Franco Fortini

The Augsburg poet once said he had tacked an image of the Man of Doubt to the wall of his room. A Chinese print. The image asked: how ought one to act? I have a photo on my wall. Twenty years ago seven Chinese workers looked into my lens. They look wary or ironic or tense. They know I do not write for them. I know they didn’t live for me. Yet sometimes I feel I’m being asked for more candid words, more credible deeds, by their doubtfulness. In turn I ask their help in making visible the contradictions and identities among us. If there’s a point, it’s this.

Far away, far away, men making wars. Other folk's blood spilt on other folk's floors. Only this morning I wounded my finger: a thorn on my rosebush pierced like a stinger. Sucking that finger, I thought of the war. Sad is the earth! And those people, so poor! I'm of no help, being here and not there, nor can I reach them, by sea or by air. And what if I could—what good could I do? My Arabic's terrible! My English is, too! What, should I stroll through the fields of the dead leaving sheaves of my verses under each head? No. Enough of this wretched irony-fest. Let's put on a coat. The sun's low in the west.

Ah the delight of dawn! Over the grassy lawn the spark of silk, of silk spat out by some small spider to be the breeze's pawn. A distant siren whines from the freeway. Sun shines! What a Sunday, what peace! An old man's tidy peace, his favorite hour of all. The ants march on in rows. They're off to do who knows what harm to the ripe pears ... Such sun now on the wall! The lizards heed its call.