Venezia, Mia Amore (Revision 4 shortened version)

[JJWilliamson]

The Gold-lined sea bream
were always supreme
south of Laguna Veneta.
I focused on my cool box,
splashing tepid sea water
over eyes and bright pink gills,
waiting for the Punta Sabbioni ferry.

We cruised past a fishing yacht,
its sails stowed, marked for leisure.
Angelo, naked as a bottlenose,
whooped from its foredeck,
shouting I was no son of a pescatore,
that la bella signora, Maria,
had pleaded with the Concierge dell Hotel Rialto,
persuading him to deliver a scented note;
an intimacy he'd release to the giornali.

Small boats jostled at the jetty;
my water taxi friends relished chargrilled bream
with purple garlic and sprigs of rosemary,
believing the dish an aphrodisiac
of the Ancient Veniti. Paulo and Gino
prodded the fresh fish, chinkling euros
in oversized pockets, as tourists
haggled over fares and old guide books.

Twenty one coins, three for each prize,
covered my artists impression of the legend
and traceries of il Ponte dei Sospiri.
I sketched two white limestone windows,
imagined the sighs for lost liberty
and the misspent love of wayward boys.

I conceived a third window,
a closing whisper of naive hope;
the hope that one day I'd kiss Maria,
at sunset, under The Bridge of Sighs,
losing sobriety to the music
and rhythm of a gondolier's oar.

Revision 3.5

Gold-lined sea bream were supreme
south of the Laguna Veneta.
My coolbox, no longer cool,
shaded twitching fins and gills
as I waited for the Punta Sabbioni ferry
to the city of eternal islands.

We cruised past a peschereccio,
its sails stowed, marked for leisure.
Angelo, naked as a bottlenose,
danced and waved on the foredeck,
shouting I was no son of a pescatore,
that la bella signora, Maria,
had smiled at the Concierge dell Hotel Rialto,
persuading him to deliver a secret note;
an intimacy he'd release to the giornali.

The Queen of the Adriatic appeared
like a beautiful prima donna assoluta;
Saint Mark's Basilica sketched in the shallows,
its domes and towers veiled by summer's haze.
The small boat dock clamoured idly.

My water taxi friends often chargrilled bream
with purple garlic and fresh rosemary,
believing the dish an aphrodisiac
of the Ancient Veniti. Paulo and Gino
prodded the fresh fish, chinkling euros
in oversized pockets, as tourists
haggled over fares and old guide books.

Twenty one coins, three for each nugget,
meant I could search for the legend
and traceries of a renaissance prison bridge.
I painted two white limestone windows,
imagined the sighs for lost liberty
and the misspent love of felonious boys.

I conceived a third window
for a closing sigh of naive hope;
the hope that one day I'd kiss Maria,
at sunset, under The Bridge of Sighs,
losing sobriety to the music
and rhythm of a gondolier's oar.

Revision 3

The Gold-lined sea bream
were always supreme
south of Laguna Veneta.
My coolbox, no longer cool,
shaded twitching fins and gills
as I waited for the Punta Sabbioni ferry
to the city of eternal islands.

We cruised past a peschereccio,
its sails stowed, marked for leisure.
Angelo, naked as a bottlenose,
danced and waved on its foredeck,
shouting I was no son of a pescatore,
that la bella signora, Maria,
had smiled at the Concierge dell Hotel Rialto,
persuading him to deliver a secret note;
an intimacy he'd release to the giornali.

The Queen of the Adriatic appeared
like a beautiful prima donna assoluta;
Saint Mark's Basilica sketched in the shallows;
its domes and towers veiled by summer's haze.
The small ferry dock clamoured idly.

My water taxi friends often chargrilled bream
with purple garlic and fresh rosemary,
believing the dish an aphrodisiac
of the Ancient Veniti. Paulo and Gino
prodded the fresh fish, chinkling euros
in oversized pockets, as tourists
haggled over fares and old guide books.

Twenty one coins, three for each nugget,
meant I could search for the legend
and traceries of a renaissance bridge.
I painted two white limestone windows,
imagined the sighs for lost liberty
and the misspent love of felonious boys.

