Poem published in Impossible Archetype

I am delighted that a poem called Nights in Tuscany was published in the online journal Impossible Archetype. Thanks to Mark Ward for accepting the poem. You can read the poem here by clicking on the link below. The poem is below.

https://impossiblearchetype.wordpress.com/

Nights in Tuscany

I. Around Florence Cathedral

We meet at the steps of the cathedral and go to the Torre di San Niccoló. The stars come out and glimmer like white surf. The fountain water dances its way down from pool to pool and disappears under the piazza. Out of breath from the ascent, we slip into the rose garden. Sitting on a bench, we talk about our favourite authors. We switch languages. I nudge close to you, stroke your head, and rub your hand. We kiss. In your place, we undress down to our underwear and you tickle my feet and I stroke your covered cock. We say little and just share our fire. You are afraid of falling for me and ask that I leave. The cathedral spire shadows me through the cobbled lanes, and as I hear the bells, the clouds cover the stars. In the hostel, my single sheet barely gives cover.

II. New Order

By the end of summer, the grass is parched. 

The old red brick walls of Lucca weep with white grime.

We are plastered with sweat. A stream runs by the plaza,

promising relief from the scorching heat.

With a cheer, the band hits the synthesisers and belts out 

familiar tunes. The crowd rocks, sways, jumps, and dances along.

I am new to this and usually stay detached.

Years ago, I bottled it all up,

hid in books, listened to classical music,

moved away from everyone.

At first, I just stand, not giving myself permission 

to connect with my body. 

Then I nod my head to the beat, 

move my hands and legs, 

chime in with the rhythms 

and let myself flow.

III. Villa Centoni

The cicadas clatter all evening

and as night comes, they fall quiet.

The grasshoppers take up the hum

and sing out loud, seeking the given note.

An aroma of lavender, mint, 

and wild garlic comes from the garden.

The scent of lemon and olive

breezes down the hill from the trees.

After dinner, we sit by the pool

drinking wine tasting of vanilla,

sharing stories of getting 

lost and being found.

All the candles sputter out. 

Instead of turning in, we stay

and talk to one another

through the warm air.

Diarmuid Fitzgerald