The Tears of St. Lawrence

San Lorenzo, ora pro nobis

Unable to sleep, last night I crept into the backyard with a glass of absinthe and looked toward the heavens. The Perseid meteor shower was nearing its peak, and the new moon promised unusually favorable conditions. I had already gone searching for them on August 10th, La Notte di San Lorenzo, the Night of St. Lawrence, but the weather was less accommodating. Pontarlier in hand, I waited in the darkness in the vain hope of catching even a fleeting streak of light across the summer sky.

In Catholic tradition, the Perseids are known as Le Lacrime di San Lorenzo, the Tears of St. Lawrence, their falling light recalling the tears shed for the martyred deacon. Another tradition sees in their fiery descent the glowing embers of the flames upon which he was roasted.

Though no celestial fire revealed itself to me that night, I made my annual wish beneath the obscured heavens, trusting the old custom even without a shooting star to carry it.

Whether I saw them seemed almost beside the point. Simply keeping vigil beneath the firmament, meditating on the martyr whose blazing embers return to us every August, was enough. Somewhere beyond my sight, the Tears of St. Lawrence were falling. Evviva San Lorenzo!

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, August 13th, Feast of Sant’Ippolito Martire

The Timeless Rhythms of the Heavens

A European (skull) mount of a buck,
 recalling the Buck Moon and the
ancient symbolism of renewal

Udremo a notte le sue lunghe muggia, udremo la voce sua di toro;
sorgerà il grido della sua lussuria
udremo nei silenzi della luna.

At night we will hear his long bellows, we will hear his voice like a bull’s;
the cry of his lust will rise;
we will hear it in the silences of the moon.
~ Gabriele D’Annunzio, Il Cervo

July has always seemed to me the most haunted month of summer. The sun still reigns over the earth by day, but the nights grow deeper and more mysterious, as though the heavens themselves were preparing for autumn’s long descent into darkness.

The month has already offered several wonders. On July 11th, Mars appeared beside the waning Moon and the ancient stars of the Pleiades in the predawn sky, an austere conjunction that recalled the firmament's timeless order. A few evenings later, on July 16th and 17th, brilliant Venus drew close to the slender crescent Moon in the western sky, creating one of the month’s most beautiful pairings before slipping back into the gathering darkness.

Yet some of July’s greatest mysteries still lie ahead.

Between the nights of July 28th and 30th, the Southern Delta Aquariid meteor shower will send ghostly streaks of light across the southern sky. Less brilliant than the famous Perseids, these meteors possess a gentler beauty, appearing like silent embers cast from some unseen celestial fire.

Then, on the night of July 29th, the full Buck Moon will rise.

Named for the season when the stag regrows his antlers, the Buck Moon has long been associated with strength, renewal, and the untamed wilderness. Other traditions know it as the Thunder Moon, the Hay Moon, or the Mead Moon, preserving memories of storms, harvests, and ancient midsummer feasts.

For Christians, the symbolism runs even deeper. The moon has long represented the Blessed Virgin Mary, reflecting not her own light but that of her Divine Son. The stag likewise recalls Christ, who tramples the serpent beneath His feet and leads the faithful toward the sacred waters of eternal life. The annual shedding and renewal of the stag’s antlers has long served as an allegory of resurrection and new life.

As the month draws toward its close, keep watch upon the night sky. Watch for the silent fall of meteors, and when the Buck Moon rises above the horizon, remember the poets who found voices in its silence.

Luna d’argiento, lass’ ’o sunnà,
vaselo ’nfronte, nun ’o sceta…

Silver moon, let him dream,
kiss his brow, do not wake him…
~ Salvatore Di Giacomo, Luna Nova

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 27th, Feast of San Pantaleone

Controra: When Midday Falls Silent

Phoebus Apollo, beneath the blistering sun at Pompeii

As the summer sun bears down with its full fury, I find myself doing what generations of my ancestors from the Mezzogiorno—the Land of the Midday Sun—have done before me: stepping indoors, slowing my pace, and taking a breather.

There is a peculiar hour when the sun is at its zenith, the streets stand empty, the shutters are closed, and even the cicadas seem to dream. This is the controra.

