Tuesday, July 30, 2013


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.
in the buzzing words' bees?

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

Tuesday, July 23, 2013


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.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013


( 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.

Sunday, July 14, 2013


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.

Friday, July 12, 2013

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.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013


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. 

Sunday, July 7, 2013


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.

Thursday, July 4, 2013


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.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013


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
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.