Spaghetti Poem by Eugene Levich
Spaghetti
As a boy
One evening
In a restaurant
On one of the hills surrounding Rome
I saw two things I had never seen before
First, a whole pig on a spit roasting over charcoal
Second, old men twirling spaghetti
I couldn't take my eyes away
As they spun spaghetti on forks
The tine points held against large spoons
I loved how precise they were,
Always the exact amount of spaghetti,
Always the right amount of spin
Never an end hanging off the fork
Never a drop of sauce spilled
They seemed to me artisans
As they wore rough clothes
Looked capable and wiry
And had the serious miens of working men
Did they chip away marble like Michelangelo?
Did they repair frescoes in old churches?
The artistry in their twirl of pasta
Made me think those things
I tried to twirl spaghetti myself,
At the table with my parents,
Glancing at the old men
It was much harder than it looked
I had always too much pasta or too little
I slurped the ends like the Chinese do from their noodle bowls
It took me years to spin spaghetti neatly
Almost like those masters in the hills above Rome
A few years ago,
I had two new Italian boilers installed in my home up north,
One burning oil or natural gas, which I named Gina Lollobrigida
One burning wood or soft coal, which I named Sophia Loren
And they kept my house warm all that winter... the coldest in memory
But the nice young fellow from Rome who installed them saddened me
For he said Romans no longer twirl spaghetti on spoons
Spaghetti is made now in factories and is much shorter
Than the old spaghetti made by hand in neighborhood shops
And no longer needs to be twirled on spoons
I buy my pasta from a Uruguayan/Italian immigrant
Who makes spaghetti by hand, the old way
Many Italians live in Uruguay
And they take their spaghetti seriously
They twirl forks on spoons
Some older Italian restaurants in America
Still give you a spoon with your spaghetti
Without your asking
But those old men
In the restaurant
On the hill
Outside Rome
Are all gone now
Their skill no longer appreciated
In the land of their birth
© Eugene William Levich,2016
That's some Spaghetti Story So ingenious and well written, One could call it Spaghetti Glory A man of all cultures, You can write up a storm, With charm and aplomb. Thoroughly enjoyed!
i'm in a hurry and i know already that i LIKE the poem a lot; i've had it in MyPoemList. NOW i'm taking it for August's showcase. i MUST have spaghetti tonight! ! ! you have inspired me...............to eat! it doesn't take much..............to inspire me to eat. Thanks. bri :)
very light humor......i took it all seriously, especially about the boilers which kept you warm at night! Mama mia! ! yes, i have seen the fork-spoon duet performed in America, Land of the Free and Home of the Brave...............play ball! ! ! i twirl, but don't spoon. but i have a napkin handy! but i used a large spoon solo to eat fried rice. no fork, 'less i have to! a lovely story. if it had some rhyming (even a little bit) i would be more apt to call it a poem. but who am i to say! ! ? i like to think i get away with calling my rhyming stories.....poems. bri ;) to MyPoemList yes, the Nazis escaped/emigrated to Brazil and Chile. the Fascists did the same to Uruguay. capisce? ? maybe. bri :)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/26/2024 5:52:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
ONce again i've enjoyed this, ....almost as much as i enjoy spaghetti. i wish i had Gina and Sophia to keep me warm, ....night OR day! ! ! actually, i'd probably have to crank up the air conditioning unit in the window! ! ! bri :) but for a while i thought you might mean Rome, NY, USA, when you said you had homes there. do you have a poem called Summer? i ran across this while looking for 'Summer'.