An Ode to Rome

I'm feeling a bit cantancorous today. Let me just say that. There comes a point in every person's journey when he or she notices along the way a break between the real and the ideal, unless he or she is living in the clouds and has yet to take that fall. (Sadly, they always fall the hardest) Nevertheless, should the gap at first be side-walk-sized, it soon begins to substantiate and often widens without control. So, what am I saying you ask? It was not too long after my arrival in Rome that I happened upon the phrase bella figura, or in a sense 'nice impression' in English. It is used in situations in which one displays sunny appearances just to hide the rough, mundane reality. If you wish, as a little example, take the post box here in Rome. The face of said box reads "External mail" and "Mail within the city" with a slot above corresponding to each label respectively. Sad we are to find that when the runners come to gather their mail from the various mail points throughout the city, they unlock the bottoms and the letters and packages fall into a single bag. Bella figura. If one was forced to describe Italian life, especially Roman life, this would do quite well. This in mind, when I, a tired, disgruntled, frustrated American stumbelled upon this poem by W.H. Auden earlier this evening, I thought to myself, I said "self, what better opportunity to share in a moment of Roman disillusionment than with a few moving lines of poetry." His piece here is meant to parrallel post-World War II America and the toppeling Western Roman Empire. Not much has changed here.

'The Fall of Rome'

The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.

Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.