Ravenna, a poem by David Garyan
- David Garyan
- Nov 26, 2023
- 14 min read
Updated: Jul 31
Ravenna III
Let no hope
enter the world
that throws sinners
inside an abyss of flames
created just to punish mankind;
idealism will rebel against Paradise
and fall to the sphere of common sense.
Dante, you’ve seen all the heavens
and described them to me
but I can’t feel calm
until there’s no
gate to hell.
Even so, I don’t need churches
to open their doors,
renaissances to show me humanity,
and enlightenments to restore
the Age of Illumination—
to fashion another perfect world
a second Adam will tarnish.
My foresight is a birth
certificate without a date:
Today, I can’t live
for tomorrow’s heaven.
My reflections are drivers
who don’t check
their rearview mirrors:
Today I can’t live
for tomorrow’s heaven.
Like turning pages in a diary
you’re never able to start,
or blinking in the dark—
like falling from heights
not high enough for death,
or eyeing strangers
in small towns,
the past is the present,
the present is the future,
and the future is an oracle
everyone fears but no one believes.
No, Apollo, I won’t call on you
to help me find the ground—
hell is what I’m after.
My peaks are always fatal
and my cities rest on doubt;
my nights persist like endless caves
where I don’t cause the echoes.
Apollo, I must renounce your music,
poetry, and prophecies.
Gravity has convinced me
that even the righteous fall
when they fall;
geometry taught me
that I can’t square a circle
in the highest circle of heaven.
I call Dionysus for this final task
and everyone he possessed.
It’s time for the rational
derangement of all senses;
now’s the time to cease
being a poet—take off
that cursed laurel wreath,
and truly locate the unknown.
Like the deadliest diseases
nurture the greatest cures,
like the worst criminals
raise committed detectives,
like the unholiest sins
bring the biggest salvation,
so the poet descends into madness,
attempting to carry the brightest light back.
Arthur, help me make the streets
of Ravenna go somewhere else.
Like a drunk who’s seen
his entire city sober,
I have no more philosophy left.
I can’t think and therefore I can’t be.
Like you, I believe I’m in hell,
but am I really there?
Tell me: Who’s my I?
Reason is a genius
studying his face
in a world without
mirrors or bodies of water.
Reason is a refugee
running away from life
by moving to a city
where life exists.
Like boats approaching
unsettled islands,
we’ve arrived with nowhere to go.
The only thing we own
is our religion and biology—
old churches full of sightseers
and drugs that pray for DNA.
The further we walk Ravenna in circles,
the more helpful madness becomes.
Arthur, do you see the people
with dead faces?
They walk Piazza Kennedy
full of thoughts no sculptor
can shape in time;
their downcast eyes are paintings
no one wants to see;
their smiles are invitations
made out of necessity.
What’s it all for?
Opportunities wasted
like thirst on the Dead Sea;
bets lost like lovers
in arranged marriages;
hope squandered like rich men
beset by ravenous friends.
Arthur, I’m scared life
has a meaning—
even more daunting
is that my life could make sense.
Choices whisper like winds
blowing in opposite circles.
Fate is reaching out
like the mother you’ve stolen from.
Contradictions grow on the same tree
like pessimists in a church.
What’s the closest prison
to Via San Vittore 58?
My thoughts wander
like lifeguards
on empty beaches.
My lifeguard is a teacher
who neglects his family.
My loneliness is a solo show
in a sold-out theater.
I’m an infant and adult
getting older with one metaphor.
Only chains can free me from freedom,
especially when mankind is guilty.
The world is a life sentence
whose grammar starts
in the next world;
life is a mistrial that continues
until there’s a death penalty.
Society listens like hung juries
led into separate courtrooms.
I’m tired of looking suspicious
at the existential airport;
Too often I’ve bought tickets
at the train station of indecision—
only to arrive at another one.
The way some fish can live
only in deep water,
so it’s hard to leave
home when the unknown
exists in welcoming realms.
Do you see these people, Arthur?
