Terra Ballerina by Michelle Reale,
Alien Buddha Press, 2023, 33 pages.
Reviewed by Jennifer Martelli
In her preface, Michelle Reale writes, “On December 28, 1908, a massive earthquake, 7.1 on the Richter Scale, hit Messina (a city that predates Rome) and Reggio Calabria . . . It triggered a tsunami that resulted in at least 100,000 casualties . . .” Reale’s latest collection, Terra Ballerina, explores this geological terror which left Messina, Sicily, to be called today, “una cittá senza memoria,” a city without a memory. This collection, truly an “earth dance,” consists of 15 poems interspersed with actual photographs chronicling the devastation. Reale, who shares her birth name with this place, weaves sound, superstition, and those hard, broken surfaces as a way to stanch the ruin; to keep the memory of Messina alive. The poems and the photographs resist this forgetting that alters
a city’s memory and those
who won’t remember and those who
will never forget.
I’ve long been an admirer of Reale’s rich prose poems. The departure from that form in this collection resonated; I could hear the tremors in her strewn lines and in the white spaces created by her lineation. In “Presage,” she writes,
Bright clouds hang low,
an auger for the astute.
Holy water dishes are bone dry in churches everywhere.
Birds of prey dip and screech.
Broken buildings and bones seem to cry out to be heard, to be remembered. In “City Without Memory,” Reale describes
the rubble and the bones
of the dead and streets that thrum
with the aural spector of ancestors.
Please remind us of what we are quick to forget.
Reale also confronts religion and superstition in this collection, accepting the harsh truth of the fragility of life and of our structures. In “Barracapoli,” we are told to “Enter a world that is conditional, / temporary.” This poem, set in a shantytown populated by refugees in tents and lean-tos, questions the ideas of fate, luck, hope. Is Messina “a city unlucky, scorned?” In “Salvo,” the answer appears to be a sinister theology,
Divine
retribution the logical answer
to the early morning mayhem.
The dead will have to answer
to the Father, and the survivors
will suffer like penitents.
One of the most moving moments in this book is in “Benedizone,” when
A priest survives
and calls out, bless the survivors,
bless the dead!
Image the
dead, in their dusty nightclothes
broken fingers, and blood in
their hair.
Reale’s title poem, “Terra Ballerina,” is an example of the poet’s impeccable twining of bone and earth. This poem is visual, dancing across the page, a choreographed piece.
A seawall rises and the earth
twirls and rises and dances, then
tumbles
and
twists
and grates
and
falls.
This strewing of bones, their disintegration into the earth, how memory fades, disappears. Would this place be forgotten, or, as Reale writes in “The Light That Meets the Eye,” would Messina become
Dusty and splintered, clavicle, rib, and jaw and a tooth
here and there.
The dismembered blended with pulverized stone
and granite. . .
Michelle Reale collects this holy rubble that has the “audacity to sparkle,” and creates a memory for all of us. In her author’s note, she tells us, “I share my birth name with the infamous city . . . it is no longer a site of unspeakable tragedy, but a site of resilience. . .” In Terra Ballerina, Michelle Messina Reale has reached deep into the Sicilian landscape and will not forget the words and cries of the broken,
They are still breathing. They are still alive. They are still
waiting for the God of All Beings to either rescue them from
their seismic terror or release them into blissful eternity.
***
In Bruno’s Shadow by Tony Ardizzone
Guernica Editions, 2023, 321 pages
Reviewed by Christina Marrocco
Tony Ardizzone’s latest novel is a true masterpiece with all the beauty of his previous work yet so very unique. In Bruno’s Shadow catapults readers to a full immersion in Rome (as well as Dubrovnik and Medjugorje) amidst all that is beautiful and, equally, all that is terrible—the beauty and the terror of things natural and things man-made. Ardizzone is a consummate writer who moves expertly through time because he recognizes its circularity as well as its layering. He moves with equal mastery from place to place and character to character. All this with absolute clarity and gravity. The reader, in turn, becomes a living part of crowded Rome as well. The prose never lags, and this is achieved through visceral description, deep connections within the writing, and Ardizzone’s superb command of language. The writing is simply top-notch.
