Shadows of the Pines
A comic novella in verse, Shadows of the Pines follows Harold Rava’s quest to bring poetry to millions of readers, one solitary reader at a time. Harold is joined in this pursuit by the ghosts of celebrated poets and thinkers at an Italian restaurant, the Pines of Rome, where he teaches his students to draw from the dust of life and follow the rules of the field: to encourage idleness and contemplation, to stand for small things in the woods of their own imagining, and to make what Hopkins called “great strokes of havoc.” But before Harold can succeed in his quest, he must learn to treat the words he uses with respect and dignity. And he must come to grips with his own limited power and place as a poet. To his surprise, Harold ultimately recognizes that it will not be the United States but Albania where poetry will flourish.
Readers unfamiliar with poetry can simply enjoy the ride and be taken by the book’s rhythm and riddles, its characters and comedy, for it is all Dreamland, a poetic narrative where anyone can enter.
Shadows of the Pines / Preface
A writer is enriched by many traditions, but mostly from the act of reading others and quiet cultivation. From borrowed cuttings, stolen traits sprout in bunches. But as the produce grows (from the writer’s own soil and fog, and the same peculiar angle of light on his arid hillside), the ripened fruit appears as if it is from a completely different stem, his own.
I was fortunate to have grown up at a time when the boundaries of oceans and traditions become permeable, the old-world vines crossing over into my own garden.
Through the years, I feel as if I’ve taken on aspects of many traditions along with my own. What is surprising to me is how poems written many years ago about eclectic things that captured my imagination seem to have found their rightful place in this volume.
This book introduces readers to Harold Rava, a cultivar of poetry, a teacher of its traditions, a candleholder of many flames. Harold teaches poetry to young people from all backgrounds in a storefront juku and adults at night in a rundown restaurant, the Pines of Rome.
An entrepreneur, poetry is his franchise. There is no money in it. he audience is roughly the size of the number of practitioners. You’ll not find it on the shelves of Books a Million. But the subversive Rava School could change all that.
Harold teaches his students to draw from the dust of life and follow the rules of the field: to encourage idleness and contemplation, to stand for small things in the woods of their own imagining, and to make what Hopkins called “great strokes of havoc.” The school’s methods have promise to generate new interest. Unfortunately, its mission—creating an audience of millions of enthusiasts, one person a time—is beyond its grasp.
Part of the problem, of course, is Harold. While he writes his own poems from the dust of life, his rich inner life with its frequent internal battles, spills into his daily life, causing dustups with his family, students, and friends. He also scuffles with the words he writes, who rebel against him. A poet with great responsibility to the language, he must regain favor with his medium to write again, and to succeed in his quest.
The Pines of Rome
Ungaretti is the waiter in the modern suit
that has gone out of style. Saba’s father
sits forlorn at the next table, staring
at his polenta. Montale is known to sing,
but only if Harold asks nicely.
The food is inelegant but substantial.
The menu—even the specials—are longer
than one of Harold’s lectures—too long
to read, so that you must visit many times
and memorize them, stanza by stanza,
or just tell Ungaretti one verse you like,
a section you know by heart.
Ungaretti gets good tips from our table
and will bring, on the house, espresso
and rum cake after Harold’s branzino.
The silverware and dishes come
from a going-out-of-business sale
that’s still ongoing.
The walls have photos of Rome
and celebrities you cannot place.
Our dedicated space, our Temple,
is a stepdown, the lower-reserved section.
Harold’s face is flush from wine,
the words pour from him
as from the snout of the yellow,
fish-shaped pitcher Ungaretti brings.
An extra carafe costs you an extra hour.
In the war with language, he is aided by Thou, the spiritual leader of the Society of Words, and other words. And in his attempt to make poetry matter, it is his own teachers, the ghosts of poets and thinkers of the past—Auden, Borges, Buber, Montale, Saba, J.B. Yeats, and others—who help him.
Not least, Harold also must come to grips with his own limited power and place as a poet. To his surprise, he recognizes that it will not be the United States but Albania where poetry will flourish. And it will not be himself but the next generation—and the Albanian he once shunned—who will lead the way.
In writing this, I recognize that some readers may not know the poets Harold befriends or the parts of grammar (families of words) that Harold sometimes fights with.
It is my hope that readers unfamiliar with poetics or particular parts of speech will simply enjoy the ride and be taken by the book’s rhythm and riddles, its characters and comedy—my own soil and fog. For this is meant to capture no particular place and time where outside references matter. The chatter at the Pines of Rome, Harold being chastised by the words or his wife or driving through the city along the avenue of Zelkovas—it is all Dreamland, a poetic narrative where, I hope, anyone can enter.
Sheppard Ranbom
Washington, DC
February 2024