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There was an Old Man of th' Abruzzi,
So blind that he couldn't his foot see;
When they said, 'That's your toe,'
He replied, 'Is it so?'
That doubtful Old Man of th' Abruzzi.

limerick by Edward Lear
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Dale

Are you from Abruzzi or Aburi?
Then come and show your love to me;
For i need a mantle to follow you.

Dale,
The sea is expanding and the forest is vanishing;
But my love for you is forever.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Meditations: Dario Fo's discovery that God is the Supreme Head of the Italian State Railway

God, once had a mustache, double breasted jacket
Wollen turtleneck and held me on skis in Abruzzi

God, once was a second grade teacher, signorina Puccessi, teaching
Petrach, Virgil, Ovid, Boccacio, Dante, Grazia Deleddo, , to mules

God, once was whoever had 10,000 lire, the bomba,
dared to show it, to spend the whole amount on drinks

God, once was the captain of an ocean liner, Vesuvius
Crossing the atlantic to ellis island, with one push from Naples

God, once played centerfield in pinstripes, wore number 7
drank a lot, hit home runs, won world series, a good friend

God, once was a girl's eyes, her mouth, her right breast,
then her left and sometimes the void between her legs

God, once was the head of the New York Stock Exchange
and quit over a salary dispute, to save money on taxes

[...] Read more

poem by Liberatore Suffoletta
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Italian Scenery

Night rests in beauty on Mont Alto.
Beneath its shade the beauteous Arno sleeps
In vallombrosa's bosom, and dark trees
Bend with a calm and quiet shadow down
Upon the beauty of that silent river.

Still in the west a melancholy smile
Mantles the lips of day, and twilight pale
Moves like a spectre in the dusky sky,
While eve's sweet star on the fast-fading year
Smiles calmly. Music steals at intervals
Across the water, with a tremulous swell,
From out the upland dingle of tall firs;
And a faint footfall sounds, where, dim and dark,
Hangs the gray willow from the river's brink,
O'ershadowing its current. Slowly there
The lover's gondola drops down the stream,
Silent, save when its dipping oar is heard,
Or in its eddy sighs the rippling wave.
Mouldering and moss-grown through the lapse of years,

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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