Can Grande translates as “Big Dog”. Interesting name for the Scaliger family who ruled Verona with an iron fist in the middle ages. Can Grande II della Scala was also nicknamed Can Rabbioso or “The Rabid Dog”.
It was he who built Castelveccio and the Castelveccio bridge to protect himself and his family from the people he exploited so heavily that they fell into penury. The castle turned out to be a wasted effort because in classic Italian style Can Grande found his end at the point of his brothers knife.
How much you can learn from an obscure reference in a line of a poem. What did we ever do before Google? Happy Birthday Richard Aldington who did his own “googling” in the British Museum.
In the British Museum; by Richard Aldington
I turn the page and read:
“I dream of silent verses where the rhyme
glides noiseless as an oar.”
The heavy musty air, the black desks,
the bent heads and the rustling noises
in the great dome
the sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky,
the boat drifts over the lake shallows,
the fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds,
the oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns,
and the swallows dive and swirl and whistle
about the cleft battlements of Can Grande’s castle…
You can imprison a body, but you cannot cage a man’s soul. There have been some “great” prisoners through the years. People who used their time in custody wisely and continued to fight for their cause. Time looks upon such people kindly. Nelson Mandela, Thomas Francis Meagher, Bobby Sands, Mohandas Gandhi, Leon Trotski, Aung San Suu Kyi. For the smart person prison can represent an opportunity as much as a setback, a classic case of life giving you lemons and you make lemonade. Many people know the Ballad of Reading Gaol, but it is not the only tale of woe from the Irish guest of his Majesty who had nothing to declare but his genius. Sadly his time in prison gave him only a very limited redemption. The fight for homosexual rights is far from won.
At Verona; by Oscar Wilde
HOW steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are
For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,
And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound’s table,–better far
That I had died in the red ways of war,
Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,
Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.
‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this?
He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
Of his gold city, and eternal day’–
Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars
I do possess what none can take away,
My love, and all the glory of the stars.