The gypsies pick my pockets, pick my purse
Their clever fingers deftly, softly pressed
Against my skirted hip, my sweaty breasts;
On swelt’ring, crowded buses, tourists curse
And slap the hands of gypsies; none the worse
Are they for failed attempts to cheat their guests
They disappear like ghosts into the rest
Of those who guard their pockets, guard their purse
‘Gainst thieves on such a hot, unpleasant ride
‘Til I, a naïve trav’ler, turn my head
Then gypsies press up closer to my side;
Pretending not to notice hands that tread
Across my body; I will let them roam
For through their gestures, I am part of Rome.
















Comments
im way to tired to be commiunitcating properly. :*dies*
The other two aren't perfect sonnets; "Saints" has a line of 8 syllables and "Santa Chiara" has one of 9, so they don't make iambic pentameter all throughout. But I kind of like the slight and subtle variation, so I kept it.
"Roman Holiday" is what got entered into the strict formal poetry contest, though.
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Teri
-Jesse out
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Teri
It's very much how I felt whilst in Rome (which, in its own way, was quite like a theme park). Though I was never actually pickpocketed, I saw enough of the thieving gypsies near the churches and expecially on the buses. It's an experience to take a twenty-minute bus ride to the Vatican and see two or three seasoned tourists slap the pickpockets away as you cling to your own purse. At the same time, it's like you're missing out if you don't get at least a glimpse of *that* part of Rome.
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Teri
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Teri
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