Unlike Christ bearing his cross,
they walk Via Roma hauling
mirrors on their backs;
like guns aimed by soldiers,
they see faults of others
but never their own.
Arthur, is this what we’ve become—
fishermen who can’t
endure hunger when the lake
of our nourishment
reflects society’s hypocrisy?
Society is cruel;
it tells sharks to drown
and eagles to fall from bridges;
it wants lions to give up their crown
and turtles not to hide in their shell;
it makes owls sleep at night
and scorns spiders for tangled webs,
but I’ve accepted my hell—
to live in pain is easier
than living to end the pain.
I’ll gaze at the oceans
the way old people
glance at graveyards.
I’ll burn bridges
like retreating armies
protecting their homelands.
I’ll fear being myself
like alcoholics who’ve lost
all control of themselves.
I’ll make up stories
like soothsayers who don’t
ask for money.
I’ll go on with my day
and feel the sun’s heat
with my eyes.
In nature, I’ve searched
for the state of society,
but logic bore no fruit.
In nature I’ve searched
for the state of society,
but reason still wasn’t fruitful.
No, I must step out like an avalanche—
ravage friendships, hotel rooms,
maybe even the prospect of love;
then, like a storm at the end of its life,
I’ll find the strength to move ships
instead of destroying them,
make genuine amends,
and be there for people again—
resist sleepy apologies,
but live in the end
knowing that I’ve lived;
there’s no harm in destroying a forest
if you loot the way nature intended;
there’s no guilt in killing your prey
if only the forest is judging.
I no longer want to be a monk—
let me hurt others and be hurt myself.
The neighbors can hear
my insults and curses—
what do I care?
One way or another,
they’ll build thicker walls.
Who really knocks on the door
to check if you’re well,
let alone provides help?
Arthur, guide me to this world—
don’t take me to Paradise.
Like an abandoned house
on a remote mountain,
I don’t want to be saved
or to welcome salvation.
Hell can arrive at my doorstep,
because no one’s home anymore.
My heart will simply beat faster
so I can fall for the wrong person.
Let me go blind for a moment
when I feel like trusting a liar.
I won’t be hungry when I decide
to help swindling beggars.
I’ll ask dishonest people
for guidance when I want to get lost.
Arthur, I’ll show you
the paupers of Via Cavour,
old people laughing at churches,
and liquor stores run by Pakistanis—
don’t ask if they sell pork as well.
I judge like an ethnographer
exiled from his homeland.
My mouth is a window
that’s been replaced by a mirror
I can no longer open.
My hands are two empty chairs
no one has touched for years.
My heart is a bed
that’s too big for one person.
My mind is a room
I want someone else to inhabit.
Like being trapped
in a house full of riches,
no morning comes late enough
and no night too soon;
unbidden friends always leave early,
and no enemy is rude
when he departs too fast.
The world’s greatest cities
are people destined to love
only themselves,
but you, Ravenna, have become
an artist who’s too humble.
Your streets are like brothers
that won’t chase the woman
who rejected me.
When you stretch canvases
for inferior painters,
I notice how rough your hands are.
When you edit the lines
of stubborn poets,
I feel the weight of your thoughts.
When you give lead roles
to friends who can’t act,
I see the size of your heart.
When you conduct orchestras
that can’t play together,
I feel your devotion to music.
When you agree to paint murals
in forsaken buildings,
I see how little you care
for people’s approval.
Forgive me, Ravenna,
but I’ve become miserable
in your city as well.
Like a man who’s made
too many promises and broken
one out of memory,
not out of spite,
I failed to remember
how human I was—
in your arms I sought refuge
from a world that needs
more help than I do.
The way all photo albums
reach the limits of memory,
so the streets of Ravenna
will run out of room
for laughter and tears.
Arthur, tell me:
Should I continue destroying myself?
Should I follow you to the last
circle of hell?
Tell me, for God’s sake, tell me:
Am I also the slave of my baptism?
What if I join you in silence?