Our forebears called it the Hour of the Spirits. Many believed that, beneath the crushing noontide sun, the souls of the departed and strange meridian demons wandered the silent roads. Children were warned to remain indoors—not only to escape the dangerous heat, but to avoid whatever unseen things lurked in the shimmering stillness.

More than folklore, the controra is also an act of resistance. In a civilization increasingly ruled by haste, productivity, and chrono-capitalism, these still hours remind us that not every moment exists to be exploited. There is dignity in pausing, in daydreaming, in reflection, and in simply being.

Perhaps it is no coincidence that meridionale—“southerner”—derives from the Latin meridies, meaning both “noon” and “south.” To belong to the South has always meant living by the sun, accepting its rhythms, and knowing that, for one mysterious hour each day, the world itself seems to hold its breath.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 5th, Feast of Sant’Antonio Maria Zaccaria

Blood Under the Wolf Moon

Luna

"Over the mountains
  Of the moon,
Down the valley of the shadow,
  Ride, boldly ride,"

                   ~ Edgar Allan Poe, Eldorado

January 3rd—The Wolf Moon rises again, cold and unadorned, without ceremony. A stark beacon in the winter sky, it does not illuminate—it exposes. A visceral call, it awakens the memory of my ancestors from the rugged karst and deep valleys of the mountains of Irpinia.

Blood remembers what comfort teaches us to forget. The pull of winter, the discipline of hunger, restraint before action—these things surface under the Wolf Moon. One does not become something new; one returns to something old. The modern world calls this regression. Our ancestors knew it as proper orientation long before memory learned to speak.

To the Hirpini, hirpus—wolf—was the name of the path they followed, the sign under which they moved during the ver sacrum, when the young were consecrated, expelled, and sent forward not to wander, but to found. What was left behind was comfort. What was carried forward was law.

The wolf survives winter by law, not rage. So the man who keeps faith with his inheritance learns restraint, accepts constriction, and waits in silence—ready to move without hesitation when duty calls.

This is not nostalgia. Blood-memory is not sentiment; it is obligation. To endure. To remain loyal to one’s own. To recognize that life is ordered toward sacrifice long before it is ordered toward pleasure. The ver sacrum has not ended—it has merely become interior, an ascetical discipline. We are still being asked what we are willing to relinquish in order to remain intact.

The ver sacrum was never about abandoning the past. It was about proving oneself worthy to carry it forward, even in the new world. Under the Wolf Moon, the question endures: what must be surrendered so that the line does not fail on your watch?

The answer is borne, not spoken.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, December 2nd, Feast of San Silvestro di Troina

Also see:
• A Luna Reverie
• Random Thoughts as the Wolf Moon Approaches

A Luna Reverie

A Nocturnal Meditation in the Passenger Seat

Homeward I rode as a passenger beneath the cool breath of night, the road winding through hills that once echoed with the tread of wolves. Beyond the misted glass, Luna kept her silent vigil—waning now, yet undiminished in grace. She drifted in and out of veiling clouds, a tenebrous icon of the Morning Star, half-seen, cloaked in incense and candle smoke, her ethereal light falling upon the serpentine road, like the Virgin’s heel upon the head of the primeval serpent.

Immacolata Concezione
by Bernardo Cavallino

I thought of my forebears—the Hirpini, wolf-men of the Campanian Apennines—who knew these same stars, who prayed to older gods before the Cross rose over the Neapolitan hinterlands. Yet even they, I thought, might have bowed their heads beneath such a sky, where the ancient and the eternal commingle.

Luna, mirror of the Sun Divine, thou art the Virgin’s own emblem—chaste and shining not by thine own power, but by reflection of the greater Light. In thee Mary’s mystery abides: the gentle intercessor who gathers the radiance of Christ and pours it upon the darkened earth. As the moon waxes and wanes, so too does mortal life—death yielding to rebirth, shadow yielding to dawn.

Through the windshield’s dim reflection, I beheld her face once more, veiled and unveiled by the coursing clouds. And in that vision there stirred both memory and longing: for the mountains of my progenitors, for the faith that outlives the flesh, for the wild howl of the spirit still running through my veins and echoing through the valleys of Irpinia.

