The Italian Phrase Book

Good morning. Good day. Good afternoon. Good evening.
I am happy to meet you. My name is Richard.
Here is my passport. I have nothing at all to declare.
There is a message for you of the greatest urgency.
Where is the nearest taxi stand? the nearest telephone?
To the right. To the left. Straight ahead.
You can walk there. You can take the bus.
Someone is missing. Word of him can be heard
where the cricket songs are igniting the grass.
Please consult your phrasebook for the proper response.
Two blocks on the left. Turn right. Do you have anything 
I want? How much will this cost? What is the toll on my
feelings? Is there another word for missing? Will you have 
something to drink? You can point to the proper question 
or answer. This is my wife who brought the message.

While you are waiting, let us take a closer look at the town. 
Here is the wonderful Roman Coliseum. What do you know 
about the early martyrs, who wavered before the lions, 
who wept, ashamed, into their own arms? You do not have
to know the exact words. The wind from some far place 
does not have to fill your shoes. How much do I owe?
There is one item missing. There is a defect in the sleeve.
Can we agree on a price? The theater where Catullus played is
on the other side of the Adige. Here is the famous Church 
of the Veronese martyrs. Here are the famous tombs of the Medici.
You will see others built high into the sides of buildings.

But just a minute. Hold on. Wait. This phrase book cannot 
answer everything. This guide book is not really like being there.
Where was the message from? Where are we? The book
says nothing. What does it tell you about the years Dante 
spent exiled here from Florence? For him it was all assassins, 
and the heart’s gravediggers who abandoned 
their half-completed holes to the dark. For him it was 
the moon sweating in the fields outside the walls.

If you wish, we will turn to a different category.
Look, here is the supposed tomb of Juliet. The lovers have 
dropped their notes in languages we might be able to translate.
You should consult our other books in this series. 
We won’t even bother with the language of lovers.
My own love is wondering about the message.
Maybe this is a good time to practice ordering her wine.
We suggest the local Valpolicella or Amarone while you wait.
It seems your urgent news is being delayed in another language.
This is a good time to toast your love. You may mention
the uncut meadow, the haystacks waiting to take shape,
how all the roads to the past have been closed,
how each night she tightens around you with the dark.
Can you find the Piazza Erbe with its famous umbrellas 
and market? You will find fresh peaches and pears.
You will find fresh oranges. Here you will be able 
to practice many phrases. Be careful about numbers.

Nearby is Juliet’s balcony. There are street corners, 
whole towns not shown on your map. There are the dead 
who still lean against the buildings without the proper facts. 
There is Love crouched beside the stalled car on a side street.
Without practice all your new phrases will evaporate 
from the city streets like rain water. Don’t worry. 
Here is a night’s growth of fog, covering the fountains,
disguising the few tourists who are still out, like you.
Here comes night wrapped in a shadow of remembered scents, 
stopping at my bench, opening her sack for me.
What is this made of? Can we agree on a lower price?
Using these idioms, you will soon sound like a real native.
Can you help me find what I want? How far is it?

In the Gobi desert scientists have unearthed an 80 million-
year-old lizard never before known to man.
Beneath the market they have found an Etruscan village.
Would you care for another glass of Amarone? 
It is said in today’s paper that all news of our universe
travels the crest of nearly imperceptible gravitational waves
which we can decipher only months later. It was in this square
that the Roman priests would read the entrails of strange birds. 

So it seems that only later will today’s news reach you.
It seems the phrases are filling with desert and salt.
It seems the crows have been unspooling across the Piazza Bra
for an hour, the very hour your friend has turned his car 
into the wrong lane half a world away. What is the tense for this? 
What is the proper word? You may repeat these phrases. 
I feel sick. I have got to see a doctor. I am only a tourist here.
I have an ear ache. I have a terrible headache. I have a toothache. 
I feel nauseated. It hurts here. It hurts there. Yes, I would like 
to take something for it. When should I call again? 
Our connection was cut off. It was a country road, 
the other car coming through the fog over a hill.
It was late afternoon. He must have been reciting
his favorite Byron, his favorite Dante, turning their grief
into love, making love songs of their elegies. It is not possible.
I have this headache. Just a minute while I transpose the sum.
Sign here. The tip is included. Is this enough? Just a minute. 
Here comes despair picking up the used cigarette butts. 
Here are the old memories crouched in the door stoops.

If you cannot find the correct phrase, don’t worry, 
try combining elements from the ones you already know.
This is the moment you must remember how the songs of lovers
pass from one bird to another and become pure joy.
Even the sky is prepared to lie about its moods.
What is your shadow doing there, bent over against the wall.
Please consult the phrase book for the proper response.
Please listen, then repeat the following lines—

My love, whose fingers are matches, whose waist is 
encircled by the arms of the wind. My love, how the world 
sleeps in your throat, how your heart is filled 
with the scents of raspberries and grapes,
to live inside you, to live inside the warm peach.
Otherwise there is no way to stop despair from lurking 
all night in the shadows beside the old toll gate.
Otherwise we will have to weep in another language.
In that case, all our words will fall in love with gravity.
Otherwise we will have to stop taking breaths 
from this moment on. From this moment on
the stopped clocks will observe us. My love,
our hearts are growing full of broken wings. 
My love, to find our voice in a drop of water,
in the tracks the moonlight leaves behind.
If only this were enough. If only the news.
Even the sky. The sky. It hurts here. It hurts here.