In Bruno’s Shadow opens with a masterful invitation to climb inside:
“Twenty years before Dubravka came to live in Campo de’ Fiori in Rome, in the attic room of a pensione that looked down upon Giordano Bruno’s stature, she was unaware that the older woman who clutched her sleeve and asked if she might accompany her up the rock -strewn path leading to the cross on top of Mount Krizevac was an angel.” And climb inside, you will, finding what follows extraordinary.
Ardizzone is a writer who crafts, and here he carves the story as Michelangelo would have carved marble, to make it into not just a shape but something truly breathtaking, as real as life itself. Think of the carver’s faun with the missing teeth—special and true. In the wheel of characters Ardizzone creates there is the drumbeat of human connection—very real and also very tangential—and yet eternal as well. Eternal in the ways we set one another upon somewhat changed paths. While Dubravka, the young Croation woman, is perhaps the hub of the wheel of human connection in this book—touching many others–all the characters are just as compelling—all both complex and simple—in other words, so fully human.
Ardizzone’s people are fused to, scattered upon, and actively observing the history of Rome itself. From the street actor who makes a deal with the restaurant owner to reenact Caravaggio’s tantrum over butter or oil on the artichokes to the modern-day centurion who is mistaken as a gladiator to the North American who traces his daughter’s last days in Rome at the great works of art, searching for her soul. To Dubravka who immigrated to the eternal city and nests there. Meanwhile, changes and disasters on a larger scale unfold, as it’s always been. The earthquakes and tsunamis of 2004 that wreak havoc and bring death to so many in South Asia. Footage blares from the televisions stamps itself across newsprint while the death of John Paul II slowly comes to be, everyone uncertain of who will be the next pope but certain there will be one. For now. At least one more. And then there’s the personal levels of this inferno: the familial and individual upheavals of the characters. Ardizzone and his characters navigate this chaos which is life, this layering, and it’s a stunning dance, one that appeals to thinkers and feelers alike. If you are both, so much the better.
Caravaggio, Borromini, Bernini, they are all pulsing on the page as they are in the city itself. As are the cats of Rome. All these in light and shadow, bella figura and bruta figura as well. It may be that Ardizzone’s Roma shows us how those two seeming opposites are actually the same thing. Here is sanity and madness. Here is great subtlety and yet great openness. And so, everyone in this novel is under a spell. Readers and characters alike, moving to understand life, meaning—the face of God—and meanwhile the tsunami— not so very far away— sweeps the innocent away. The characters grapple with life. They live for the time that is theirs, resplendent with entendre and metaphor, and the Ardizzone’s palpable symbols roil to the surface while his characters hope to understand.
There is an ancient, ancient depth to this book and still a searingly modern edge. As I read, I found myself feeling that Ardizzone has taken Campbell’s Hero’s Journey and turned it on its head in the best of ways. Each chapter creates a sanctuary, a station, a space to reflect and begin to understand what underlays it all, this humanity, this earth. And yet, there is no manifesto here, no world view, no pat answer. It’s written with generosity and grace—the narrator’s voice one expressing unentangled love and quiet observation. There are no heroes and no villains, just everything else in its glory.
I had intended to spend two days reading this book. The plan was to read half, make a big dinner, read the other half the next day. But I could not stop reading, would not stop reading. You know, at two points in the book, Rome is called by this character or that, a palimpsest, an ancient text from which a bit has been scratched off to make room for the continuation of life, and Rome indeed is that, as is the Rome of this book. As is this book itself. I was present in the churches of Rome, on the streets, in the lives of the characters, and I wasn’t coming back to cook dinner or even answer the phone. To me, that kind of a reading experience is a pure gift from the author to us all.
***
Ernies Bleachers by Tim Pareti
Pareti Publishers, 2022, 314 pages
Reviewed by Vincent Sergiacomi
“Between the innocence of boyhood and the dignity of manhood, we find a delightful creature called a boy. […] A boy is truth with dirt on his face… A boy is a magical creature.” – opening pages of Ernie’s Bleachers
Liminality and nostalgia reside at the heart of Ernie’s Bleachers, a vibrant novel by Tim Pareti based on the true story of his family’s history. The text recounts the fictionalized childhood adventures of Eddy Pareti, the author’s father, and the intersecting lives of his family, friends, and others in their North Side Chicago neighborhood. Set primarily in the blocks around Wrigley Field as the Second World War draws to a close, Eddy’s adventures, and the goings-on at his family’s titular tavern across from the stadium, serve as an avenue for the author to explore a semi-imagined past in exceptionally human detail.
