Posts

Galleria Borghese

How the mighty fall, they say. A might head, clutched in a delicate hand, is all that is left of such a monstrous being. Goliath, he was called, a rent in his skull and blood on his blue lips. David is his final witness,          Judge,        Executioner. In his feathered cap he stands contrapposto,   a gentle hand curled lovingly around the hilt of his deadly sword.   His eyes are unreadable, full of fire and a strange sort of mirth That one so fearsome should fall at his feet in such a graceless display. David hoists his trophy, And its unseeing gaze pierces the nearby horizon, Strong, noble brow forever marred by savage furrows Unlike those of his killer. His young face is soft with the remnants of boyhood, All ruddy cheeks and aristocratic jaw. But this is no boy that stands armor-less on the battle field, With the confidence of a soldier emanating from his limbs and careful stance. The darkness behind him beckons, le
Post a Comment
Read more

Santa Maria sopra Minerva

For my only real solo excursion, I decided to visit the Basilica di Santa Maria sopra Minerva, as it was one of the churches I had not seen the inside of before. As I was already in the Pantheon area I decided to stop by the Basilica and poke my head in to look around. I was not disappointed by my decision.   This basilica was simply beautiful. As one of the few churches in Rome with the original Gothic architecture intact, and within the plethora of Roman Churches it certainly stands out. The first thing that catches the eye is the brilliant blue adorning the vaults, with amazing arches and bright gold borders. It looks wholly unlike the traditional basilica style which you would find in a church like Santa Sabina, which is beautiful in its own austere way.   The chapels were just as wonderful, covered in beautiful art and various recognizable scenes: the Carafa Chapel’s frescoes in honor of St. Thomas Aquinas blew me away with its opulence. The annunciation scene in
Post a Comment
Read more

Crypt and Museum of the Capuchin Monks

It was early when Emily, Peter and I set out from St. John’s, around 8:45. We knew that the Capuchin Crypt and Museum opened at 9 o’clock, and wanted to get the trip in before the rest of the day’s activities. I’d already been to the Crypt on my last visit to Rome, but the place was so magical for me that I wanted to go back and experience it again. Luckily, I’d found some willing companions to accompany me on my quest. First order of business: Breakfast. We stopped across the street for a quick pastry and coffee; a typical RomeKids’ morning treat. After our snacking, we wandered down the Via Marcantonio Colonna to the Metro stop. The church and Crypt are located just off of the Piazza Barberini, which would have been a quick and convenient ride had the metro stop been open. As Barberini was closed, (and would continue to be so for the foreseeable future), we decided to instead get off at Spanga and take a pleasant walk down to the Piazza Barberini, poking our heads int
Post a Comment
Read more

Piazza Cavour

It was almost time. The young man swung his jacket back and forth as he bounced on his toes in anticipation. The older man beside him looked on silently, his face unreadable. The young man had been under his training for some time now, and it was almost time for him to finally enact his plans. The older man slowly evaluated the boy’s movements, every so often interrupting him to correct his form or fix his posture.   From the shade of the tall palm trees the boy craned his neck to stare up the back of Camillo Cavour. This was partly his fault, after all. Next to the boy, seated on the curb was a fellow soldier, with a bright yellow Three on the sleeve of his polo. Number two couldn’t make it today, so there were only two brave soldiers going through their preparations. Today was the day; the two boys were going to mount an assault of the Palazzo de Giustizia to return Rome to Papal control.   This was the way that Italy was meant to be; at least thats what their father
Post a Comment
Read more

Aventine Hill

Up on the Aventine, there are less voices to be heard in this gentle wind-swept place. Yet, it is not silent. Here, next to Santa Sabina and among the orange trees I sit, dampness from the wooden bench I’m perched on seeping slowly into my clothes. The rain has passed, and the birds resume their cheerful tittering in the warm rays of the sun. I can hear the rustle of the leaves and the flapping of wings moved by the gentle breeze whispering across my bare arms. The birds themselves express their personality though sound. From the deep, harsh caw of the Hooded Crow, the almost human outbursts from the gulls, to the reedy singing from various songbirds, the high pines are alive with a symphony that any garden would be proud to house.   Water droplets fall from the canopy, a left over from the morning’s stormy weather. I have to cover my paper so that the water does not bend and warp the fibers into something soft and malleable. A burst of wind shakes free another sun shower,
Post a Comment
Read more

Capitoline Museum

Pale, smooth, and quietly serene, He stands upon his pedestal. Shadows cast upon his chest By outstretched wings that could never hold his weight. Those nugatory appendages, each feather lovingly carved   By the delicate hand of a craftsman   Lost to the ages, whose name we will never encounter. He must long to fly, This unclad figure, Son of a goddess most beautiful, But with his wings a heavy stone burden he will never soar. His bare arms delicate and graceful, His sturdy legs just as exquisite. An unblemished torso With a pallor that will never fade even in Sol’s harsh light. How lovely he is, This agent of desire Who grasped the exiled poet   In his boyish hands and never let him go. Diana’s bane, This innocent figure With a weapon not unlike her own But with a purpose that she will never approve. His quiver rests on a nearby tree, Set by the wayside and forgotten. The only item around for him to wear, And yet
Post a Comment
Read more

Keats Shelley Memorial House

It was pleasantly warm when Emma and I set off on a brisk walk from St. John’s on our way to the Keats Shelley Memorial House. The two of us were excited, as both of us have a love for the work of both John Keats and Percy Shelley. I myself had a particular interest in seeing the small rooms where Keats stayed during his time in the Eternal City as I had learned more about him and Shelley for my site report on the Non-Catholic Cemetery, where both men are buried.   The Piazza de Spagna was bustling with noisy tourists and street vendors, the most memorable of which was a man pretending to play the violin for a crowd of hoodwinked onlookers. The museum itself wasn’t hard to find; the sign was large and red, clearly displaying the names of the two poets right on the corner next to the steps. We pushed our way through the crowd, past the fountain, and made our way to the heavy wooden doors of the museum. I stopped to check the time: 5 o’clock, one hour before the museum close
Post a Comment
Read more