{"id":14311,"date":"2012-06-19T06:30:06","date_gmt":"2012-06-18T18:30:06","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/?p=14311"},"modified":"2012-06-18T21:16:52","modified_gmt":"2012-06-18T09:16:52","slug":"tuesday-poem-learning-italian-by-catherine-fitchett","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/2012\/06\/19\/tuesday-poem-learning-italian-by-catherine-fitchett\/","title":{"rendered":"Tuesday Poem: “Learning Italian” by Catherine Fitchett"},"content":{"rendered":"

Learning Italian<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Pizza, pasta, cappuccino<\/em><\/div>\n
weren\u2019t in the dictionary when Harry signed up<\/div>\n
By the time he arrived in England,<\/div>\n
the war was almost over, so Harry<\/div>\n
never got to Italy. Besides, that was another war<\/div>\n
and Harry was more of a meat and potatoes man, anyway.<\/div>\n
Fifty years later there would be<\/div>\n
espresso, prosciutto, ravioli<\/em><\/div>\n
but the soldiers already returning<\/div>\n
while Harry drilled in sling camp<\/div>\n
took other souvenirs \u2013 not mala aria<\/em><\/div>\n
\u00a0– bad air \u2013 but shell shock, scars,<\/div>\n
and flu, spreading faster than rifle fire.<\/div>\n
Harry\u2019s young bride sickened and died,<\/div>\n
her unborn child with her. Later, lonely Harry<\/div>\n
ran off with another man\u2019s wife, disrupting<\/div>\n
several intricate networks of cousins.<\/div>\n
And besides, Harry\u2019s wife was not<\/div>\n
who they thought she was, having been born<\/div>\n
five months after the Navy arrived<\/div>\n
in town and her parents met.<\/div>\n
Of such events lives are made, <\/em><\/div>\n
la influenza<\/em><\/div>\n
— the influence of the stars.<\/div>\n

.<\/span><\/p>\n

(c) Catherine Fitchett<\/p>\n

Published in Flap: the chook book 2<\/em><\/strong>, The Hen House, Christchurch 2010<\/p>\n

Reproduced here with permission.<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

About the Poem: The Poet’s Note<\/strong><\/p>\n

“This is one of a number of poems that have arisen out of my intensive study of my family history over the last ten years. As I pursue the details of ancestors’ lives, \u00a0I often find myself wondering “what if”. If my great-grandfather hadn’t gone bankrupt he would never have come to New Zealand – then my grandparents would never have met and I wouldn’t be here. Or, if my grandfather hadn’t taught me to play chess, I wouldn’t have met my husband (I would still be here, but my children wouldn’t). \u00a0The poem didn’t come together, however, until I read Elizabeth Gordon’s column in The Press one Saturday early in 2009, when she discussed words that had come into English from Italian. The description of the word “influenza” as meaning “the influence of the stars” reminded me not only of the death of my great-aunt, Harry’s wife, in the 1918 influenza epidemic, but also of the many small coincidences that make up our existence.”<\/em><\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

About the Poet:\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>Catherine Fitchett has had a varied career as forensic scientist, stay at home mother, and currently works in accounts. She has been writing poetry for the last ten to twelve years. \u00a0Her poetry has been published in Takahe<\/strong>, The Press<\/strong>, online at Blackmail Press<\/strong> and in various anthologies, including two collections from the small Christchurch group, the Poetry Chooks. in 2011 she was highly commended in the New Zealand Poetry Society competition and earlier this year was placed third in the inaugural Poems in the Waiting Room<\/em> contest.<\/p>\n

.<\/span><\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/span>To read the featured poem on the Tuesday Poem Hub<\/strong> and other great poems from fellow Tuesday poets from around the world, click here<\/strong><\/a> or on the Quill<\/strong> icon<\/strong> in the sidebar.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Learning Italian Pizza, pasta, cappuccino weren\u2019t in the dictionary when Harry signed up By the time he arrived in England, the war was almost over, so Harry never got to Italy. Besides, that was another war and Harry was more of a meat and potatoes man, anyway. Fifty years later there would be espresso, prosciutto, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-14311","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14311","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=14311"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14311\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":14323,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14311\/revisions\/14323"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=14311"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=14311"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=14311"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}