by
Heather McHugh
What He Thought
for
Fabbio Doplicher
We
were supposed to do a job in Italy
and, full of our
feeling for
ourselves (our sense of being
Poets
from America) we went
from Rome to Fano, met
the
mayor, mulled
a couple matters over (what's
a
cheap date, they asked us; what's
flat drink). Among
Italian literati
we could recognize our counterparts:
the
academic, the apologist,
the arrogant, the amorous,
the
brazen and the glib—and there was one
administrator (the
conservative), in suit
of regulation gray, who like a good
tour guide
with measured pace and uninflected tone
narrated
sights and histories the hired van hauled us
past.
Of all, he was the most politic and least
poetic,
so it seemed. Our last few days in Rome
(when
all but three of the New World Bards had flown)
I found a
book of poems this
unprepossessing one had written: it was
there
in the pensione room (a room he'd
recommended)
where it must have been abandoned by
the
German visitor (was there a bus of them?)
to whom he had
inscribed and dated it a month before.
I couldn't read
Italian, either, so I put the book
back into the
wardrobe's dark. We last Americans
were
due to leave tomorrow. For our parting evening then
our
host chose something in a family restaurant, and there
we
sat and chatted, sat and chewed,
till, sensible it was our
last
big chance to be poetic, make
our mark,
one of us asked
"What's poetry?"
Is
it the fruits and vegetables and
marketplace of Campo dei
Fiori, or
the statue there?" Because I was
the
glib one, I identified the answer
instantly, I didn't have
to think—"The truth
is both, it's both," I
blurted out. But that
was easy. That was easiest to say.
What followed
taught me something about difficulty,
for
our underestimated host spoke out,
all of a sudden, with a
rising passion, and he said:
The statue represents
Giordano Bruno,
brought to be burned in the public
square
because of his offense against
authority,
which is to say
the Church. His crime was his belief
the
universe does not revolve around
the human being: God is
no
fixed point or central government, but rather
is
poured in waves through all things. All things
move.
"If God is not the soul itself, He is
the soul of the
soul of the world." Such was
his heresy. The day they
brought him
forth to die, they feared he might
incite
the crowd (the man was famous
for his eloquence). And so
his captors
placed upon his face
an iron mask,
in which
he could not speak. That's
how they
burned him. That is how
he died: without a word, in
front
of everyone.
And poetry—
(we'd
all
put down our forks by now, to listen to
the
man in gray; he went on
softly)—
poetry is
what
he thought, but did not say.