Wednesday, December 25, 2013


Once I smelled in it
the fullness of iron green
and was gripped and swept
into a road of breaths
and shuffling dark green.
The deep North in an instantaneous gust.
Now that smell is faint,
like childhood, only a memory.
But all the same I keep
breathing it
sensing I am treasuring
the few drops I can gather
from the forest sap
in my cupped hands.
More than enough
on the way to the border.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

A Christmas present.

The Christmas present I have just received comes from Tucson, Arizona. It is the issue n.22 of the magazine "The Laughing Dog, strictly poetry". In it my poem "Brewing" appears, a poem that, to tell you the truth, I had almost forgotten and quite neglected. It has been a pleasure rereading it and enjoying it a lot almost as if it weren't written by myself.
What's more, in this tiny, sober and beautiful magazine I am in the company of some very famous poets I used to "meet" in journals several years ago, at the beginning of the internet reign when still most submissions and publications were print. Some names : Lyn Lifshin, BZ Niditch, Valentina Cano and probably the most famous of all, Simon Perchick.
So to those who live in the US and might come across this post I recommend "The Laughing Dog".

Monday, December 16, 2013


I have just caught a glimpse of it,
it has disappeared now under a picture,
tiny legs progressing, tiny
hints of forwardness.
Tiny but well defined.
Gracefully ineluctable.
For me an appreciation
of the warmth in my home
Since it’s almost winter outside
with freezing fog in a spreading bite,
so I can’t but like feeling I have
an oasis inside that grows
hosting life.
I think it’s just
what you want to last
in the end, of your home,
listen, maybe now you can fade
but this cherry-wood table
you are sitting at will remain
with a picture of Japanese gardens
at this side, on the wall
and a tiny spider staring under,
like a meaning beyond the soul.

Thursday, December 5, 2013


You didn’t want to say anything.
You waited. When you spoke at the end
you could still hear the silence in between the syllables,
a blue glacier.

One of the few left. You felt glad.
It’s here now. You are walking on it,
each sentence swarming and dying into its solidity

so as not to let it melt.