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Milan

WITH THE EYES OF THE SUN

For Erika Ricci and Anna Lisa Rosetti

 

i

 

”I am not dumb now,” was Helen Keller’s proud,

challenging statement of fact. Those who can

see, she said, should be “knights of the blind”.

 

ii

 

From the horsemen of the Apocalypse

to the breaking, millennia ago,

of wild horses on the western steppes

beyond Volga-Matushka – Mother Volga –

these beasts are both utility and symbol.

 

In the Aber Valley, where the Afon Goch –

the Red River – falls precipitously

and the princes of Gwynedd rode and hunted,

there have been feral ponies for centuries,

grazing by the river, under the alders,

unmolested. Last year’s snows culled many.

 

In Ireland, where the horse was revered in myth,

the companion of kings and goddesses,

there are thousands abandoned. In Dublin,

on a cut-off estate – workless, drug-peddled –

a man ran over a horse with a quad bike

repeatedly, and others beat it with planks.

 

iii

 

We visited the Palazzo dei Duchi –

near to the site of the town’s small ghetto –

by the Catania Gate, Taormina,

Sicily, once a medieval palace  built by

Spanish nobles, knights of the inquisition,

now the municipal art gallery.

And, by chance, we encountered a tale

of beasts made beautiful, the lost found.

 

Twenty nine paintings hung in the gallery:

an exhibition – that toured Milan,

Rimini, Terra del Sole and Forli –

to celebrate human diversity

and the curative power of horses.

It was inspired by a horse called King,

an Arabian gelding blinded

by corrosive chemicals –

il cavallo daglie occhi di sole,

the horse with the eyes of the sun.

His affliction, his strength, his compliance

rescued a young woman, an addict,

from her darkened, silenced wilderness.

 

 

 

Note: The Horse With The Eyes Of The Sun http://www.kingilcavallodagliocchidisole.it/king.html

 

 

TEATRO DEI RIUNITI

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read1.3K views

The Tiber’s olive waters curve past

Umbertide or, rather, the town curves

to the river in this limpid valley

alive with oak trees, willows, poplars

and millennia of settlements,

monuments – Etruscan, Roman, Lombard.

 

To impede the German’s retreat northwards,

the Allies bombed the bridge across the river

successfully and, collaterally,

razed a block of tall, narrow houses –

and many of their inhabitants.

 

The house numbers are brass inlaid in the setts

of what is now a car park in this

medieval town with its Via Papa

Giovanni XXIII, its Via

Kennedy, its Piazza Carlo Marx.

 

The Eighth Army built a bailey bridge

on the ancient arches – which was still there

when we performed Shakespeare, in English,

at the theatre. Unused and derelict

because of the war, the baroque theatre

was renovated by an alliance

of Communists and Christian Democrats,

I Riuniti. It had been a gift

from the town’s most famous son, Domenico

Bruni, a castrato, emasculated

for the usual reasons – poverty, greed.

A celebrity acclaimed and enriched,

he sang in Rome, Naples, Milan, London

and St Petersburg for Catherine the Great.

 

He might have stood by the deep canal

that channels the winter torrents through the town

from the mountains into the Tiber.

Our play was The Comedy of Errors,

in which one of the lads from Syracuse says,

‘He that commends me to mine own content

Commends me to the thing I cannot get.’

 

 

 

HERRINGS

HERRINGS  is a very short stage play. There are three characters: H. Griffiths, M. Bogush and Voice Off. H. Griffiths speaks first:

I am H. Griffiths, the celebrated writer of novels of romantic, unrequited love. What you are about to see took place in the bridal suite of a 5 star hotel on Sunset Boulevard. It was during the afternoon of July 21st 1969 – the day mankind first walked on the moon.

You can download this stage play as a .pdf