Four Poems

Mid-nineteenth century reconstruction of Alexander's catafalque based on the description by Diodorus

By Alessio Zanelli

The Gravel Road

On Father’s Day

How many times along the way

have you stopped on the edge

to watch an oddly-shaped stone

or a flower jutting from the grass?

It seems to you that time has flown,

despite your efforts to slow it down.

A time so tangible though elusive,

a time that does not fly or flow.

It’s only you that moves through it,

on that serpentine gravel road,

dry and dusty or wet and muddy,

with no beginning and no end.

The passing of time is just illusion,

the product of your resolute walking.

Now pristine clouds across the sky,

a sky so deep that you feel dizzy,

seem to stop to watch you in turn.

You are their flower and their stone.

Village

Of so-called skyscrapers and wonders.

Would-be geniuses and storytellers. 

Dreams, ambitions and regrets. 

One narrow gauge railway, 

along the main road, 

once cut the place in two.

Today it's made of remnants,

a lot of houses lack inhabitants, 

guests lost relatives to visit. 

They who died or left

even only thirty years ago 

would find it hard to recognize.

Memory seems to disown it, 

history to vacate it,

but still Polaris looks the same 

as that twinkle in Manhattan's sky.

A Great’s Late Place

Most are sure his bones repose in some recess
of Alexandria’s deepest layer;
some believe they were retained in Memphis; 

others hold they didn't exit Babylon.
Then there are those who argue for his wanting
to be inhumed as far east as he had vied,
on the banks of Hyphasis River;
lastly, those who dream of his returning home,
to be laid inside a humble grave in Pella.

Physicians spend their life researching how he died;
archaeologists, searching for his ultimate abode.
Maybe none can have the slightest chance of success.
What if he ended up in sparks?
What if he deceived them all?
Maybe they strive to investigate
what makes no sense to investigate.
What's the point of digging for a Great's burial place?
No tomb may be hidden in the earth or lie on it;
his image shies away from all we crawl or tread.
What he still is and will always be belongs on high,
among the stars, in depths beyond our reach.
A Great cannot be resting anywhere;
he lingers everywhere, till the end of time.
Nowhere is where he is bound for.

Sunday Morning Jog

Slow-paced, in the countryside north of town, on a mid-spring day as sultry as the height of summer, round a bend in the middle of nowhere I chance upon a former self I barely knew existed. His face betrays no definite age, and yet I recognize him on the instant—I can tell he’s from a pretty distant past. He offers a smile. I decide to turn around and go with him awhile. He slows down, keeps by my side, silent. I progress steady but heavy, as if I carried the bags of a many-year journey—he travels light. I realize I have enough breath to talk while jogging, though, and starting a conversation comes naturally. I have a lot of questions about him, many of which begin with why, but shortly his reserve makes me start my monologue instead—and that’s how I am the one who recounts his life and times. He’s not curious but nods every now and then. Some twenty minutes pass, we’ve covered nearly two miles—I’d better retrace my steps. We stop, make eye contact, till I say: Goodbye, I hope to see you again. He waves and leaves. While turning around a second time, I peek at my stopwatch, verify my position and try to reckon how behind schedule I am. The sun saturates the shiny farmland. It occurs to me he didn’t say a word. For a second I puzzle over what subtle tricks a hangover can play, but then I wonder whether he will ever treasure all I said.

Alessio Zanelli is an Italian poet who writes in English. His work has appeared in about 250 literary journals from 20 countries. His sixth collection, titled The Invisible, was published in 2024 by Greenwich Exchange (London). For more information please visit www.alessiozanelli.it and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alessio_Zanelli.