Tony Castro, a writing buddy of mine from my years in Florida, asked me to write a poem titled "That Naples Day," but I cheated and wrote instead about an evening, the one I spent with Tony and his wife (and more writing buddies) at the Castro's beautiful home. Truth is I've also cheated by combining two different evenings, maybe even three, but as someone recently said to me, poetry is, after all, fiction.

What's not fictional is the beauty of the place, the charm and kindness of the people. In any case, Tony has often urged me to follow my muse. And so the poem, called "That Evening in Naples", went where the muse took it.

You'll find the poem here and an excerpt below.

Someone had arranged a vase of bougainvillea

on the mantle, and I remember

prosecco and good, sharp manchego

while someone explained patiently

that the whole point to Alias Grace

was that we never know

who is to blame for loss and suffering.

Later people mentioned Mahler,

Billy Strayhorn, which led

a woman with bright grey eyes

to recall camping in Shenandoah,

a summer filled

with Tennessee songbirds.

On the subject of poetry as fiction: I'm reminded of Grace Paley's observation that writers who are trying to tell the truth often have to do so by telling a big lie. Another way to say it: the facts are one thing and the truth another, and sometimes the facts just get in the way of whatever core reality a writer's trying to get down on the page. It doesn't matter whether we talked about Strayhorn or not. It matters that among us was someone who loved and knew jazz and the rest of us enjoyed listening. 

You, too, can provide me with opportunities to cheat and write you something that's not quite what you asked for. I'd really appreciate the chance. Check out my donor page here and leave a message at gaildimaggio@aol.com.