Why don’t you speak?
Like guests of honor
who arrive too late at parties,
I wish you were here as a poet,
not a tense voyager.
Maybe then we could both find a way—
be fascinated by ideas while losing
full interest in the world.
Arthur, is this possible?
Just say one more word
and it would comfort me.
Even bottles of wine
no longer bring peace;
I empty them just to put
blank papers inside;
still, no matter how close,
oceans are always too far away,
and mountains are never that striking
when you’re standing on top of them.
Do you feel the same, Arthur?
My whole life I’ve loved
everything from a distance.
Like an archaeologist who
won’t open the graves
of the holiest kings—
I’ve avoided the things
which I wanted the most.
Out of fear or respect,
I never found anything
that didn’t belong to me—
even without owners,
neither money on sidewalks
nor a watch in the park
could be mine.
Like lone guests in rich houses,
I’ve passed up thousands
of chances to steal.
Ravenna, I’m a poor criminal,
but perhaps ethics never starve;
I’m a poor criminal,
yet maybe I should
learn to deserve more.
The way trees look barren
just after harvests,
so I’ve felt too much joy
in giving away all I had.
Too many hands asked
and I believed each of them;
too many smiles reasoned
but I invited them all;
too many voices laughed,
yet I continued to trust.
A person who can only say no
when he owns nothing
hasn’t learned to refuse.
My charity is a hospital
where everything is an emergency.
My trust is a bank
without any cameras.
My conscience is a hotel
still trying to take guests
when there’s no vacancy.
Ravenna, will you give Arthur
and me a room so we can
escape the streets for a night?
I can’t promise we won’t break things—
the neighbors might also complain
and perhaps we’ll be broke
if we pay what you ask.
Our status is clearly depicted
by the dirt on our clothes;
our childishness radiates
from the wine on our breath;
our obsession is written
on the fixed gaze of our eyes;
our gloom only responds
in broken mirrors;
this is who we are, Ravenna.
Our torments are bad literature
rescued from book burnings;
our saviors are priceless
gold idols thrown
in the melting pot—
we have no more art left,
only a value.
We get tired of the same
bed even if we’re exhausted.
Arthur, I fear the day we’ll run
out of roads in Ravenna.
Like deserts make water
more precious than gold,
like oil makes deserts
more precious than water,
like war makes gold
more precious than life,
the best is always lost first.
Without water in the desert,
visions will come in three days
followed by voices of angels;
without poetry,
I’ll live a slow death.
Without oil in our engines,
society would die like Sequoias—
deserts would become deserts again
and forests could grow forests once more.
Without war, society wouldn’t bleed
in the desert and engines would
start hearing voices of angels.
Arthur, why do you laugh
at my bullshit?
Can’t I have more wine
than my bottles can hold?
Can’t I fill more cups
than my money will let?
Just say your nonsense
is better than mine
and end this silence—
stop being the exiled being
who doesn’t mind leaving his home.
Maybe I should cease
wasting paper like you.
Maybe I should also
find Europe oppressing.
I don’t know anymore.
The way monks choose between
two abbeys of equal hunger,
so I have two choices but only
one door to walk through.
My suitcases are full
of needless wishes.
My goals are two distant villages
not connected by roads.
My maps have all faded
in other people’s hands.
My willpower is a mourner
cutting an onion.
Ravenna, comfort your cursed sons.
Don’t blame us for neglecting
the Bible and drinking
at Piazza Duomo;
it’s way past midnight
and the cathedral is closed.
Still, we’ve not come to get drunk
but to seek solace in the Virgin Mary
that towers above us.
Our wine is the blood of humanity;
our bread is the body of science.
No matter which way we turn,
our minds are always against
something while our eyes
face society’s round wall.
Like people sent away
too many times,
we feel that only exits
are open to us;
like family that’s no longer welcome,
we’ve become guests in the world;
our respect sleeps in the basement—
always close to the door;
we’re invited back with reservations
and never asked to stay longer.
