memory and influence.
For those of you who could not see the virtue
Of knowing Volney's "Ruins" as well as Butler's "Analogy"
And "Faust" as well as "Evangeline,"
Were really the power in the village,
And often you asked me,
"What is the use of knowing the evil in the world?"
I am out of your way now, Spoon River,
Choose your own good and call it good.
For I could never make you see
That no one knows what is good
Who knows not what is evil;
And no one knows what is true
Who knows not what is false.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Lesson
Whenever my mother, who taught
small children forty years,
asked a question, she
already knew the answer.
"Would you like to" meant
you would. "Shall we" was
another, and "Don't you think."
As in "Don't you think
it's time you cut your hair."
So when, in the bare room,
in the strict bed, she said,
"You want to see?" her hands
were busy at her neckline,
untying the robe, not looking
down at it, stitches
bristling where the breast
had been, but straight at me.
I did what I always did:
not weep --she never wept--
and made my face a kindly
whitewashed wall, so she
could write, again, whatever
she wanted there.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Ellen Bryant Voigt
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The ABC
'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"
Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"
"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."
C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."
"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."
"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.
"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."
X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."
poem by Spike Milligan
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ER ZAGRIFIZZIO D'ABBRAMO III (Abraham's Sacrifice 3)
"Pacenza", dice Isacco ar zu' padraccio,
Se butta s'una pietra inginocchione,
E quer boja de padre arza er marraccio
Tra cap'e collo ar povero cojone.
"Fermete, Abbramo: nun calà quer braccio",
Strilla un Angiolo allora da un cantone:
"Dio te vorze provà co sto setaccio..."
Bee, bee... Chi è quest'antro! è un pecorone.
Inzomma, amici cari, io già sso' stracco
D'ariccontavve er fatto a la distesa.
La pecora morì: fu sarvo Isacco:
E quella pietra che m'avete intesa
Mentovà ssur più bello de l'acciacco,
Sta a Roma, in Borgo-novo, in d'una chiesa.
English
"I resign myself", said Isaac to his evil father,
Dropping to his knees over a stone,
And that wicked father raised the knife [1]
Over the neck of the poor fool.
"Stop, Abraham: don't let your arm down",
Cried an Angel from a corner:
"God wanted to put you to the test..."
Baa, baa... Who's there! a ram.
In conclusion, dear friends, I'm now tired
of telling you the story in full.
The ram died: Isaac was saved:
And that stone you heard me mention
At the crucial stage of this abuse,
Is in Rome, in Borgo Nuovo, in a church [2] .
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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You're right—
234
You're right—"the way is narrow"—
And "difficult the Gate"—
And "few there be"—Correct again—
That "enter in—thereat"—
'Tis Costly—So are purples!
'Tis just the price of Breath—
With but the "Discount" of the Grave—
Termed by the Brokers—"Death"!
And after that—there's Heaven—
The Good Man's—"Dividend"—
And Bad Men—"go to Jail"—
I guess—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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What is—
215
What is—"Paradise"—
Who live there—
Are they "Farmers"—
Do they "hoe"—
Do they know that this is "Amherst"—
And that I—am coming—too—
Do they wear "new shoes"—in "Eden"—
Is it always pleasant—there—
Won't they scold us—when we're homesick—
Or tell God—how cross we are—
You are sure there's such a person
As "a Father"—in the sky—
So if I get lost—there—ever—
Or do what the Nurse calls "die"—
I shan't walk the "Jasper"—barefoot—
Ransomed folks—won't laugh at me—
Maybe—"Eden" a'n't so lonesome
As New England used to be!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Us Two
Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
"Where are you going today?" says Pooh:
"Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.
Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.
"Let's go together," says Pooh.
"What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh.
("Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.)
"I think it ought to be twenty-two."
"Just what I think myself," said Pooh.
"It wasn't an easy sum to do,
But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what it is," said Pooh.
"Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.
"Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.
We crossed the river and found a few-
"Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.
"As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what they are," said Pooh.
"Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.
"That's right," said Pooh to Me.
"I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,
And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!
Silly old dragons!"- and off they flew.
"I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,
"I'm never afraid with you."
