Posts Tagged With: nostalgia

the song under the door

how can I please you my jumbled soul in this stepmother-life
let me draw a poisonous comb against your hair
see you’re black and white now / you got curdled lil’ sister
your sweat begins to smell sour / you swallow without chewing
small dumplings of sunlight / déjà vu from the remains of your youth
with those snowfalls when a man dragged you on the sledge and said
that it snows if he wishes this

…now your life is bittersweet like green wallnut jam
do you still remember that story about the greatest love
let me be here another season / let me be the shadow of your shadow
that waltz with fancied flounces holding the arm of a statue/
chestnut and acacia flowers popping down over both of you

you still care for your old photo wearing a discreet smile
because you didn’t believe that a man can feel red colors
through his fingertips
you even turned around in amazement when men stared at you
and you rarely read sf / that story about the perfect love
sold at a luxurious matrimonial agency
romantic and immense like the horizon over the ocean/
with too many unintended consequences

it was a time with beardless wise men and you among them
you dreaming every day about peace all over this world
a young girl with her soul right in her eyes
and a bit of strength in her fist
both sand and tinder

Categories: My Poems in 2015, Uncategorized | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

returning home

beyond the trees surrounding the house it was more light
but for me the sun in my grandma’s eyes was enough
I cut with the knife the top of the boiled egg
spinning together round that golden core
with the silver teaspoon from my father’s baptism

there were too few butterflies
for the many flowers grandma brought on the table
some of them embroidered on handkerchiefs
others on my hats
placed there with her hands soft as apricot jam
smelling like naphthalene and purple lilac
picked when the rain stopped
in the color of fairy tale books drawings

more and more pigeons flew over our heads
from the attic with windows without windowpanes
there fell shadow over shadow from imprisoned wings
from love growing
like a quarrel between seasons

as I got closer to her shoulders
taller than the mailbox from the front gate
higher than the lime tree sapling in the street
little by little I was leaving towards a stranger place
to capture the sunset in the small basket lined with tinfoil
where grandma left a few dry cakes
sprinkled with sugar

Categories: My Poems in 2014 | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Staircase

the spiral stairs banister is rusty
spiders are hidden in the corners
pigeons hustle and bustle can be heard in the attic
the old plaster smelling like sour cabbage
loses stripe after stripe absorbing autumn mist
through round and small windows

the old man fell asleep early
he played all day long with lotto pieces
counting and shuffling them many times
now he cannot make the difference
between a white and a red poppy on the lapel

the old woman forgot the rum essence flavor
she baked pancakes putting inside a drop of acetone
filling them with one year old quince jam
placing everything on a nickel silver plate
starting to knit again a large brim hat
adorned with strawberries and cornflowers

their grandsons came shaking the staircase
from its foundations
there was much more sunlight at every window
the children whistling in clay flutes
threw away the pancakes to the dog
sharing between them the lotto pieces
and the jam left in the jar

many colored yarn balls rolled downstairs
until they reached the first floor

Categories: My Poems in 2011 | Tags: , , , , | 2 Comments


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.

Categories: My Poems in 2010 | Tags: , , , | 2 Comments

Cold Spring

In the early mornings
leaves hearts are sacrificed
cold cherries are turning red
fresh grasses toughen
left by dew drops
as usual

Stones grow or lessen on the road
through each rain
notched wooden blinds close
or open still green
behind every shady wall
sleeps an old doll in its cradle

I walk with my straight back
among frozen flower buds
wrapping my front and my waist
in unwoven veils of fortune

I hide a cold spring
waiting for wild wheat to sprout
under all these

Categories: My Poems in 2009 | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

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