I conceived a third window
for a closing sigh of naive hope;
the hope that one day I'd kiss Maria,
at sunset, under The Bridge of Sighs,
losing sobriety to the music
and rhythm of a gondolier's oar.

Revision 2

The Gold-lined sea bream
were always supreme
south of Laguna Veneta.
My coolbox was no longer cool
so I lifted its lid, checked the eyes and gills
and waited for the Punta Sabbioni ferry
to the city of eternal islands.

We cruised past a peschereccio,
its sails stowed and marked for leisure.
Angelo, naked as a bottlenose,
danced and waved from its foredeck,
shouting I was no son of a pescatore,
that a bella signora, called Maria,
had smiled at my tactless cousin, Andrea,
the Concierge dell Hotel Rialto,
asking him to deliver an intimate note,
a secret he'd release to the giornali.

He'd spoken a name, so familiar to me,
that I wondered how many times
this boat had ferried promises to the shore.
Could it really be her...Maria, alone.

The Queen of the Adriatic appeared
like a beautiful prima donna assoluta,
with the Basilica di San Marco
sketched in the shallows; its domes
and towers shrouded by summer's haze.

My water taxi friends often chargrilled bream
with purple garlic and fresh rosemary,
believing the dish was an aphrodisiac
of the Ancient Veniti. Paulo and Gino
prodded the fish, chinkling euros
in oversized pockets, as tourists
haggled over fares and old guide books.

Twenty one coins, three for each nugget,
meant I could afford to search for the myth
and memories of a renaissance bridge.
I painted two white limestone windows,
imagined the sighs for lost liberty
and the misspent love of felonious boys.

I conceived a third window
for a closing sigh of naive hope;
the hope that one day I'd kiss Maria,
at sunset, under The Bridge of Sighs,
losing sobriety to the music
and rhythm of a gondolier's oar.

ORIGINAL

The Gold-lined sea bream
were always supreme
south of Laguna Veneta.
My cool box was no longer cool
as I tapped its lid, hungrily waiting
for the Punta Sabbioni ferry
to the city of eternal islands.

The Queen of the Adriatic appeared
like a beautiful prima donna assoluta,
with the Basilica di San Marco
sketched in the shallows; its domes
and towers shrouded by summer's haze.

We cruised past a peschereccio,
its sails stowed, marked for leisure.
Angelo, naked as a bottlenose, waved,
shouting I was no son of a pescatore,
that an anxious lady, called Maria,
had smiled at my tactless cugino, Andrea,
the Concierge dell Hotel Rialto,
asking him to deliver an intimate note,
a secret he'd release to the giornali.

My amici motoscafi often chargrilled bream
with purple garlic and fresh rosemary,
believing the dish was an aphrodisiac
of the Ancient Veniti. Paulo and Gino
prodded the fish, chinkling euros
in oversized pockets, as tourists
haggled over fares and old guide books.

Twenty one coins, three for each nugget,
meant I could search for the myth
and memories of a renaissance bridge.
I painted two white limestone windows,
imagined the sighs for lost liberty
and the misspent love of felonious boys.

I conceived a third window
for a closing sigh of naive hope;
the hope that one day I'd kiss Maria,
at sunset, under The Bridge of Sighs,
losing sobriety to the music
and rhythm of a gondolier's oar.

[SteveR]

JJ,

An enjoyable read. I liked it--full of imagery and sense of place. I like how you bring in Maria.
Would this be considered a prose-poem?

I was bothered by a few little things: that two lines ended with Bream, "prima donna assoluta" didn't seem to work for me where it was, and I wondered why "anxious lady" was italicized.

Overall I like it a lot. Smooth, and clearly something you worked hard on a lot.

Steve

[JJWilliamson]

Pleased you enjoyed the read, Steve.

JJ,

An enjoyable read. I liked it--full of imagery and sense of place. I like how you bring in Maria.
Would this be considered a prose-poem? ...A good question. Other people are more qualified to say but here's my take. The prose unit tends to be the sentence, with little regard for line breaks. In free verse poetry the line break dominates. However prose poetry does have a poetic quality, often employing various internal devices such as repetition, assonance, consonance etc. Prose poetry also tends to be presented as paragraphs rather than strophes/stanzas. However, it could be argued that some prose masquerades as free verse and vice versa, making it difficult to nail the form.

