The Italians

I was recently mailed a copy of Dennis Barone's New Hungers For Old, an anthology of Italian American poetry. While I don't know how many poems about grandfathers' butcher shops any one person needs, I was moved by a Gregory Corso poem I'd not seen before.


Italian Extravaganza

Mrs. Lombardi’s month-old son is dead.
I saw it in Rizzo’s funeral parlor,
a small purplish wrinkled head.

They’ve just finished having high mass for it;
They’re coming out now
…wow, such a small coffin!
And ten black cadillacs to haul it in.


This shows you the special power that comes about through a poem's compression, in this case the bringing together of big and small images. The compaction of the language causes a buildup of energy, like the latent energy in a compressed spring. And boom, when the energy's released. I'm not aware of any other art form that can pull off this feat.