O Luna benigna, pale shepherdess of souls, guide us through the night’s uncertainty. Shine upon the road that leads us home, and keep thy radiant heel upon the coiling dark—until the Sun of the Resurrection breaks anew upon the hills.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, November 6th, Feast or San Leonardo di Noblac

Random Thoughts as the Delta Aquariids and Alpha Capricornids Approach

Following the fading glow of the lucent Buck Moon on July 10th, the night sky will offer another celestial gift in the form of the Delta Aquariids and Alpha Capricornids meteor showers. Peaking in the final days of July, these overlapping displays promise a captivating show (weather permitting) for skywatchers willing to stay up past midnight.

Best viewed in the still hours before dawn, the Delta Aquariids (active from mid-July to mid-August) are known for their swift, spectral streaks that flash across the southern sky. The Alpha Capricornids, by contrast, will complement the show with a few slow-moving fireballs, leaving radiant trails in their wake.

This year, the waning crescent moon will offer near-perfect viewing conditions, bringing an extra touch of wonder to our warm midsummer nights.

New Format for Our Saint of the Day and Holiday Updates

In an effort to streamline and avoid clutter, we’re changing how we share our Saint of the Day and holiday posts. Beginning this August, we’ll be posting a roundup (with links) at the start of each month. While this may mean we no longer post content daily, the change is intended to make it easier for you to find the latest posts without older ones getting in the way.

With less administrative and site maintenance on my plate, this should also free me up to spend more time researching and creating a wider range of content, which several of you have asked for. A few trusted friends have shared similar concerns about the current format feeling too crowded, and I agree it’s time to try something different. Honestly, the pressure to post every single day was also starting to wear me down.

So moving forward, we’re giving this new approach a try and seeing where it takes us.

Encouraged by Your Support

I’m glad to know I’m not the only one enjoying our translations and reviews of Italian-language articles and books. Speaking of which, I currently have a few in the works. For a while, I hesitated to take on certain pieces, partly because I have no formal training and have often doubted my language and writing skills.

Thanks to recent improvements in translation tools, I’ve become more willing to dive in. Your interest and encouragement make all the difference.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 16th, Feast of the Madonna del Carmine

Random Thoughts as the Buck Moon Approaches

As the hart panteth after the fountains of water, so my soul panteth after thee, O God. ~ Psalm 41:2 DRB

This year, July’s full “Buck Moon” falls on the 10th. The name comes from the time of year when male deer start to regrow their antlers. Popularized by the Farmer’s Almanac in the 1800s, the term was reportedly adopted by the pioneers from the Native Americans. It is also known as the “Thunder Moon,” due to July’s frequent storms; the “Hay Moon” for the hay harvest; and the “Mead Moon,” marking the season when honey was traditionally gathered to brew mead, an ancient and tasty fermented honey beverage. 

Unable to find real mead in time, I thought we would instead mark the occasion with a few shots of Bärenjäger and Jägermeister, along with a little moon bathing, weather permitting. Traditionally, in Naples, moonlight bathing is believed to cure both physical and spiritual ailments.

Long fascinated by the moon and other celestial bodies, La Luna is a medieval symbol of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Just as the moon reflects the light of the sun, Mary reflects the divine light of her Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ.

The stag, on the other hand, embodies Christ and is a messenger of divine truth. Just as the stag tramples the serpent underfoot, so does Our Lord crush Satan. The shedding of antlers serves as an allegory for renewal and resurrection.

The stag bathing in springs symbolizes baptism and the Church’s role in guiding the faithful to the sacred waters of eternal life. The motif of the hunted stag pierced by arrows, as seen in the hagiographies of Sant’Eustachio Martire and Sant’Uberto di Liegi, represents both the Passion of Christ and, more broadly, the martyrdom of the saints.

With more than a few hours to kill before the astronomical event, I plan to browse my poetry books for a few poems to read to my guests after dinner. I already know I will recite Salvator Di Giacomo’s Luna Nova (New Moon) and Gabriele D’Annunzio’s Il Cervo (The Deer). Hopefully, I will find a couple more suitable for the evening.

An excerpt from D’Annunzio’s Il Cervo:

Udremo a notte le sue lunghe 

muggia, udremo la voce sua di toro; 

sorgerà il grido della sua lussuria

udremo nei silenzi della luna.

At night we will hear his long

bellows, we will hear his voice like a bull’s;

the cry of his lust will rise

we will hear it in the silences of the moon.

