Monthly Archives: January 2014

nutcracker 2

In the dolls’ house madonna wears her golden hair in long plaits. She had never seen a rainbow. The clouds are farther than the sun, the nutcracker is alive, snow white stays white in her crystal coffin, all dolls come to life when the big key is turned in the old grandfather clock.
In the valley of tears madonna has a round belly. She hardly sustains the full moon on the sky. Everybody touches her with the tip of their fingers, they all crave for green figs, it rains bitter cherry tears from above. People suffer to raise her up over the umbrella trees in the dry savannah. Death hops around like a kangaroo carrying the whole planet in its pocket. It walks like a canephora on the road of sacrifice, the sun on its head. Madonna doesn’t know yet which one is heavier: the earth, the sun or the moon inside her body.
Madonna is an elder woman. She tells her stories near the fireplace in the room with all her loved ones painted on the walls, with their auras shining like embers. Her words are the living blood flowing from the spring source with a blackened cross over it. The word of god never freezes in the language of every child, inherited from father to son. Only the dead ones are silent and shared to each other, without any privilege, either hell or heaven. The priest draws the line of the survey at the last eucharist.
On madonna’s front the ointment is cold. Another doll has come to life.

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for every child the nutcracker is alive.
dolls come to life
somewhere over the rainbow.

all humans are the living blood
that speaks the word of God
in their own language.
the dead ones are inheritance
either hell or heaven.

we struggle in our lives to keep
the moon rolling
up and down the hill.
death keeps the earth in one pocket
and the sun over the head.

which one is heavier?
who’s the doll?

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I wrote a poem
like a lonely woman
crying for someone
to make a gift of it
whoever passed by
dropped the well’s lid
without looking down

from too much yelling
my eyes got dry
I was blind
it was drought
the acacia grove whistled
for such waste

suddenly the wind
bent my crisscrossed arms
I breathed soul to soul
I cried tear from tear

someone left
without a word
my poem stuck to his soles
like dust

I tore a leaf and signed
I, anno domini

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one missing in a thousand years

unborn baby
I yearned for you in my empty belly
like someone hiding his tears in a pillow
I blended the bitter yeast of life with tender wheat sap
to make you grow proud and strong
to be born in a cypress shade

my child
I swayed you on my arms like a rising sun
ending with burnt shoulders in a ragged cloth
I slept with my temple over flint stones
sipped water from summer tempests
fed on wild blackberry
in order to raise you

I baptized you with an old name
in the spring water under a cross
I wiped your front with untouched grasses
bringing you up to the sky on my palms
and cleansed back to my chest

my son
I promise you that you shall have the fast horse fed on embers
that the red and the green kings shall make peace
that forests shall grow bigger and golden fields taller
as far as you’ll remember me
under your feet

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some say i was cursed
because of too much red i was a child
because of too much black an old nun
almost never a woman
dancing flamenco among life’s flounces

the greedy ones stole my dreams
night after night
when i began to forget them
they shared the prey without flinging
a bone for me at caesar’s feast

i righteously swore they were mine
when i woke up
in the sad buffoon’s corner
every day left by god on earth

it was not my job to baptize things
in my wordless thoughts
it was neat as in a convent cell
knowing only to listen or to keep silent
either a child
either an old nun

i walked in the versailles hall of mirrors
without telling for sure where the sun was

heart flutter2

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