Monthly Archives: May 2014

Then came one o’clock

It was a tall and white door with the knob at the level of my heart. I knocked discreetly to enter in audience at the cross spider tamer. A fat and redhead man chewing his whiskers minutely. I was wet because of emotion and warm like a freshly hatched chicken. The man spoke with a shrill snigger because it is known that death is not as serious as life. You just swallow a knot in your throat from the corner of the star still left for you. As if you drink hot milk after chickenpox. Sometimes only the sun remains for you and you die in winter. Other times you shake off the stars and the moon from your hair like an autumn willow. You get so annoyed that your eyes roll in their orbits until the spiders stop jolting on your photograph upside down.

It was a perfectly ordinary day. Except for the fact that they sold more tickets at the county fair carousel. Nobody is perfect. Not even those who predict the weather.

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Other Angels, Other Saints

I’m so glad I’m not an angel mom! Once, many years ago I arrived into a creeping thistle field and the sun was shining like one hundred spears upon my back. I took of my shoes like any other human and ran over the weeds until my feet bled. I bit my tongue and lips to feel less pain. They are also souls those thorny flowers I didn’t have the heart to crush them. I remember how father used to kill the caterpillars in spring when they were flooding our house’s walls. I felt disgust and pity. Don’t they all say that all God’s creatures have their souls?

Mother, you are asleep and I feel that pain on my right side. Father also felt it before passing away. He said I was like a saint and I cried, I had no one to tell my stories to. But as long as you are sleeping I can tell to you. Everybody hates saints; they backbite them and then kneel in front of the icons after their death. They say that saints are helpful, mediating their way towards God’s will… What if Prometheus was also a saint? The legendary Greek hero. After all he bought something useful to the humans, above God’s will. And he felt pain on the right too.

Everyone knows stories about martyrs…They sink in murky waters and their saint auras become thinner and thinner, like in paintings about them, still floating. It ought to be hard to live in the Romantic era: too many dreams, untainted virgins slaughtered with cruelty, demons, suckling infants dying of cold and starvation. I always preferred clear skies to storm clouds. But I admit that all the others tell the truth in their works of art; each of us climbs and descends the same steps, either sleeping on a sack with money or hiccuping because of poverty.

It is so good I did not become an angel, mom! Some of us become and then you can see them floating over colored small clouds in paintings or bearing golden wings in palaces’ corner moldings. Sometimes they rise from their tombs, white and big, like Giselle from that ballet at the Opera. The spectators clap on and on, opening their hand fans of young and old ladies. On the other side the common people yell with exaltation in open arenas, the same way they were eager to watch in ancient times the crucifixion of St. Peter, the martyrdom of St, Sebastian, or St Katherine tied to a rolling spiked wheel. Everyone has his story. On one side the angels with the rich, on the other side the saints with the poor. It is not good in both places.

I had to believe that tomorrow isn’t a day that comes only after a saint’s long lasting waiting. I am a human being, a sinless creature, but now I scream that even dead wake up: I am not a saint and I will never bring salvation to anyone! And if I think about angels, God bless them! Which thing is the saddest, mom? Who can rejoice, mom?

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Secerning Heart

The easiest thing for me is to talk about the core of my heart or about he stars filtering lights on the clear sky. What else could I say more true? The scientists say that a baby is born with about 75 percent of water in its body, almost the same amount found on our mother Earth. Then he is raised becoming a man then he grown old and withers. Alike the longevive apple trees, man has a tender skin in the beginning then he toughens over the years. Sometimes…

My world turns before my eyes, I am captive in a revolving door, always between yesterday and today, I am the world before Galileo Galilei, the little girl looking at the sun turning in a hole of a big bur leaf. Under my eyelids the light plays, passing through the vine leaves in our verandah, through the white laundry hanging on the wires, through improvised tents made of bedsheets, with crystal and coral castles raised above. Fairy tales run through me, growing like the porridge in the charmed pot that fulfilled the poor man’s wishes. The world is this moment and memories ripen gently, like the sour cherries in our orchard.

Sometimes life is only soap balloons hiding rainbows. The cotton candy and the shiny yo-yo balls on the circus alley. The clown whom I dislike compared to the other children. The smell of new books in libraries, tempting me to browse them discovering flowery letters and smiling princesses. The little Ida’s flowers grow in my garden, dancing their short life away, neighbors to the scent of taragon, basil and thyme. In the well where I see my face dwells a charming fish, a prince from a storybook country for which I tore from my slice of bread with sugar.

I breathe wild mint and wild flowers, freshly mowed herbs and hay. The bread is steaming on the table together with traditional apple or plum pies made from the same dough. My grandmother smiles with her warm heart singing on Christmas Eve about the three shepherds and the Bethlehem star. It smells like hot lye, homemade soap and bluing cubes for the laundry, fresh milk in the stable and corn flour cake baked in the stove.

The wood crackles and the flame plays on the whitewashed wall its merry song. The stars are too many, the sky is so heavy that the light almost brings me up completely. Why on earth it had to be so much unsung songs around my heart that I grew my own leaves without being hunted by an immortal?

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Bitter tropics

it wasn’t me who invented love by my ignorance
the same way the painter doesn’t have the heart
to mix pure colors
it was there
in the times when I used to swot the differences
between useful beautiful and pleasing

first of all there grew a tree with red leaves
like man’s or woman’s lips before the first kiss
leaves were another kind of hands
preparing to fall
rustle over rustle till the last silence

only by chance I shared the same shadow
with a stranger
for the jealousy of those who did not know me
I waited for centuries close to the old tree trunk
my cheek against the dry ground
I couldn’t refuse him when he asked me
to lend him a leaf
and I didn’t even know
where do young butterflies hide when it rains bitter

people say that
after a day that tree was brought down
today no one kills himself
because of love
they’re simply killed little by little

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some cornflowers

there is such freshness
under the tent fabric
stuck upon my lips and nostrils
that i can almost feel through a grass blade vein
all heavy dewdrops from ten thousand and one mornings

there is such beauty
that i forgot how airplanes can crush
for those who dare to dream
for others too
after they died all their deaths

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