And from Di Giacomo’s Luna Nova:

Luna d’argiento, lass’ ‘o sunnà, 

vaselo ‘nfronte, nun ‘o sceta…

Silver moon, let him dream,

kiss his brow, do not wake him…

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 9th, the Feast of Santa Veronica Giuliani

Stargazing with My Nephew

My new bronze pocket sextant

As much as I wish he wouldn’t spend his money on me, my teenage nephew surprised me this week with a bronze pocket sextant, a thoughtful gift that means the world to me. It seems he was paying attention the other night when I was prattling on about the moon and stars. I'm not sure what changed, but whenever I tried to share my hobbies with him before—be it philately, entomology, or anything else—he showed little to no interest. Yet, for some reason, watching me jot notes in my leather-bound observation log and attempting to chart the heavens with a makeshift cardboard astrolabe captured his imagination.

Perhaps it was my joke about the impending meteor collision with Earth, talk of space aliens, or simply the unusually clear night, but he appeared genuinely interested and put down his phone long enough to admire the celestial night sky. His questions reminded me of my childhood when my paternal grandmother sparked my initial curiosity in astronomy and astrology (among other things) and taught me about the constellations. I hope this will help expand his mind, deepen his knowledge about the universe, and draw him away from some of the fatuous distractions afflicting so many young people today. Additionally, it would be nice to share common interests beyond simply rooting for the same local sports teams.

The Death of Carnevale and Orion the Hunter

My morning stroll through the park

After numerous inaccurate weather forecasts by overzealous meteorologists these past few weeks, we finally got the opportunity to experience some snow again in Brooklyn—though it still wasn’t as bad as they predicted it would be.

The first decent snowfall since the light dusting we received about a month ago, I’ve been looking forward to it since the beginning of winter. Unlike many of my fellow city dwellers, I enjoy the snow. Yes, it’s fleeting and quickly turns into a mess, but for a short while the grimy streets turn into a winter wonderland free of pedestrians.

Seemingly contrary to my Mediterranean ancestry, I always fared better in the cooler climes. While my kin are generally sun-worshipers, I prefer winter and trips upstate and Canada. Give me forests and mountains over the beach and oceans any day.

Fasolada Yiahni

Unfortunately, due to the long commutes for some, our planned Fat Tuesday dinner party at a French bistro in Manhattan had to be canceled. This sadly meant no steak au poivre for me.

Having cleaned out my fridge and pantry of all meat, eggs and dairy for Lent, this also meant there were slim pickings at home—certainly nothing worthy of Martedi Grasso.

Meeting up with a friend, we went to a local Greek gyrádiko for dinner and ouzerí afterward for café and dessert.

Horiatiki

While not the rich decadent meal we originally had planned, we did get one last taste of lamb, feta and tzatziki before the Great Fast. We also got to toast the death of Carnevale with some ouzo, instead of absinthe.

During our passeggiata, the night sky was unexpectedly clear of clouds. Doing a little stargazing, we briefly accompanied the fearsome Orion on his celestial hunt. This was the second time in as many weeks that I got to see the constellation. Nowadays the stars are almost always obscured by light pollution.

With the revelry over, we now prepare for Christ’s Resurrection at Easter with fasting, abstinence, and penitence. We wish you all a blessed Lenten Season.

Souvlaki

Random Thoughts as the Wolf Moon Approaches

Luna

“Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night, may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms, and the autumn moon is bright.” ~ Curt Siodmak, The Wolf Man

The first full moon of 2024 will rise on Thursday, January 25th. Known as the Wolf Moon, its name is said to have Anglo-Celtic origins and is derived from, Faoilleach, the old Scottish Gaelic name for the dark and cold period between mid-January and February. Loosely translated to “wolf month” or “wolf ravaging time,” it got its name from the howling of hungry wolves during the bitter winter months. Fittingly, I was born in this period and the fiery Irpinian blood I inherited from my mother’s side always seems to get up this time of year. 

For those who don’t know, Irpinia (Oscan: Hirpinia) is an appellation for the mountainous interior of eastern Campania (Appennino campano) located in the province of Avellino and its totemic emblem is the wolf. As you would expect, this is because the area was named after the Oscan-speaking Hirpini tribe. The name Hirpini, meaning "wolf-men," is derived from hirpus, the Oscan word for "wolf." 

