The Sphinx

A Sphinx from Villa San Michele, Capri

The enduring image of the sphinx has long stirred the imagination, appearing in the haunting works of artists such as Gustave Moreau, Félicien Rops, and Franz von Stuck. Yet my own fascination with this ancient guardian was rekindled years ago during a visit to Villa San Michele on the island of Capri, where two silent sphinxes keep their timeless vigil above the Bay of Naples. The poem that follows is inspired by that memory and by the ancient symbolism of the sphinx as a guardian of mystery, a sentinel at the threshold between the known and the unknowable. ~ Giovanni di Napoli

The Sphinx

Long before kingdoms
Were swallowed by the desert,
Before temples became ruins
And the names of kings dissolved into dust,
The Sphinx stood watch.

She still waits,
In her fatal beauty,
At the threshold—
Between wisdom and folly,
Between life and death,
Between what may be known
And what must remain forever hidden.

For some mysteries
Were placed before mankind,
Not to yield their secrets,
But to teach humility
To those who dare
To meet the eyes
Of eternity.

Glory, Pilgrimage, and the Shadow of Martyrdom

Santa Patrizia, ora pro nobis

Beneath shortening days
And fields heavy with fruit,
August calls the soul
From glory
To sacrifice,
For every crown
Must first pass through the Cross.

August stands at the summit of summer. The fields have yielded their fullness, the vineyards swell with promise, and the first hints of autumn begin to appear beneath the lingering heat. It is a month suspended between fulfillment and decline, reminding us that every earthly season, however radiant, carries within it the certainty of change.

On August 6th, the Church celebrates the Transfiguration of the Lord. Upon Mount Tabor, Christ reveals His divine glory to Peter, James, and John, allowing them to glimpse, however briefly, the splendor that lies beyond the Cross. The feast reminds the faithful that suffering is never the final word, but the path by which glory is attained.

The middle of the month brings the beginning of San Michele’s Lent on August 15th, forty days of prayer, fasting, and penance traditionally observed until the Feast of Saint Michael the Archangel on September 29th. At a time when the world is given over to leisure and abundance, the Church calls the faithful back to discipline, preparing the soul for the spiritual combat that belongs to every Christian life.

The following day honors San Rocco, the pilgrim and protector against plague. Remembered for his charity toward the sick and his willingness to share in their suffering, he became a powerful sign of hope during times of pestilence throughout Europe. His example reminds us that sanctity is measured not by comfort, but by compassionate endurance.

On August 25th, Naples celebrates Santa Patrizia, one of the city’s beloved patronesses. For centuries, the miraculous liquefaction of her blood has been revered as a sign of her continued intercession, joining her memory to the rich tradition of Neapolitan devotion in which the saints remain living guardians of their people.

As the month draws to a close, the Church commemorates the Beheading of San Giovanni Battista on August 29th. The Forerunner who proclaimed the coming of Christ now seals his testimony with his blood. His martyrdom stands as a solemn reminder that fidelity to truth often demands the ultimate sacrifice, and that the voice crying in the wilderness is not silenced by death.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, July 31st, Feast of St. Ignatius of Loyola

The Forge Beneath Etna

The Forge of Vulcan, ca. 1660, Luca Giordano

Beneath Etna’s ancient slopes
Burned the hidden forge of
    Hephaestus,
Divine smith of gods and
    heroes,
Where bronze-skinned
    Cyclopes
Toiled without end.

Amid rivers of living fire
And showers of blazing sparks,
The weapons of heaven were
    wrought
Upon anvils older than time.

Each trembling of the
    mountain,
The ringing of immortal
    hammers;
Each torrent of flame,
The breath of the eternal
    furnace
Breaking forth into the
    world of men.

Graziella

Graziella, 1879, Jules-Joseph Lefebvre

Graziella gave her heart to a young stranger from a distant land.
While mending her grandfather’s net beneath the shadow of Vesuvius,
Their love blossomed beside the sea.
Yet fate proved stronger than youthful devotion,
And the day came when her beloved was compelled to depart.
Left alone upon the shore, she waited in hope and sorrow,
Her gaze fixed upon the horizon that would never return him.
At last, hope yielded to grief,
And she withered like a flower upon the Siren’s Bay

Pygmalion and Galatea

Pygmalion and Galatea, ca. 1890, Jean-Léon Gérôme

Pygmalion, a sculptor of rare genius,
Devoted himself to the pursuit of perfect beauty.
From ivory he fashioned a maiden
So flawless that he came to love the work of his own hands.
Day after day he adorned the silent figure,
Speaking to her as though life already stirred beneath her pale surface.
Moved by such devotion, foam-born Aphrodite heard his prayer,
And beneath his touch the statue awakened,
Cold ivory yielding at last to living flesh.

Orpheus and Eurydice

Orpheus and Eurydice, 1893, Auguste Rodin

When Eurydice,
The beloved bride of the
      poet-bard Orpheus,
Was claimed by death
He descended into the shadowed
       realm beneath the earth,
Carrying only his lyre and his
      undying love.