“Human” is the key phrase here. Ernie’s Bleachers feels at times like a series of short films, with Eddy’s penchant for fun and chaos pulling the narrative into quick and impactful spurts of action. There’s the expected bits – the boy and his friends at the local ballpark, making bets and coming to blows; parental scoldings in the face of persistent disobedience; and the endless battle of the adventurous kid against a world which seems intent on bringing him down. Pareti’s pacing is spot on, and these sections pass with appropriate intensity – whether Eddy’s hustling his way into Wrigley Field, stealing the mayor’s convertible, or getting into some other brand of trouble.
Yet despite his seeming insouciance in regards to his own future and the opinions of those around him, Eddy is not living in some paradise. That spirit of “everyone knows everyone”, the bygone days when some kid could walk onto Wrigley and play ball with the Cubs, when personhood trumped protocol – the feeling is here, and it contributes to a mystic, sepia-tinted atmosphere that comes off as distinctly forties. But interspersed with this idyllic portrayal of the era are complicated, impactful moments which elevate Ernie’s Bleachers from a nostalgia trip into a fascinating exploration of bygone people, places, and feelings.
There’s a scene where Eddy, on his paper route, passes the home of a soldier’s family, and notices that the blue star on their door has been replaced with a gold one. Eddy knows what this means: The Gold Star is the mark of the fallen soldier, the family’s home now marked in recognition of their son’s sacrifice. The soldier is a kid Eddy knew – a few years older, but still fond in his heart – and his death is made more tragic considering the day of the occasion. It’s VE Day – the war in Europe, after half a decade, is over. But in the shadow of victory is the sacrifice which made it possible, the loss which often gets lost in the ticker-tape parades and our collective memory of post-war ecstasy.
Pareti’s willingness to delve into complex emotional moments like these give his novel a wonderful weight. He does not saturate his text with melodrama, nor does he ever overextend to elicit emotion from his readers. Rather, he tells his story as it is. Wondrous, improbable things happen. So do brutal, unfortunate ones. Another highlight is Pareti’s willingness to acknowledge the racism prevalent in American society during the time period. This, too, is presented bluntly and without exposition. All things in this text happen side-by-side, none superseding the other. The result is a narrative that carries a richness which many historical novels fail to capture. It truly is a story about people, in every imaginable sense.
Also important is Pareti’s embrace of a uniquely Italian-American perspective. To be an Italian American eighty years ago was, without a doubt, a different experience from what it is today. A cursory look at history will say as much. Yet as much as it has transformed as Italian Americans find themselves increasingly engrained in the broader cultural fabric of America, Pareti dwells on the immutable and unchanging parts of this experience. When Eddy’s mother cooks – whether it’s Spaghetti Bolognese on Eddy’s birthday, risotto with chicken and Italian green beans, or something else – the family comes together. And even as his parents tear him a new one for his escapades and decide they need to keep his antics in line, the love between them never wavers. The Pareti family are a family through and through, something universal which transcends the time and setting.
It’s themes like these – love, grief, the highs and lows of day-to-day life – which give Ernie’s Bleachers its power. Pareti makes a winding, complex narrative accessible and relatable throughout, all while keeping its focus true and its details interesting. It’s about baseball, sure, just as much as it’s about war, boyhood, family, and friendship. But above all, Tim Pareti has created a book about people. As an homage to his father’s past, it is hard to imagine a more effective and captivating approach. Ernie’s Bleachers is a beautifully personal work of biographical fiction, bursting at the seams with personality. Storytellers, take note: This is how it’s done.
Vincent Sergiacomi is a poet and writer. His poetry has appeared in publications including Poetry Pacific, the Eunoia Review, and the Moonstone Arts Center’s New Voices anthology. His criticism has been featured in Ovunque Siamo and the Philly-based Loco Magazine. Vincent holds a degree in English from Arcadia University, and currently resides with his partner and their cat in Northwest Philadelphia.
***
The Neorealist in Winter by Salvatore Pane
Autumn House Press, 2023,
Winner of the Autumn House Fiction Prize, 166 pages
Reviewed by Chad Frame
In every good fiction, there’s an element of truth—or, at least, an element of the author’s truth and their unique perspective informing the narrative. In his new short story collection, The Neorealist in Winter, Salvatore Pane leverages his truth as an Italian-American, as a connoisseur of pop culture, and as a keen observer of the human experience.