An offshoot of the Samnites, the wolven Hirpini are thought to have acquired their fearsome name from their spiritual guide animal during the ver sacrum or sacred spring rituals. An ancient Italic religious practice, the ver sacrum was a vow to Mars (Oscan: Māmers), the god of war and agriculture, under whose divine auspices young war bands were expelled from the tribe and required to found new settlements. The migratory rite led to Indo-European expansion in the Italian peninsular and subsequent assimilation with the indigenous Neolithic populations.

A few She-Wolf of Rome souvenir trinkets I acquired over the years

Blood Memories

“The Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.” ~ Jack London, White Fang

Even though I’ve never actually seen a wolf in the wild, the predatory beast remains a mystical presence, both negative and positive. This undoubtedly stems as much from my ancestry as my upbringing. While often a symbol of war (Mars), destruction and death, the wolf can sometimes represent loyalty (to its pack), vigor, strength, and fertility. Consider the contrast between the Capitoline Wolf of Rome (Lupa), who suckled and protected the Eternal City’s mythical founders Romulus and Remus, and Fenrir, an agent of Chaos in Norse mythology whose wolf sons Sköll and Hati Hróðvitnisson swallowed the sun and moon respectively during Ragnarök (or Götterdämmerung), the twilight of the gods.

The Hour of the Wolf

“From an encounter with the gods of the underworld, we must take care lest we return as madmen” ~ Nicolás Gómez Dávila, The Authentic Reactionary

According to a friend, the Norse also believe in vargtimmen or Wolf Hour, a supernatural time before the break of dawn when bugbears, lycanthropes and other creatures of the night prowl the world and the sleepless are haunted. As someone who often suffers from wakeful nights, I found this most fascinating. 

Unfortunately, the time constraint to make our deadline has limited my inquiry to a cursory internet search. The most relevant and often cited reference I could find about this eldritch folk tale is from Swedish film director Ingemar Bergman, who is credited with coining the phrase for his 1968 horror film Vargtimmen. As per Bergman:

“The hour of the wolf is the hour between night and dawn. It is the hour when most people die, when sleep is the deepest and nightmares the most vivid. It is the hour when insomniacs are hunted by their worst anxieties, when ghosts and demons are at their most powerful. The hour of the wolf is also the hour when most babies are born.”

Fucarazzo di Sant'Antuono

Dreaming of the Chase

“Those who have none dream of fangs…” ~ E.M. Cioran, All Gall is Divided

Staring into the dancing flames at our recent fucarazzo di Sant'Antuono (St. Anthony’s Bonfire), I briefly slipped into reverie and hearkened back to the many hunting and camping trips of my youth. Stoking our wild imaginations, the menfolk would often tell us ghost stories about werewolves and feral children raised by wolves around the campfires. On one unforgettable night, my youngest uncle unexpectedly emerged from the murky forest dressed (to our delight and horror) as a wild wolf boy and sent our pack scattering for safety. A time-honored male bonding rite, we still laugh whenever we recall the story.

Wolf Age

Brother will fight brother and be his slayer, 

brother and sister will violate the bond of kinship; 

hard it is in the world, there is much adultery, 

axe-age, sword-age, shields are cleft asunder, 

wind-age, wolf-age, before the world plunges headlong; 

no man will spare another. ~ The Poetic Edda

Call it what you will—Wolf Age, Kali Yuga or Dark Age—there can be no denying that the modern West is collapsing around us. However, all is not doom and gloom, there are still those who keep the old traditions and folkways alive and this gives us hope for the future. Even with my resolution to live a better life, replete with prayer, charity and the sacraments, I sometimes lose sight of this and need reminding that there are still a great many joys, beauty and good in the world to experience and carry out. 

These blessings also need defending. Choosing to identify (like my ancient Italic ancestors) with the more favorable aspects of the wolf, we men of the right must remain loyal to our “pack,” vigorous in body and mind, cunning against a relentlessly evil foe, and fierce in battle in defense of Christendom wherever the altar, throne and hearth still stand. "Auribus teneo lupum" [1] as the old proverb goes, and so goes our dealings in the world...

~ By Giovanni "Guiscard" di Napoli, January 22nd, Feasts of San Domenico di Sora, Sant'Irene di Roma, and San Vincenzo di Saragozza

Notes

[1] Holding a wolf by the ears