My Poems in 2010

A Romantic Letter


(Or a clavi-chord fugue)

Once I kept in my palm a rough fruit seed waiting for that crumb of time to spring out mirrored in future waters. Just looking in your eyes stones began to tremble, crevices of eternity appeared. You looked calm as a soft song yet troubled like embers bitter heat. And I looked again, suddenly sloping on melting ice, winds started to whisper as if to break the circle of night. You were a snowflake floating on my breath. I would have wanted you to define me, to call me, because I was like a child without name, that seed would have grown into a winged tree, a moment escaping clockwise order.
Then shadows weighed over my eyes and my hopes sparkled like a flint steel, dissolving at once. Peaceful rains settled dark rings over a transparent, motionless desert. I stopped seeing you, dreams hid in the air and inside rocks, that seed closed its shell. Cool and gentle, ethereal emptiness shaped a statue within myself.
Gradually even the shadows disappeared like dripping arpeggios. Daily questions covered everything with snow. But the trace of difficult steps led to an obstinate memory trapping me in a white silence. Your faraway call was still striking me like the blood forgetting its way until summer tears ended their warm whirl in a frozen sea. I forgot you, the light between us left a feeble abandon gesture through a locked window wing.
And when another morning opened it, I saw at a far distance that first moment enchained by my surprise and your smile. It was a clear blue sky.

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If I Were a Wheat Field


When I was a child
I wanted to grow among people
with my words swaying forever
within the ripe wheat breeze.

Dreams gathered like dew
inside cold and clean pitchers
while singing fountains
were stemming from my heart,
barefooted on city streets.
The hours lost
in an abacus without beads
were melting night into day
and day into gray snowfall.

Tears are burning dry
over the vines with sour grapes.
And how I crave
to break this light’s wheat ears
in two, in three…
in pieces I can’t count.

.

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Teardrops


sunlight twinkles through the window
on pink and white hyacinths
she reads a fairy tale
colors tremble in the book

are butterflies going asleep mom
the child repeats looking aside
it doesn’t matter she answers quickly
too spoiled she thinks
he will forget until tomorrow
I want to know if butterflies die mom
she keeps silent crumpling the question
in her apron pocket
smelling like cinnamon and lemon

wind thrown leaves fill the balcony
yellow rusty brown
the child opens his hazy eyes
why butterflies never cry mom

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Melancholy


I had been asked a few times to dance with young boys wearing an unnatural, stiff air of boldness. Sometimes my arms hair raised with repulsion. It was as if I were a duckling swimming in dirt, fearing to step over the others’ shoe. Large feet and hair that did not obey to combs. Inside my round body I felt even more rounder, emotions were drawing entangled curves and vine spirals. I was asking how many steps I have to take on the right or on the left, counting them while music flowed around me like a train speeding in a flag station. Boys seemed to be carved in wood and there wasn’t a fairy queen to give them life to be little adventurers. It was better in childhood when I was climbing the wild morello tree in my garden, dreaming that every branch was a room in my house. I would have liked boys to be like that cherry, to find place for my bedroom or my kitchen filled with dolls.
You don’t know how to move, you’re like wood, someone said to me when we tried to dance tango. All girls have dancing in their blood he said, and I didn’t agree. I wasn’t all girls.
I preferred to listen to piano sonatas on a stormy day, my heartbeats were equal and calm. I couldn’t understand why for others everything was so tormented, how they could dance and swirl while skies were so clear and stars shone so brightly.
…………………………………………………………………………………………….
On my living room carpet yellow roses are blooming.  The curtains are sprinkled with poppies and cornflowers, that’s what I feel sometimes. It is here where I sleep because I remember more easily how I was drowning myself in fresh cut grass in the fields, under open skies. It is a larger place here. When I was little I saw bottles transformed in puppies or kittens wearing knitted cloth, moustache and little ears. I wouldn’t like to have one of those and I don’t need fish swimming in a small aquarium.
Sometimes I build with needle and threads a lonely house near a lake with swans. I pour water periodically on my apartment plants. The green ones remain, those with flowers wither. I like to chop in tiny pieces parsley and garlic. I don’t cook pastry or sweets, I don’t use cinnamon or bottled essences. I never wear perfumes. Sometimes I open an old drawer where I hid and tightly corked up a perfume from my youth, realizing that it becomes more and more cloudy as time goes by.
How wonderful it is to watch seagulls flying upon my window! I can’t remember when they came in our town, far from sea. It is like a slow song, like a white waltz. I stop the music and sometimes verify if the front door is locked. The scent of a story book with brown stains spreads under my bed lamp. The ugly duckling falls asleep in the little match girl’s leap.

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Deserted


House snakes have disappeared from the rotten and darkened corn shed. A few dead embers lie near the stove, covered in cinders. On the small windowsill someone forgot a mouse trap. Under the stable’s rafters cobwebs hang heavy catching swallow nest crumbs. The well’s wheel got stuck, silence slithers in the whitewashed wall crevices. At a far distance blue trains sizzle, the river’s waters are swift and murky.
I should better rest in the garden, feeling the earth’s sap dragging me down, hearing old men sharpening their scythes. In those times grasses grew tall and upright. Clouds begin to gather over me, gliding on my back spine. I think it’s going to be a storm, like it was before and always.

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