Stant Litore’s gorgeous musing on Dante (DANTE’S HEART) reminded me of my own fascinations with that singular poet….I found two pieces today amidst a shaft of papers when I was going through old writing….
No one can second-guess Dante.
His brain was wider than his history.
I saw the landscape he walked
as my own,
but he deceived me.
Inviting me in only as far as terrain.
The Gate to his mind was locked tight.
DANTE (Intercepted and Intersected)
The dark wood
hung tree-deep with ornaments of black droplets
where Dante and I intersected-
point of contact between dry death
and life’s rainfall
that shook moisture from sleepy limbs.
we watched together
as sickle moon cut away
Mistaking me for Beatrice
he let me pull him
onto bed of earth’s velvet.
We clasped each other in moan of mistaken identity.
Murmuring names of our displaced beloveds.
The wood called out our fertility
perhaps to procreate a sonnet.
The solemn owl blinked in rhythm
of our lovemaking.
Tempo was kept both rhyme and metre.
Beatrice with her lantern of god’s flame
will seek him out
when stanzas end
in inky orgasm.