Italo Calvino (1923–1985)
It was like a cave of snow, no . . .
More like that temple of frosted, milk-veined marble
I came upon one evening in Selinunte,
Athena’s white owl flying suddenly out of its open eaves.
I saw the walls lined with slender black-spined
Texts, rolled codices, heavy leather-bound volumes
Of the mysteries. Ancient masks of beaten copper and tin,
All ornamented with rare feathers, scattered jewels.
His table was filled with meditative beakers, bubbling
Here and there like clocks; the soldierly
Rows of slim vials were labeled in several foreign hands.
Stacks of parchments, cosmological recipes, nature’s
Wild equivalencies. A globe’s golden armature of the earth,
Its movable bones ringing a core of empty
Space. High above the chair, a hanging Oriental scroll,
Like the origami of a crane unfolded, the Universe inked
So blue it seemed almost ebony in daylight,
The stars and their courses plotted along its shallow folds
In a luminous silver paint. On an ivory pole,
His chameleon robe, draped casually, hieroglyphics
Passing over it as across a movie screen, odd formulas
Projected endlessly—its elaborate layers of
Embroidery depicting impossible mathematical equations;
Stitched along the hem, the lyrics
Of every song one hears the nightingale sing, as dusk falls
On summer evenings. All of our stories so much
Of the world they must be spoken by
A voice that rests beyond it . . . his voice, its ideal melody,
Its fragile elegance guiding our paper boats,
Our so slowly burning wings,
Towards any immanent imagination, our horizon’s carved sunset,
The last wisdoms of Avalon.