Italy Post #19

Dear Readers,
I want to talk about the weather. Not because I don't have anything else to say, but because I'm finding that Italian weather is very different. First of all, Orvieto is built on a mesa. While this is the coolest thing EVER, it also creates strange effects with the weather. Because the landscape changes so drastically, Orvieto gets rained on a lot. The rain also seems to have a mind of its own, waiting until you're about half way from the convent to the corso to downpour. Another strange thing about this place is that the weather has suddenly dropped. In a bad way. Tuesday I was walking in the sun in a t-shirt and jeans; Wednesday I was wearing my pea-coat and scarf like they were an extra skin. Seriously, I've never seen the weather decide to change so drastically, but maybe that comes from living in Santa Barbara.

Well, everyone in the poetry class was fearing going to Rome yesterday because the trip spanned the whole day: 6:15am departure, 8:30pm arrival back. I opted to dress lightly, and froze until I got on the train at 7 but after that the weather was beautiful. It was probably in the low 60s, sunny and brisk, perfect for a fast walk around Rome. Some highlights from the trip include seeing Raphael's School of Athens/the Disputa, the Laocoon, and the Sistene chapel, but my favorite was 3 paintings by Caravaggio (the calling/inspiration/death of St. Matthew). The chiaroscuro technique that Caravaggio used is breathtaking! I came away from Rome with this desire to see more, so I might be making a trip back to wander around and see more of the city....we'll have to see :0)

Newest poem - you should look up the painting to go along with this one, the assignment was to write an ekphrastic poem about a contemporary piece of art; the title is the work of art I chose.

Up in the Studio, 1965 Andrew Wyeth

She sits quietly, back straight, hands resting
on top of her knees - knees that have often bent
to kneel at the dim altar in the church downtown
onto the slick velvet carpet, or to help carry

her groaning father across the splintered wood
to a bed braced with pillows. She catches rest now,
bathed in the thin light struggling through her favorite
window. She can hear the whistling of wind around barren

trees; it is always like this in winter. She has watched
this floor become the color of the many shoe soles
that have walked upon it. You would think she likes
that color - her jacket is the same trampled brown -

but in reality it is a deep green, the color of the winter
weight of pine and mistletoe. It is what she looks on now,
her one break in the day between cooking and cleaning
a house that isn’t hers for a father too decrepit to hire

a maid or nurse or even supply an artist’s easel -
for that is what she really wants to do - paint -
paint herself a room with walls the color of lemon
curd, where light reaches its warm fingers into every

corner and children’s bubbly laughter is audible
from the open windows hung with white lace. Winter
would remain only in the trees scattered outside
the window. I want to be in that picture too.

Instead she is here, uncomfortable in a Quaker
chair inherited from a generation that wanted
to punished themselves with the harsh white light
reflecting off the snow drifts, resting in the only

part of the day where the forest outside becomes
a living painting for her to watch as the seasons
erase then redraw the leaves on the trees and the only
sounds she has to hear are the whoosh of the wind

outside her window and the gentle squeak of the rocking
chair as she slowly pats the floor with her worn feet.