Yes, yes, I’ve posted today already, but that was for bestia’s birthday, and these are cemetery doors for Thursday Doors and a villanelle as spoken by a dead loverman for NaPoWriMo.
Prompt 8: “Today, I’d like to challenge you to read a few of the poems from Spoon River Anthology, and then write your own poem in the form of a monologue delivered by someone who is dead.”
Like some others, I was also unable to access the Spoon River Anthology from Gutenberg here in Italy, but I got it from somewhere else. After a brief browse I decided to write a villanelle without the rhyming pattern and with a little help from two men, listed below the poem in case you need help.
Loverman Each man kills the thing he loves.(*) I wish I could make a decision. “Who shall I say is calling?”(**) is the first question they ask. I have had many and know it, each man kills the thing he loves, but I’m still getting my fill. Sorry, not ready to kill. Or love. So who shall I say is calling? Messy business, both, loving and killing. Why can’t we just get along? Really, each man kills the thing he loves? I’m tired of telling a silly, albeit convincing story each time I hear: “Who shall I say is calling?” And now the time has come and I’m deader than my deadest lover: Each man may kill the thing he loves, so why it is I who is calling? (*) from The Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde (**) from Who by Fire, by Leonard Cohen
Today’s dead man’s monologue as the poetry task has turned me away from my current door series. I still have the last part of Torre Alfina doors to post but they will wait. Instead – cemeteries.
Before I show you a selection of my cemetery doors and gates, an experiment, the first of this kind on my blog:
Here it is, a detail from Žužemberk cemetery in Slovenia. The gate says “Close!”
And here are the rest of the doors and gates as spotted in cemeteries in Rome and Talamone in Italy, and in Piran, Ljubljana and an assortment of small towns in Slovenia. I didn’t do it on purpose, but Slovenian cemeteries are lined roughly from the west of the country to the east. Notice how at first the photos are sunlit, then they get murky and downcast in the centre around Ljubljana, and it’s back to sunlight in the east. But the first five are from Italy where it’s sun all the way, even in death.
This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2019):
(Written for my dog’s birthday. See my previous today’s post.)
K9 “Can I?” Nein, you cannot. “Cats nine, how many lives have I?” Let’s not find out. My best friend is my generation: six dog years is 40 to 50 in human. Comic for nine, Clever for ninety-nine. Kind, questioning, curious, crazy. Fonzie, bestia, cane, ciccio. “Can I eat it?” Yes, you can. But you may not.