What else did you expect, Arthur?
We’re the sole visitors
who gave honest opinions
about the food no one liked—
our frankness has insulted the hosts.
We’re now desperate men
and people like us
rarely answer the door—
they’re usually doing the knocking.
Why must shame knock
and why must pride answer?
I thought the proud fall from heaven,
not the ashamed—
truly, the world is no Paradise.
Arthur, I know Europe’s air
is too strict for your lungs;
Africa and the Middle East are calling,
but stay a little longer.
Let’s go to Dante’s tomb
and honor the Supreme Poet.
Unlike Christians who
ravaged the temples of Greece,
we won’t harm the greatness
that’s become alien to us.
Arthur, I still blame that master
for not knowing the earth
revolves around the sun—
centuries before Galileo was born.
Don’t laugh, my dear friend;
it’s only 243 years.
Dante did likewise when he blamed
Socrates for not being Christian—
centuries before Christ’s birth.
Don’t laugh, my dear friend;
it’s only 399 years.
No, this is no joking matter—
this is the new Divine Comedy
and I place Dante in Purgatory.
Why? For believing all things
revolved around him—
classical arrogance of poets.
Arthur, you tormented soul,
I know you’ve abandoned the art,
but write just one more line.
What should I do with Muhammad?
I know you speak Arabic.
Say something. Guide me. Show me the way.
What words can bring him to Ravenna?
This city is 800 years older
than his religion—
how long shall my verse wait?
Dante could put him in hell,
but I haven’t mastered the poetry
that gets prophets out.
I, myself, am in flames
that are resistant to baptism.
I’m drowning in oceans
where the lifeguards
are old preachers.
I’m falling from low cliffs
that God didn’t hallow
with waterfalls.
Salvation is a guest
I’ve invited millions of times
and never befriended;
he’s always punctual
and brings friends no one likes;
he doesn’t drink and talks little,
yet he always knows more than you;
when the music starts,
he fears upsetting the neighbors;
he always leaves first
when the party gets wild;
life passes him like a bartender
who’s never had regulars;
no, that’s not my religion.
I arrive late like an old
man on his way to a funeral.
I’d rather go hungry
than eat like a doctor.
I don’t mind being sober
when friends are away,
but my senses aren’t grapes
grown on a farm;
I feel most free
on the hills of a vineyard,
running my hands through the crop;
the way artists cherish their paint,
I pick grapes and savor their taste—
never forgetting what purpose they have here.
Arthur, I see that you’re weary.
The lines on your face
tell me we can’t be young
in our future and old in our history.
Our bodies are books
that are harder to read every year;
our hope is a church
in which everyone prays
for themselves;
our despair is a conflict
that’ll end in stalemate.
I no longer know if we’re in the unknown.
Hell is twelve blank pieces
of paper disguised as a calendar;
it was born on December the 32nd
but doesn’t have a birthday or holidays.
Arthur, why don’t you tell me I’m crazy?
What’s really the point of it all?
Let’s go to Parco di Teodorico
and lie on the cool grass.
My legs are heavier
than two ships on
their last voyage—
my eyes are curtains
that’ve stayed open
after the end of a play.
If you won’t speak,
at least take me into your hands,
for the wind is too strong.
My secrets are graveyards without shovels;
my losses are the ashes of undertakers.
I’ve become a mathematician
who only cares about his problems.
Tell me I talk too much about myself.
Say I should have the apathy
of unfinished books—
feel the peace of those no one reads.
Say I should be an astronomer
who forgets the stars in the daytime.
Say I should be a historian
with a troubled past.
Say I should be a watchmaker
who’s never on time.
Say I should be a botanist
who doesn’t give roses to women.
Say I can be an architect
born from an unplanned pregnancy.
Say something, Arthur;
otherwise, we’re bound to roam
Ravenna’s streets
like two people looking
for keys they left at home.
What now, you genius
of self-imposed silence?
I know the next line
doesn’t warrant paper,
but I’m suffering.
