stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 18681
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2018-01-31 18:02:03
    [post_date_gmt] => 2018-01-31 18:02:03
    [post_content] => it was this: most serene lions pawing at the sky;
plaster hands clawing at silk roads on stilts.
it was this: underwater houses rusted green in the silt of the river;
crumbling stone moss creeping up over the gondola pipes
and trinities of elm moorings growing out of the water.
it was this: decay preying; the abandoned river doors rusted:
their locked teeth will not rise like daggers again.
white with silt, the water laps
at the platform, at the ghost of a masked gondolier.

it was this: pigeons flying overhead/ you predicting where they might land;
hope settling on telephone wires, a network across the city;
the stubborn Baútta bowing/ the bashful Moretta;
the city on stilts in the afternoon/ the mercato closing,
grand hotels along the grand canal,
cheap motels everywhere else.
iron gates/ and wrought iron clandestine sconces;
chaconne peppers/ and cellophane spices/ and dry flowers
itching.

it was this: the university among these alleys of water;
sure thieving at twilight. the grand canal allays us,
drumming a thump and a thump, a thump, a thump.
anywhere: waiters behind menus/ everywhere: saints behind iron grilles:
S. Andrea, S. Polo, S. Chiara, S. Stae;
old staircases with faded red carpets and dust and wood handrails and a view of shut windows.
S. Angelo, S. Helena, S. Marco, S. Croce;
even waylaid street signs in lamplight know this city cobbled with saints.

it was this: looking at the glass city past the cemetery,
San Michele, Murano, del Vetro, Trieste,
past the lilac silhouette of a fairground puffing steam.
the horizon stark, ships fully formed are birthed at the sunset
and drown in the deep green brine of the sea.
    [post_title] => a sojourn in venice, the “drowning city”
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => a-sojourn-in-venice-the-drowning-city
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2018-01-31 18:02:03
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-01-31 18:02:03
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=18681
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2018
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is a runner-up in the Namedropping challenge with charity People Need Nature and poet Jen Hadfield on Young Poets Network (YPN) in 2018.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Runner-up, Namedropping challenge
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 18682
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Weina Jin
            [slug] => weina-jin
            [content] => Weina is a runner-up in the Young Poets Network Namedropping challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 18682
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Weina Jin
    [slug] => weina-jin
    [content] => Weina is a runner-up in the Young Poets Network Namedropping challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield.
)

a sojourn in venice, the “drowning city”

Weina Jin

it was this: most serene lions pawing at the sky;
plaster hands clawing at silk roads on stilts.
it was this: underwater houses rusted green in the silt of the river;
crumbling stone moss creeping up over the gondola pipes
and trinities of elm moorings growing out of the water.
it was this: decay preying; the abandoned river doors rusted:
their locked teeth will not rise like daggers again.
white with silt, the water laps
at the platform, at the ghost of a masked gondolier.

it was this: pigeons flying overhead/ you predicting where they might land;
hope settling on telephone wires, a network across the city;
the stubborn Baútta bowing/ the bashful Moretta;
the city on stilts in the afternoon/ the mercato closing,
grand hotels along the grand canal,
cheap motels everywhere else.
iron gates/ and wrought iron clandestine sconces;
chaconne peppers/ and cellophane spices/ and dry flowers
itching.

it was this: the university among these alleys of water;
sure thieving at twilight. the grand canal allays us,
drumming a thump and a thump, a thump, a thump.
anywhere: waiters behind menus/ everywhere: saints behind iron grilles:
S. Andrea, S. Polo, S. Chiara, S. Stae;
old staircases with faded red carpets and dust and wood handrails and a view of shut windows.
S. Angelo, S. Helena, S. Marco, S. Croce;
even waylaid street signs in lamplight know this city cobbled with saints.

it was this: looking at the glass city past the cemetery,
San Michele, Murano, del Vetro, Trieste,
past the lilac silhouette of a fairground puffing steam.
the horizon stark, ships fully formed are birthed at the sunset
and drown in the deep green brine of the sea.