I wrote these three poems, and others like them, in collaboration with la smorfia, a southern Italian dream interpretation system. The titles are created using images from recent dreams and the corresponding numbers, as indicated in la smorfia. Instead of using the numbers to play the lotto (the traditional use, which I've tried unluckily), the numbers here dictate how many words per stanza - creating an invented smorfia form.
ARRIVE ALONE 10 / STACKING FURNITURE 41 / FRAGRANT GRASS 8.
—in collaboration with The Neapolitan Smorfia
You are experiencing
an important period
despite the failed friendship.
Previously, people wrote
lyrics about the sun, heavy,
and the moon, duty. People see
waterfront dining options: a heavy way
from the days of a leak dripping bedside.
The restaurant may not meet your dietary
needs but you’ll be fine there.
That grass outside’
the best bet for profit.
FAT CHEEKS 7 / LEAKAGE OF LIQUID 31 / CHAIN OF MEN 64 /
CLEAN THE FLOOR 15
—in collaboration with The Neapolitan Smorfia
A woman binges a man:
economic embarrassment.
She eats Pringles while black sludge pours
from ceiling seams down bathroom walls, every kiss before
with women, so I’m confused. You have problems
a friend’s giant towel strives to solve.
People form a chain, bring huge blankets, wipe
scum bleeding all across the house’s walls. Green acids
gurgle up, disintegrate the floorboards. So many memories
(lounging in grass, smoking, sleeping three in bed),
such good will on the part of a friend. Goodbye now.
Run outside, though everyone else is good, stays put.
Hear sister’s voice (mangled on the phone) and start to cry.
“There was an explosion.” And there was. “They’re still
investigating.” But they’re not.
Situation calm.
GO TO THE WEDDING 28 / DRIVE IN REVERSE 62 / FALL INTO THE DITCH 7
—in collaboration with The Neapolitan Smorfia
A wedding’s worthwhile with palm trees.
At this one, I eat my big communal dinner
in the front seat. Waste of money.
Fall asleep on an ex-friend’s shoulder.
Everyone here is acting, and the writing
is bad. Like I’m in the back of a truck,
reversing. Acting like 80 miles per hour.
Some situation of the past haunts you. Me
and a new friend try to find where
we’re supposed to be. I park badly.
It’s my sister’s friend’s cousin’s wedding,
and yes I’m invited! Some big hotel, man.
I fraud into the stream-side (betrayal) ditch.
These poems have been truly fun to create. But, I also connect our collective grief for climate collapse & rampant extremism to the grief for cultures lost through (forced and chosen) assimilation: another, perhaps related, tipping point. Tiny traces remain in my own line, like luck: my aunt tosses coins into a new car; at the cemetery, my mother kisses her fingers and touches them to each stone; tarantism comes up again and again; I sip amaro at bedtime and dream of my dead. The state capitalizes on lucky traces, in the form of lotteries, or far worse manifestations of capitalism. Lately, I've turned to works by Ernesto De Martino & Letizia Battaglia for the strange comfort of (mis)understanding what my ancestors, variously, left behind.
-eb
La smorfia translation: https://www.lasmorfianapoletana.com/en/
Giustino Rumeo smorfia:
https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_dFKdOcaPpX8C/page/n167/mode/2up
Ernesto De Martino:
https://haubooks.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/Ernesto-de-Martino-Magic-A-Theory-from-the-South.pdf
Letizia Battaglia:
https://www.dragopublisher.com/product/anthology-letizia-battaglia/
(Video) Tarantism: A Rhythm for Your Soul:
Below: Screenshot and details of Nuova Smorfia del giuoco del lotto di Giustino Rumeo. (1866)
After Hours Editions published Emily Brandt's
poetry collection Falsehood in 2020.
Visit emilybrandt.com.