This poem IS a poetic narrative (for better or worse) that tells a story , but it contains imagery, metaphor, simile, line breaks and a strophe arrangement. So attaching a label is difficult for me. I'd say it's free verse with one foot in the prose camp; others may disagree. There's more to say but that's pretty much how I see it.

I was bothered by a few little things: that two lines ended with Bream, ...I never thought about it. I'll have a look. Ta. "prima donna assoluta" didn't seem to work for me where it was, ...Venice really is known as "The Queen of the Adriatic" and when she emerges from the mists she demands attention, just like a prima donna.
and I wondered why "anxious lady" was italicized. ...I thought the italics might raise an eyebrow or two. It's supposed to represent the comical way Angelo passes the message on. "Oh, you're so in love". I think 'anxious' needs a nudge. Maybe 'gorgeous'.

Overall I like it a lot. Smooth, and clearly something you worked hard on a lot.

Steve

Thanks again, Steve, for a splendid crit'.

Best

JJ

[David]

There's too much needing a glossary, JJ. It just comes across - to me, anyway - as a string of names and phrases rather than a poem.

There is some inkling of life and interest in the last two verses, but that's all. If you could start there, and keep the need for a glossary to a minimum, we might be talking.

Cheers

David

[JJWilliamson]

Thanks, David.

You could be right. I was wondering about the plethora of Italian nouns, so I think I'll translate a couple. I have two in mind.
Disappointed you only found names and phrases, but the fault must sit with the writer, not the reader.

Ah, if you found nothing but an inkling of life I would need a complete rewrite. Nevertheless, your candid review is very much appreciated.

Bottoms up

JJ

[JJWilliamson]

Tentative revision.

[Suzanne]

Hi JJ,

The poet's love for Venice is clear!

I think the poem is more like prose in the the sentences, word structure as it adds the extra wording for grammatical fludity.
If you laid it all out in a paragraph form, no one would say, Oh! This is more like a poem!

My opinion is that as a free verse poem, even as a narative storytelling, it is telling to much about the location which IS interesting but overloads the message being shared. It can easily become a list of descriptions.

The 4 edits are all pretty much the same in the end. The message remains the same, that is good....
It is just too much telling.

I liked your original first phrase best and would put that back.

Overall, i liked it and think that in time, you will see that it needs fewer words to have greater impact.
If you looked back at my poems from 2010-11, you would see i have wrestled this same issue. Many times.

Remove a third for the sake of trying something radical. Give it a try. See what people think. Editing here doe snot have to mean that you actually edit it in your final version. It can be an exercise in discovery. ?

Warmly,
Suzanne

[JJWilliamson]

Thanks Suzanne, for a splendid critique.

Your careful analysis and recommendations are gratefully received.

Hi JJ,

The poet's love for Venice is clear! ...Ah, yes, I remember it well. (Apologies to Maurice Chevalier)

I think the poem is more like prose in the the sentences, word structure as it adds the extra wording for grammatical fludity.
If you laid it all out in a paragraph form, no one would say, Oh! This is more like a poem! ...Good point and one well worth considering during further revisions.

My opinion is that as a free verse poem, even as a narative storytelling, it is telling to much about the location which IS interesting but overloads the message being shared. It can easily become a list of descriptions. ...I'll see if I can eliminate some of the extraneous material. It does read a bit like a travelogue.

The 4 edits are all pretty much the same in the end. The message remains the same, that is good....
It is just too much telling.

I liked your original first phrase best and would put that back.

Overall, i liked it and think that in time, you will see that it needs fewer words to have greater impact. ...I'm working on it already.
If you looked back at my poems from 2010-11, you would see i have wrestled this same issue. Many times.

Remove a third for the sake of trying something radical. Give it a try. See what people think. Editing here doe snot have to mean that you actually edit it in your final version. It can be an exercise in discovery. ? ...I'm all for that.

Warmly,
Suzanne

Thanks again, Suzanne. You've given me food for thought.

Best

JJ

[AlanReynolds]

Your opening line drew me in and you kept my attention all through the poem. I like the scenes and the way you portray them. The extensive Italian naming of things works in small doses, and I wonder is the poem's target readership people who know Venice and/or Italian?

