Yesterday was a terrific day.
Once again Tizi and I were brought to a beautiful place by her cousin Arnoldo and his amazing wife Marisa. It was a visit to Grottamare and, close by, to Massignano,
where, with their garden club, a group of generous and friendly souls, we toured a citrus grove, a horticultural and architectural treasure dating back centuries, which is now being restored.
After the tour and wine tasting at the Iacopini estate, we drove into Grottamare. We had lunch next to the sea, then drove to the upper town and walked. It was a sunny day. The gods smiled upon us.
What I didn’t anticipate was discovering that Lawrence Ferlinghetti passed through and stopped in Grottamare, waylaid by a problem on the train. He is remembered by the town and celebrated for the poem he wrote. There it was, the poem on a plaque, and some guy standing in front of it telling us where the restaurant was.
Ferlinghetti captures the beauty and aura of the Grottamare. Photos hardly do it justice. The poem succeeds.
Turquoise sea off Grottamare,
Grottamare with its sea caves
echoing
along the Adriatic.
Echo of siren song
still reaches me
inside the silent train
once more the lost voices calling
undersea
Ah, but naturally
all is illusion
the fog still lies heavily
in the olive trees
Dawn is made by the clock
and not by light
which only exists in our minds
men and women sleep
in their usual darkness
Only the light
asleep in their eyes
gives any hint
of the iridescent future
of an incandescent destiny
Only far off
beyond the far islands
the sea sends back
its turquoise answer