Front Porch Review
The yes and no continue,
their commas and question marks,
their dishes and leashes,
stretches and knots,
misunderstandings and shots,
sometimes it seems that the days
are Hamletic, not me,
in the cicadas of to be and not to be,
hubbles and clatters
sometimes love hiding what matters,
and then evening comes.
It’s beautiful in its lessened velvet blue,
it’s always beautiful
despite the entanglement
of all the Nevertheless,
despite the relentless
clamours of doubts,
for instants the ineluctable
“this is the rub” is muffled,
softened, flattened and flattered,
already a bit inebriated
by the prospect of dreams.
These very lines melting enjoying
the great tatters of letters
of the coming night.
Davide Trame, a native of Venice, Italy, teaching English for thirty years, began writing in English in 1993 – a poem to his class to celebrate their successful petition for a decent school building as a replacement for the miserable place they endured.
A particular perception or series of flashes have given him poems as have moments connected with the light of a day and a sudden memory. Poems, he thinks, impose themselves with or without our volition; it’s often useless to “ask” a god for them because they have a will of their own.
For Davide a poem often arrives at dawn, so he gets up and starts writing, at home, on the train going to work. In two-three hours, more often in two-three days, the poem takes a definitive shape. While writing there is always a feverish joy, which gives him an energy he never has otherwise.