So moving was his lament
That even the rulers of the
      dead relented,
Granting Eurydice’s return
      upon one condition:
He must not look upon her
Until both had emerged from
      the kingdom of shades.

Yet at the threshold
Between darkness and light,
Doubt overcame faith.
Orpheus turned, and in that
      fatal instant
Eurydice vanished once more
      into the depths of Hades.

Blood and the Heights of Summer

Santa Rosalia, San Pantaleone, and
Madonna del Carmine, orate pro nobis

July does not awaken like April,
Crown like May,
Or stand watch like June.
It endures.

Beneath the blazing sun,
Amid harvests yet to come,
It calls for constancy,
Sacrifice, and trust
In the providence that sustains

    all things
Through the heat of the season.

July stands beneath the full authority of summer. The hesitations of spring are long gone; the fields, forests, and vineyards have committed themselves entirely to the season. The sun reaches its zenith, and with it comes both abundance and endurance.

The month opens with the Feast of the Most Precious Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ on July 1st. The devotion recalls the price of redemption and the mystery of sacrifice at the heart of the Christian faith. In a season marked by outward vitality, the feast turns the soul toward the source from which all true life proceeds.

On July 15th, the Church honors Santa Rosalia, the hermit of Palermo. Withdrawn from the world during her life, she became one of Sicily’s most beloved patrons after her intercession was credited with delivering the city from plague. Her memory reminds us that holiness often works unseen, hidden from the world until necessity reveals its power.

The following day brings the Feast of the Madonna del Carmine. For centuries, the Brown Scapular and the protection of Our Lady of Mount Carmel have offered consolation to the faithful. Her feast unites contemplation and devotion, calling Christians to remain steadfast amid the distractions and uncertainties of earthly life.

Near the month’s end, July 27th commemorates San Pantaleone, physician, martyr, and one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers. Remembered as a healer of both body and soul, he stands among those saints whose charity was inseparable from their faith. In several places, most notably in Ravello, his dried blood miraculously liquefies on his feast day. The miracle recalls the enduring bond between sacrifice and sanctity, bringing the month full circle from the Feast of the Most Precious Blood with which it began.

July begins and ends with reminders of blood freely given—of sacrifice, witness, and redemption.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, June 30th, Feast of Blessed Gennaro Maria Sarnelli

Apollonia

The Muses Leaving Their Father
Apollo to Go Out and Light the
World, (1868), Gustave Moreau

Shaken from slumber, I penned this simple ode to Apollonia, who still haunts my mind.

Apollonia

Apollonia was dark and sibylline.
We shared a love of books.
After school, we’d read bawdy verse
Between the stacks and nooks.

We dreamed of Barsoom’s distant sands
And tilted at windmills in sunny Spain.
She was Cleopatra to my Antony;
I was Tarzan to her Jane.

“Apollonia,” I’d whisper—
The mere sound of her name,
An invocation to Apollo himself,
A bright, burning flame.

Her family moved across town—
It felt a world away.
They say young love fades with time,
But I taste her kiss to this day.

Coffee, Memory, and Passing Encounters

I dug up a couple of my lyric vignettes to share—small moments gathered in cafés, where ritual and chance still linger. One returns, again and again, to a place haunted by history; the other records a single meeting, brief and unresolved, that refuses to settle into the past. ~ Giovanni di Napoli

Caffè Gambrinus

With each visit to Naples,
I make my way to Caffè Gambrinus,
The old coffee house across from the Royal Palace.
I raise a quiet toast
To the poets and artists who gathered there before me.

Their ghosts linger in the Art Nouveau rooms,
Like old Gambrinus himself.
I sip my caffè, eat my sfogliatelle, and watch the crowd,
Summoning, for a moment,
The faded splendor of the Belle Époque.

Cafè Gambrinus

A ogne víseta a Nápule,
Vaco ‘o’ Café Gambinus,
‘O cafè antico ‘e rimpetto ‘o Palazzo Riale.
Faccio nu brínnese zitto zitto
‘E’ puete e artiste
Ca nce arrucchiájeno primm’’e mme.

‘E fantáseme lloro nce rummáneno
Int’’e sale stile liberty,
Comm’’o viecchio Gambrinus isso stesso.
Me piglio ‘o surzillo mio,
Me magno ‘e sfugliatelle, e tengo a mente ‘a folla,
Facenno turnà, pe nu mumento
‘O sbrannore appassulejato d’’a belle époque.

Stella

We met at the café, and I held the door for her.
She smiled; I nodded and said, “Good morning.”

Taking her order, the barista asks her name—Stella.
Her hair jet; her eyes dark, almond-shaped.

“Your usual?” he asks me—un caffé.
She lifts her cup and says only, “Good day.”

And so I wait, and wait again,
For another morning that might place Stella in my path.

Stella

Nce simmo ncuntrate ‘o’ café, e i’ tenevo aperta ‘a porta p’essa.
Surrideva; i’ capuzzejavo e dicevo, «bongiorno».