Like Christ on the cross
finally asking for vinegar,
my pen can no longer endure—
it must become human now.
I’m neither strong enough
to burn in fire nor do I have
the courage to fall from clouds.
My medical condition
was diagnosed as mortal
and it’s chronic.
Sometimes I sit in Piazzetta degli Ariani
and think about the mosaics
I have no patience to look at—
much less accomplish myself.
The wind blows like bad advice
and the sun shines like a thin blanket;
so, the Ravenna days pass
like university lectures
given by old professors;
whether leaving Palazzo Verdi
or Palazzo Corradini,
I wander like gossip on windless days
before choosing to go home.
Like thinkers meditating on the shore,
I’ve sat in countless libraries
fully immersed in my senses.
I pondered the distance between
myself and minds like Einstein,
Dante, Beethoven, Goethe—
without wanting to open
their books and plunging
into those depths;
with each passing second,
the waves began to sound
like they were the same size,
and it felt right to be in my place;
at last, I ceased grasping distances.
Waves and the horizon
from which they were born
never showed their detachment—
like the depths of stars and sky.
Arthur, the best prayers say nothing
and occur outside of church;
like laughter on quiet shores,
the holiest scriptures are blank
and the soundest baptism
makes no vexing noise.
Like mirrors hung
too high on the wall,
tomorrow is just a day
to ignore the future—
a chance to live
like fortune tellers
who never worry
about what’s to come.
Arthur, say what you will,
but yesterday is easier;
it’s a marriage that quickly ends
in divorce but there’s no annulment
and the man never
loves a new woman—
I’ve had many yesterdays like this,
walking past the train station,
fully set on leaving Ravenna,
and I’ll have more tomorrows
where such thoughts will arrive again.
Like a person confessing on Sunday
and rising with doubts on Monday,
my house isn’t far from church,
but even closer is the bar.
Like sleeping sober on Monday
and falling for impulse on Tuesday,
every train has taken me
somewhere I’ve thought
about leaving on Wednesday—
Ravenna, although you’re beautiful,
I feel just the same here.
Halfway to hell I look over my shoulder
and see that Dante was right:
People everywhere
are like badly drawn circles;
cities surround me
like engineers without rulers;
countries confine me
like zoos no beasts want to leave;
the world stops me
like highways which end
on the coast.
Arthur, can the I in me truly believe
my mind revolves around the sun?
My body can’t possess a home
that I live outside of.
Every face I meet alone
and every feeling I face myself;
every laugh must leave from me
and every sorrow my ears shall bear;
every doubt my hands must carry
but any help only they can give;
every burden my eyes must witness
and every joy my skin will feel.
Yes, the bodies around me
and the voices I surround—
they’re math problems
you can solve without equal signs.
Arthur, how do you like Ravenna tonight?
Even when the streets are full,
it’s an instrumental song
whose composer died before
he could write the words;
it’s two people in a cemetery
speaking fluent Latin.
Like the last leaf on a winter tree,
you’re feeling restless—I can tell;
still, don’t leave just yet.
The way earthquakes don’t stay long,
so those with too much energy
are no strangers to the road.
People love the mountains
raised by minds like yours,
but they want you to give birth
without the slightest torment.
No, dear friend, you’ll never
come back to Ravenna.
All is finally lost, Arthur.
The worst fate people can have
is becoming beggars in poor cities—
I won’t even ask you to come back.
The way portrait painters
never forget a face,
so I’ll always remember you.
We went through hell together;
the women we met
embraced us like sculptors
lugging their own gravestones;
the men we befriended
offered their hands like flags
hanging on windless days.
We walked so far around
the Arian Baptistery,
never saying the same thing twice.
We asked the poor for change
and presented pennies to the rich—
did we really laugh
at no one’s expense?
Like ancient medical texts,
we looked for peace
with bad directions,
and still found consolation;
we did all this without wanting to leave hell.
Be brave, dear friend—
go away and never write.
I’ll try to live here by myself.
March 2020
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