I got a bit lost as to what the 'nuggets' were.

Best regards,

Alan

[ray miller]

losing sobriety to the music
and rhythm of a gondolier's oar.

And it does have that gentle kind of rhythm, very enjoyable.

Angelo, naked as a bottlenose,
danced and waved on its foredeck,
shouting I was no son of a pescatore,
that la bella signora, Maria,
had smiled at the Concierge dell Hotel Rialto,
persuading him to deliver a secret note;
an intimacy he'd release to the giornali.

These lines are passing me by completely, as is the stuff about the windows.

[David]

Perhaps I should moderate my response a bit, JJ. I like Venice, and I like Italian, and I've done this sort of thing myself before. So I know from personal experience that a few place names and bits of foreign lingo go a long way. The should be the hundreds and thousands you sprinkle - sparingly - on your cake. They shouldn't be practically the whole cake. That's far too rich.

Does that help at all?

A much less ornamented version of this would be interesting to read.

Cheers

David

[JJWilliamson]

Thanks Alan

Pleased you liked this poem and delighted that it kept your attention all the way through.

I've edited the number if Italian words, translating them into English. The water taxi line, for example, was a bit of a stretch
so I've used the English translation in the revisions. I'd like to keep the more obvious ones, but as you say, 'small doses' required.
I'd hoped the subject would appeal to all. Venice, Rome, Florence, London, New York etc are well known, the fine details to a lesser degree.
If I used the same approach with Bologna or Palermo I'd have to adopt a more considerate approach. A point worth remembering. Ta!

Ah, the nuggets referred to the gold of Gold-lined. I have an alternative in mind (coming soon). I wasn't happy about it myself.

Thanks again

Best

JJ

Your opening line drew me in and you kept my attention all through the poem. I like the scenes and the way you portray them. The extensive Italian naming of things works in small doses, and I wonder is the poem's target readership people who know Venice and/or Italian?

I got a bit lost as to what the 'nuggets' were.

Best regards,

Alan

[JJWilliamson]

Thanks, Ray

losing sobriety to the music
and rhythm of a gondolier's oar.

And it does have that gentle kind of rhythm, very enjoyable. ...Thanks for that, Ray. It's one of the lines I don't want to change

Angelo, naked as a bottlenose,
danced and waved on its foredeck,
shouting I was no son of a pescatore,
that la bella signora, Maria,
had smiled at the Concierge dell Hotel Rialto,
persuading him to deliver a secret note;
an intimacy he'd release to the giornali.

These lines are passing me by completely, as is the stuff about the windows.

...The speaker is on the ferry. He sees his friend Angelo on the fishing boat. Angelo shouts a message about the mysterious Maria. He knows because the concierge told him about the note. The concierge is a terrible gossip. This is how the speaker first hears about Maria. He remembers her.

The windows are those of the Bridg,e of Sighs. He is a struggling artist, hence the selling of the fish to pay for materials. The bridge connects the Doge's Palace to the prison. The bridge is made of white limestone is enclosed and has two windows, by which prisoners pass on their way to solitude and darkness. It's said they used to look out of the windows and sigh for lost liberty and love. There is also a well known local legend that claims, "Lovers who kiss under The Bridge of Sighs, at sunset, will find eternal love." I think the bells of St Marks Campanile had to clang at the same time. That's a well planned kiss. I've paraphrased the legend.

I'm going to make a few changes to try and clear things up a bit.

Best

JJ

[JJWilliamson]

Thanks for dropping back in, David.

Yes, that did indeed help. I'm giving this one a shave to see if I like the effect. I might leave the tache on, though.

I never did like hundreds and thousands. Now if you'd said curled chocolate and chopped pistachios we'd have a lot to talk about.

Revision imminent.

Best

Bri

Perhaps I should moderate my response a bit, JJ. I like Venice, and I like Italian, and I've done this sort of thing myself before. So I know from personal experience that a few place names and bits of foreign lingo go a long way. The should be the hundreds and thousands you sprinkle - sparingly - on your cake. They shouldn't be practically the whole cake. That's far too rich.

Does that help at all?

A much less ornamented version of this would be interesting to read.

Cheers

David