Tempo, poem by Massimo Soranzio (MY PRIZED POSSESSION Poetry and Prose Series)

Two years today since this poem was published on Silver Birch Press’s blog. Time’s been running, “prestissimo”!

Silver Birch Press

soranzioTempo
by Massimo Soranzio

Time was always running fast
In my teens, my metronome
Mostly set on presto, or
Prestissimo, or sometimes
Allegro, if I ever
Felt I needed to relax.

The rhythm of my first youth
Was rather sostenuto,
Yet switching to comodo
Or simply moderato,
When action had to leave room
For dialogue and reason.

When my second youth started,
It was on maestoso,
Alla marcia, con brio,
Till one day, rallentando,
My movement went from largo
To adagio—and I stopped

To wonder at this precious
Object, my old metronome:
Old German technology
Bearing old Italian words
Describing the highs and lows
Of a lifetime’s melody.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: My old metronome, at home.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I’ve had my old metronome since my early teens; I have always loved and treasured it. Though it still does…

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Tarocco in Peach Velvet’s Hallozine

My poem "Tarocco", originally posted here during National Poetry Month, has found its place in Peach Velvet Mag's special Hallozine issue, The Poet's Tarot. Thank you, Peach Velvet! Find my original blog post with the picture of the tarot the poem refers to here. And read my poem in the zine, as well as the … Continue reading Tarocco in Peach Velvet’s Hallozine

Brown Gold, poem by Massimo Soranzio (MY SWEET WORD Series)

3 years today since this poem appeared on Silver Birch Press’s blog.

Silver Birch Press

Soranzio
Brown Gold
by Massimo Soranzio

Do you remember when our old grocer
took out the jar from under the counter
and opened it with great care, like fearing
the brown cream might escape?

Do you remember the way he slathered
the smooth, glossy dark substance on a sheet
of the same paper he used to wrap cheese
in, or red Parma ham?

Do you remember all the hazelnuts
we stealthily picked in our neighbour’s field,
to mix with melted chocolate at home,
like little alchemists?

Do you remember how our teacher used
to point to the door each time we returned
after the break, faces smeared brown,
still licking our fingers?

Do you remember how, when we found out
we were a young man and a young woman,
our first kisses tasted of the sweet cream
we shared behind your house?

Do you remember how on our first night
we…

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