Nicola Vulpe was born in Montreal. He completed a doctorate in philosophy at the Sorbonne, and taught in Spain before returning to Canada. His poems have appeared in journals such as Alba, The Antigonish Review, The Manhattan Review, Mediterranean Poetry, Montréal Serai, Slush Pile Magazine, and Stand Magazine. He has published a novella, The Extraordinary Event of Pia H., who turned to admire a chicken on the Plaza Mayor, as well as four collections of poetry, including Through the Waspmouth I Drew You and Insult to the Brain, which received the Fred Cogswell Award for Excellence in Poetry.
Of the third campaign
we know almost nothing.
He went north, a widower now,
and died on the banks of a blue river,
at Sirmium.
Or perhaps Vindobona.
THE SLAVE
Pity Hannibal, the elephants especially,
teetering over the narrow gorge,
the crystalled fog, the blind wind.
Pity him, his elephants, the slave especially,
leading, unshoed across the icefield. The slave,
his bones turning in the turquoise stream.
ALCIBIADES
All these years, Socrates,
I longed for you.
Where now love?
An old man spent,
beside me snoring.
Where now the wine jug?
where that girl with her flute?
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Poetry in this post: © Nicola Vulpe
Published with the permission of Nicola Vulpe