The second poem in a series of four that I am posting from The History Hotel (to be published March 7) is, in honor of Valentine’s Day, a love poem. “1910” salutes the affair between Amedeo Modigliani and Anna Akhmatova.
1910
(for AG)
The somnolent, greedy nations do not ruin
the known world.
Amedeo and Anna, heady with affinity, stroll
amid the Luxembourg Gardens, pausing
when their rapt pulses dictate.
Lenin gives up his rhetoric to raise orchids.
Trotsky turns to the Kabbalah and ponders the wisdom of mystery.
Capitalists renounce their riches to become mendicants.
The spiritual, as evinced in the paintings of Amedeo and poems
of Anna, dwells unthreatened, borderless.
Progress spends years on a haiku.
Scientists do not cut down the tree of knowledge.
Electric excitement sits each drowsy afternoon with a glass
of aged Burgundy.
Cannons are for small children to climb on.
Horses snort peaceably at the occasional, eccentric car.
Amedeo finds the money for more paint, Anna for ink.
Neither the colors nor the words will fade: they know this.
Lovers sit on benches surrounded by other lovers,
their fates unencumbered by pistols and flags.
Like confetti, treaties are tossed out second-story windows
after a night of reveling: death to all dire solemnity.
The Americans do not have to become lost.
The Russians do not have to become Soviet.
Amedeo and Anna kiss, not chastely, but full on,
importunate, love’s spendthrift license.
“Full on,” yes!
Love this poem, thank you. Here is one in return:
I want to take the clean cloth I use for my glasses
And wipe away the grime of the ever-warring world.
With an early sunrise let light shine into unloved hearts.