Readers can expect to find many familiar references in these stories—TV, movies, music, comic books, and even pro wrestling. These bring us comfort, and are easy to connect with. The narrator in “Do I Amuse You?” profoundly states, “I like Goodfellas because it fills the shape of my depression.” What a brilliant way to describe the way consuming media helps us with these feelings. It doesn’t take them away, but it does fill us with something else—something manageable, or at least conceivable.
These pieces all take different (and often extremely inventive) forms. There are classic short stories with straightforward narratives, of course, such as “The Electric City,” wherein a man fakes a gambling debt to convince his friend to help him disappear, only for the friend to find out he’s lying to abandon his pregnant girlfriend. But even this “simple” setup belies the deeper, more nuanced character study. The final scene finds the two friends lying on the hood of a car, stargazing in their little coal town and listening to The Carpenters, reflecting on their lives thus far, and how they’re about to change—it’s subtle, it’s powerful, and most of all, speaking to Pane’s true strength, it’s extremely relatable.
Then, the very next story, “The Complete Oral History of Monkey High School,” is not only written in a clever mockumentary format, but is presented as a specific, very-late-into-it section, “Chapter 27: Li’l Einstein’s Final Fate.” Herein, we have interviews with writers, actors, television executives, and even live studio audience members from the eponymous show, as well as a miniature excerpt from the screenplay. Pane is putting his impressive range of writing talents on full display. And on top of all of this, the entire setup is a sly fantasy—a way for a terminally ill woman to attempt to process the harrowing experience of dying.
This same deft later-in-the-work excerpt style is used in “The Absolutely True Autobiography of Tony Rinaldi, the Man Who Changed Pro Wrestling Forever,” as it’s subtitled, “Chapter 6: 1982,” and deals exclusively with the main character attempting to muddle through his father’s death by indulging in his lifelong obsession with pro wrestling. The use of footnotes throughout reinforces the autobiography theme, and they serve as a clever way to sneak in exposition that would otherwise bog down the prose.
At the heart of everything in these stories are the binding Italian-American values of place and family. Many of these tales take place in Northern Pennsylvania towns such as Scranton, Wilkes-Barre, and Allentown—towns which historically all declined from once-booming manufacturing sectors into what’s now known as the Rust Belt. So, too, are there strained family dynamics—estranged parents, feuding siblings, and the like. Hard times through which the characters not only persevere, but manage to thrive, in their own way, through pursuing their own passions.
My favorite story is the final one, “The Last Train to Siena,” set entirely in Italy. Granted, I’m a sucker for any historical fiction, but this is a masterful look at the trials a couple faces over decades, moving back and forth in time to give a true panoramic view of their lives. We begin with a rather bleak slice of their life together, which “beats on and on and on, long after the climax.” We then see how the two of them met at the end of WWII, when Riccardo learns Maria is already pregnant, and will not speak of the baby’s father. He quickly intuits it was not a consensual act, and, once the baby is born, the German features tell him all he needs to know. That he agrees to give the baby to nuns in Siena so that he can have a life with Maria, to marry her and go on to have two children of their own together, is both an act of love and hardship on his part. Many years later, as an adult, the forsaken son attempts to reach out to them, but Maria insists on ignoring him so as not to traumatize her other children—or dredge up her own trauma from the war and circumstances of the pregnancy. That the final scene is another flashback of Riccardo on the train, going to deliver the newborn infant to the nuns, is telling. “It felt like both the beginning and end of Riccardo’s life, and, in almost every way that mattered, it was.” A woman sitting next to Riccardo on the train teaches him to burp the fussy infant, then asks if it’s his son. After a moment of wondering “if he would remember his face in a week, a month, a year,” we’re left with a tender image of the baby squeezing Riccardo’s finger, and Riccardo proclaiming proudly, “He’s my son.”
There’s a very good reason The Neorealist in Winter won the Autumn House Fiction Prize. While Pane specifically fuses IA family culture, pop culture, and endurance in the face of life’s many hardships, there’s something in these pages for everyone. I implore you—treat yourself to this collection as soon as you can.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 