A Self Made Man
You were born in Italy
The youngest of eleven
And there was poverty.
Your mother cooked and cleaned she often sighed in weariness
Your father shuffled in from work
His worn out cap ..his shapeless woven clothes
That smell of working man that filled the room.
...but that was long ago before men’s perfumes came along.
A lot has happened since Pietro.
The roughness of your country hands...
Has been smoothed over with the rolling years...
The wind upon your breath has quietened down...has stilled itself
Into an urban breeze
You’ve ironed out your past
Into a new sophistication.
You grew into a man who knew
How other you’d become.
...you were ready for the World
And seized it like a hungry wolf seize its unsuspecting prey
And you devoured the flesh of Paris,
Sucked at her juices... chewed on her bones
You sensed your destiny and took control
Before it had a chance to flee from or abandon you.
Pietro knew that chance was not a game that he would play
Control was more your thing....
So that is what you did ...your way
And soon they were to call it...Avant Garde
.....perhaps you learnt your trade in old Treviso
When you were but a grubby child...observing everything
...the fields of Veneto had a song to sing
Those sweet sounds stayed with you
Filling you with energy ... the nectar of success?
You were always torn by dichotomy Pietro
Chateau Lacoste and Palais Bulles
Espace P.C. Paris or Evolution
Maxims across the globe...
That French Italian thing....both of them lay within you
Two siblings writhing in your home made tomb.
You , born from a stocky womb, have come so far
Since your first steps inside the Dior doors
Leaving your country boots outside upon the step
You grew and blossomed as a Couturier
At first sleek and elegant... your soft lines caress the female body
But then...
You left all that behind... ignoring the human form..
You dressed them up with structures
...metal milk pales
Or hoops you rolled along the bumpy lanes
As a scruffed up boy.
Pietro ...you placed dinner plates upon the model’s heads
Large spheres your mother served the pasta from
In uneventful Callalta ...and....
The pointed arrows of the Cypress Trees became next seasons hats
And how you liked androgyny.
Honours fell upon you and your many rainbows with their crocks of gold.
Llife moved on quickly...the smartest circles joined you
But somehow Pietro never did get lost amongst the crowd
He stayed within himself
...and when you left the Mollard in Rue Saint Lazaire
your tie was roughly loose, your jacket bore some stains
Your Hair was unkempt
... just like your dear old father had always been Pietro
Two of your cars were parked nearby...
Your male friend took the glittering Rolls
You... the battered Renault and both of you flew off into the night
But that was sometime after
The Day You Met the Javelin
At Ca’ Bragadin
And
Long after you had become Pierre Cardin of Paris.
Kristine Byrne.11.11.11...!