So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
"What would I do?" I said to Pooh,
"If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said: "True,
It isn't much fun for One, but Two,
Can stick together, says Pooh, says he. "That's how it is," says Pooh.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Intimacy
I hear people say, "I love my iPhone, "
Or, "I love drinking a Starbucks coffee."
Sometimes: "I love my Versace cologne, "
And also: "I love having this money."
I hear people say, "I love my Walmart, "
Or, "I love the drive-thru at Taco Bell."
"I love my TV. It's state of the art."
"I love the shoes that Nike has to sell."
I hear this: "I love American Idol, "
And, "I love a nice, cold Budweiser."
"I love medicines such as Demerol."
And, "I love my internet provider."
Yet, one thing I don't hear is, "I love you."
Saying that is too intimate to do.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant
—he's a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar
he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business
first time I met him, he said,
"hey! ya gonna make a
killin'?"
"maybe," I answered.
next meeting it was:
"hey, Ramrod! what's
happening?"
"very little," I told
him.
next time I had my girlfriend with me
and he just
grinned.
next time I was
alone.
"hey," he asked, "where's the young
chick?"
"I left her at home...."
"Bullshit! I'll bet she dumped
you!"
and the next time
he really leaned into the car:
"what's a guy like you doing driving a
BMW! I'll bet you inherited your
money, you didn't get this car with your
brains!"
"how'd you guess?" I
answered.
that was some weeks ago.
I haven't seen him lately.
feIlow like that, chances are he just moved on
to better
things.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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The Gardener XXVI: What Comes From Your Willing Hands
"What comes from your willing
hands I take. I beg for nothing
more."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If there be a stray flower for me
I will wear it in my heart."
"But if there be thorns?"
"I will endure them."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If but once you should raise your
loving eyes to my face it would make
my life sweet beyond death."
"But if there be only cruel
glances?"
"I will keep them piercing my
heart."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Unto Me? I do not know you—
"Unto Me?" I do not know you—
Where may be your House?
"I am Jesus—Late of Judea—
Now—of Paradise"—
Wagons—have you—to convey me?
This is far from Thence—
"Arms of Mine—sufficient Phaeton—
Trust Omnipotence"—
I am spotted—"I am Pardon"—
I am small—"The Least
Is esteemed in Heaven the Chiefest—
Occupy my House"—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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LA CREAZZIONE DER MONNO (The Creation of The World)
L'anno che Gesucristo impastò er monno,
Ché pe impastallo già c'era la pasta,
Verde lo vorze fà, grosso e ritonno,
All'uso d'un cocommero de tasta.
Fece un zole, una luna e un mappamonno,
Ma de le stelle poi dì una catasta:
Su ucelli, bestie immezzo, e pesci in fonno:
Piantò le piante, e doppo disse: "Abbasta".
Me scordavo de dì che creò l'omo,
E coll'omo la donna, Adamo e Eva;
E je proibbì de nun toccaje un pomo.
Ma appena che a maggnà l'ebbe viduti,
Strillò per dio con quanta voce aveva:
"Ommini da vienì, sete futtuti"
English
The year Jesus Christ kneaded the world,
The stuff for doing so was already there,
He wanted it to be green, big and round,
Like a ripe water-melon.
He made a sun, a moon and a globe,
And a real multitude of stars:
Birds up, animals midway, and fishes at the bottom:
He planted plants, and then said: "That's enough".
I forgot to say that he created man,
And, with man, woman too, Adam and Eve;
And he forbade them to touch a fruit.
But as soon as he saw them eating,
By God, he shouted as loud as he could:
"People to come, you're in trouble".
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
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The Bread-Knife Ballad
A little child was sitting Up on her mother's knee
And down down her cheeks the bitter tears did flow.
And as I sadly listened I heard this tender plea,
'Twas uttered in a voice so soft and low.
"Not guilty" said the Jury And the Judge said "Set her free,
But remember it must not occur again.
And next time you must listen to you little daughter's plea,"
Then all the Court did join in this refrain.
Chorus:
"Please Mother don't stab Father with the BREAD-KNIFE,
Remember 'twas a gift when you were wed.
But if you must stab Father with the BREAD-KNIFE,
Please Mother use another for the BREAD."
poem by Robert William Service
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