‘O barista, lesto a fà l’órdene, nce addimanna ‘o nomme- Stella.
‘E capille suoje curuvine; ll’uocchie nire, ‘amménnole.

«’O sóleto?» addimanna a mme- nu café.
Chella s’aíza ‘a tazzulella e dice sulo, «Bona jurnata».

E accussí i’ aspetto e aspetto ancora,
Pe n’ata matina ca me mettesse ccà annanze Stella.

* Translations by Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

Black Moon Rising

Last night, beneath a cloudy sky where the moon refused to show its face, I found myself enjoying the cool night air. The stars hung distant and aloof, and in their silence I slipped into reverie. The darkness above felt like a blank page, and before long, I had written a sonnet for Alana, an old lover whose memory has stayed with me.

Alana’s life and death left an indelible mark on me; this poem is offered in her memory. The nicknames and slurs in the verses are not mine, but the cruel words she endured. They remain here only to bear witness. The events are rendered in the language of poetry, but the story is true: she lived, she was wronged, and she is remembered. My intent is not to sensationalize her tragedy, but to preserve, in some small way, the truth of her suffering and the dignity of her name.

In the silence of a moonless night, her memory rose like a dark tide—solemn, undeniable, and enduring.

Alana Puttana Baccalà

They called her “bagascia,” with sneering lies,
Cruel whispers tossed by boys in bitter pride;
Their hollow charms could never catch her eyes,
Though each had schemed to take her for a ride.

I burned for her—she knew, and drew me near;
In youthful heat I gave what love could give.
She took, then vanished—cool, remote, severe,
While I remained, still aching to re-live.

Tired of boys, she crossed forbidden lines,
No hint she’d ever stray another way.
Then horror struck—her body bore the crime;
She carried plague no prayer could keep away.

So silence claimed her with its final breath:
A wrist gone white—a red, unspoken death.

Sanfedisti

In this third installment of my "virtual chapbook," I pay homage to the great counter-revolutionary hero Cardinal Fabrizio Ruffo (1744-1827) and his Army of the Holy Faith (Sanfedisti), who defeated the subversive Jacobins and liberated the Kingdom of Naples in 1799.

Sanfedisti

Vermilion raiment at the head of the host
Answering His Majesty’s call,
To defend faith, family and hearth
From Napoleonic Gaul.

The warrior prelate from old Magna Graecia
Raised an unwavering array,
Like Patrizia over the “maiden-voiced”
The Army of the Holy Faith delivered Parthenope.

Routing the traitorous Jacobin
They felled the “Trees of Liberty,”
And restored to his rightful throne
His Sicilian Majesty.

The Fall of the Rebel Angels

The Fall of the Rebel Angels (ca. 1666),
Luca Giordano, Kunsthistorisches
Museum, Vienna, Austria

In this second installment of my "virtual chapbook," I sing of the downfall of the Luciferians. Never realizing my plan to pen my own epic poem in the vein of Joost van den Vondel's Lucifer (1654), I neatly summarized the War in Heaven and its repercussions in Campania in three short stanzas.

The Fall of the Rebel Angels

Angelic trumpets sound
And the rebels stormed the gate.
The Morningstar cast down,
Diadem knocked from his pate.

A piece of Heaven fell with him,
Plunging into the Siren’s Bay.
Avernus retched its foul air,
Vesuvius convulsed and quaked.

Weeping over the desolation,
Christ’s tears fecundate.
The land of bells lies forever
Between the realms of love and hate.

Brenda

Paolo and Francesca da Rimini (ca. 1856-60)
by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres

As part of my New Year’s resolution and live life to the fullest attitude, I started dabbling with poetry again. Overly self-critical of my work, I was convinced by trusted friends to take a chance and share them. Finally taking the plunge, I’m posting “My Latest Flame” for Valentine’s Day, which I penned dans un petit café français back in late December in Manhattan.

The accompanying image of the ill-fated lovers Paolo and Francesca by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres has long been a favorite of mine. Inspired by the adulterous tale in Dante’s Inferno, Canto V, the painting has nothing to do with my poem or love interest. I could have just as easily used Pygmalion and Galatea by Jean-Léon Gérôme, Orpheus and Eurydice by Auguste Rodin or any number of masterpieces to limn my romantic desire for the Iberian Circé who sets my heart afire.

Brenda

“Love reasons without reason.” ~ William Shakespeare, Cymbeline

On paper, my latest flame
Is all wrong for me;
Tattooed with a septum nose ring,
Alas, she cannot make a good café.
Her slender figure
And terrone dark complexion
Make me turn a blind eye.
Clearly, I have a type,
And prone to fall suddenly,
Not so much in love as desire.
Kari, Lillian and Gavi before
Were my Beatrice, Laura and Fiammetta;
Now Brenda,
In her white tee-shirt and overalls
Melts my heart
With her Spanish lisp.

Edited on Sunday, February 1, 2026 (title change and minor edit)