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A waxing and waning of words
but not at all with the regular rhythm
of the phases of the moon, moon that
once gazed at
makes you wish to witness a sky breath
and the transparency of the soul,
not that balance between what
is active and passive in the gaze
and gives words only the role of a shade
whispering around, like fingers
that nod at the currents
and the wavering nuances of the haze,
not at all the tune of this digression
and not in the least the force
of any meditation,
just words worming, clustering,
like gnats splattered on a wall
by a gust of wind, then scattering,
then returning attracted by a halo of heat,

words following an order anyway yes,
the order of the scroll,
you roll and roll,
proceed in the list,
try to be smart
or worse, wise
and talk like
in a square they say,
and you feel free
to reach the whole world
with your opinions on the scroll.
Free...partcipating
in the buzzing words' bees?

This was a blank page once upon a time,
like the image of a silent stare.
Spotless. Unknown.

CORMORANTS PASSING

 

In front of the causeway,

in the haze and heat,

they dash on a straight line

skimming the water-skin.

Jet black, jet speed.

Impressing themselves

on the horizon’s veil

for a few instants, then

fading, not leaving a trace.

Transiting? How fast? 

Idle curiosity.

They are just

fast. And neat.

Precise in the heat.

 

Like the shine on some

crabs’ armor, here

on the stones nearby.

A few crabs staying still

before scuttling back in.

A few seconds' shine

for a few instants welding

immobility and speed,

like the heart in silence,

like the Gods

who have no need.

OLEANDERS

( After  Robert Frost )

 

Long gardens behind the sea,

grass, then stones before the waves

that are nothing now in the early

morning of this summer day,

in the quiet washing of the ground swell,

the low, vast shuffling.

There is a distant little bell ringing

on the horizon’s open well

with that hint of a haze like a mind

resting in its own breath.

And there is this full, sweet

aroma in the gardens, a lingering

you have fed for ages.

expecting a myriad of stages.

Anything fulfilled?

Oh, it’s too vague and too great to tell,

songs spread like the ground swell

and have been seeping, seeping well.

And are still here, here and untold

after a whole life’s lull

and all the ghosts’ gold.

GHOST

I’m sure you have just passed by

and I missed you, in the shuffling,

there’s too much crowd in the house,

I am moving for now or maybe just

dreaming to be moving, I feel

reassured not feeling my own self

as solid as I believed once.

Things and beings are cast about

like slings, Hades behind the shades,

your things, our things, items

in dust and sun that can last

often more than a body can,

like handwriting, the flourishing

of a spirit though the pen.

Yes, they are handling with care

your cups, your favourite teapot,

the pictures with the ebony frames,

those above the sofa with the worn out

patterns of flowers.

There’s still the blue Aga,

too massive, can’t be moved,

I know you were passing near there.

I’ll be back in the summer...

no furniture? You know I don’t mind,

I’ll get a camp bed. I’ll be

in the kitchen, at the window,

with the crickets.

It will be just a short step

sensing the swish of your breath

and, filling the waiting of a night,

the starry buzzing of your outlines.

 

This is the poem I have, more than any other, revised and changed. In the years probably a different version appeared in this blog. Maybe it might be in tune with the theme David King refers after his latest posted work.

Getting published

I found at my door this morning two complimentary copies of the magazine The Meadow from Truckee Community College, Reno, Nevada with my poem "Coming This Far" in it. It is a poem born in a sort of ranting or rambling atmosphere in this blog almost two years ago, a poem, revised later, written in the same months in which I wrote "Letter To The Devil" and other works which I thought would have very few possibilities of being published for their longish, a bit chaotic message.
Well, this was published. When I saw it in the magazine I felt what for me getting published most definitely is about.
This: "Well... at least I haven't talked only to myself!" The most ever present risk.

SANDBARS

You like going further down into the naked horizon

beyond San Francesco del Deserto’s tight greenness,

the rich garland of cypresses staring at the light,

beyond the bare squared top

of Torcello’s bell tower, towering

in the middle of its nowhere.

You like beyond where there’s nothing more,

patches and patches of water, mud and grass

and the mellow silence of mauve flowers

and low waves in thin fingers of breeze.

The opposite of mountain peaks and high seas,

here nothing needs to fall or climb or rumble

and you taste in the air the rest

and fulfilment of the expanse of shallows.

Walking on water could be a gentle feat

and gently, in the labyrinth of canals,

the egrets’ still whiteness invites you

to fade in a reeds’ rustle while you breathe. 

TWO WINDOW HAIKUS

Silhouettes of pigeons,
wings flash, a busy transit,
life's core by my window.

Window wide open,
I like the wind disposing
of the papers in my room.

THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK

A light-green wall I remember,

in the kitchen of my first world

with the pendulum in its box

and hear the large ticking,

the beating out of earth and air

in the spreading summer afternoon.

Time. Time passing, swarming.

Now like then, with this electric

clock in the kitchen, its present stare,

now like then, the spacing of seconds,

even if that other ticking was fuller,

light leaning on airy fingers,

waving with shadows of leaves.

Time. The stare of the beginnings,

afternoons like unending plains,

the fields of grass stretched

in shivers of swirling heat,

in a buzzing entering your heartbeat,

in the flooding sun’s gaze

and the clock beating the regular

instants of its own age.

An age of parents and grandparents,

dignified, moving without pressure,

along the furrows of a kitchen garden,

on the plains where time

has never wanted to leave,

on gravel roads and shiny dust

and the swishing crowds of cornstalks.

Family. Everybody gone now

and time’s countenance just essential,

time’s fist leaning on its cheek

in the rhythm of its own reverie

that is just a passing and being here,

always full and ungraspable

and simple, simple like this ticking

accompanying the pen on the paper

and, outside, the wavering

fingers of a birdsong.

The ticking so at one

with the body of silence

beating out like a stare

filled with buzzing bees,

so interwoven with the texture

of this insubstantial pageant,

so close and ours, both a same

and further sea.

LOW TIDE

You walk and walk forward,

the shallows last, the breeze

on your back, the crispy waves.

Then you finally plunge and swim

and follow a line of poles

and look at the bottom of the sea,

at last at a decent distance,

that undulating sand like

the waves of a mind

or of a universe.

Swimming is a digression

in a digression, the roar

all over like an unframed

applause.

 

Then, back to the shore,

walking in the lasting shallows,

any depth postponed even if

you sense an embracing gaze,

and know that no sea

is ever mellow 

and the shallows can always

just give in

like the outer rim of a dream

ready to swallow.