of course The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci was for me that room with painting replicas printed on paper inside mother’s dowry house/ my grandparents raised buffaloes pigs horses and different chickens but they did not have yet a tv set in that room/ they still wore their old times folklore costumes on Sundays and on holidays/ on the road between my yesterday’s and my today’s eyes/ the masters’ paintings turned me back home after many years/ when I started to read art history and the past was like a museum/ mother this is your daughter/ the one who prefers now Fra Filippo Lippi and Pierro della Francesca/ the one who found by herself the mystery of The Flagellation of Christ before reading renowned critics’ opinions about it/ mother there are dark mists in your eyes/ look at me and please remember those icons and Easter postcards smeared with candle wax/ the icons that cry tears/ pearls of color layer after layer/ the icons with hieratic gestures from the times when you used to say how masterly are their hands painted/ you with your long fingers just like mine/ you who let gliding between us memories about future that you forgot afterwards/ the way the river flows in its bed and all the other rivers sewn on peasants’ shirts/ leave aside the flagellation of Christ mom/ let’s think together about your cheesecake spread with egg yolks and well colored up and maybe we will save some money for you to bake it at Easter time
Posts Tagged With: prose poetry
That day I entered the corpse’s room. As it is customary, the mirror was covered. But I thought to myself: here are so many other yet uncovered mirrors, the eyes of those staying at wake are opened and in each eye you can find the neighbors’ eyes mirrored. Sometimes a teardrop mirrors in itself the image of funeral candles. Mirrors are endless, they grow one within the other, like deep wells inside other wells. Other things have precise borders in space, I can see there is an edge of the rain, an edge of my voice or an edge of the hearing of those who listen to me. If those people wanted to hide all mirrors in the room they should have entered there blindfolded.
And what is time? Does it have a border like all the rest? How much does it take until the light reaches the mirror and comes back to my eye? Do I see my future or my past? Do I really exist or I exist only as far as my senses are processed in some amount of time by my brain’s utilities? People break mirrors or they break up time in tiny pieces that resonate like the clock ticking in their ears or eventually like objects through the touch sense for the deaf. Did you know that hearing is considered to be the last sense lost before parting from this world? But the dead one, once he had lost all his senses, does he live now only in the living memory? Could it be true that our life is only memini meminisse? And is it memory itself a mere mirror? In our brain there is an area named Ammon’s Horn, with significance for the consolidation of human memory. Its name is a reminder of the sun god Amun-Ra, identified subsequently with Zeus for the Greeks, an antique source for a partly monotheist vision of the universe. Since we appear in this world we are prisoners of centennial memories, because the human embryo evolves through different stages, similar to some characteristics found in different other adult beings, from amphibians to primates.
Meanwhile, people gather round the coffin, touching each other and singing the song of the eternal peace and remembrance. It is the circle of senses of those alive close to the departed one, the circle of hearts pumping warm blood, the circle that is still pulsating and alive. I believe that eternity exists, and the moment is only an illusion.
I was just sleeping, because of boredom, and I walked up on an empty boarding platform with its pavement stones blackened. The grass sprouted out victorious among cracks, black as coal. The wind managed to stir up the dry poplars from their dark silence, as if you heard the meowing of an abandoned black kitten, precociously aware of its color handicap in a hostile world, a special meowing, hollow and squeaky, pathetic and funny altogether, almost begging for a drop of curdled milk, because fresh milk is available for brown striped kittens with a fluffy muzzle.
I began to go round the station aimlessly, feeling through my thin soles that the train approached, feeling scared. I walked in a led armor, tighter and tighter, looking with my half opened eyes towards the thin moon’s eyelid biting from the clouds. The train was really coming closer popping from sleeper to sleeper, as if running right or left from its tracks, anyway completely discontent of its compulsory straight road. Its large windows had a phosphorescent shine, therefore resembling from afar with some Christmas decorations in a city with a sky dark as pitch and smoky everywhere.
I wasn’t certain if I dreamed or if I was awake when the train got on my side. Although I trembled because of cold and fear, I don’t think I would have climbed up. At every window there was a dead body, with its face almost black, and beside every corpse there was a doll all dressed in white: a bride doll with clean and frothy laces and veils floating in the wind. The lights in every compartment were colored differently, crescendo: white, yellow, orange, red, crimson, violet, blue. At the last window it was dark, but, leaning over the sill, I could see the head of a child, safe and sound, laughing wholeheartedly.
Then I closed my eyes and started to cry. I was no more afraid but I knew that I wasn’t asleep anymore.
Like a blue yo-yo ball, the earth swings back and forth towards a child’s fist. The child is content like God before the seventh day. It rains with indifference for hours and it is still spring. All humans blessed to be alone stay like seeds and yeast in their shells without the hope of any rising.
An entire district of churches, polished and gilded, rose over hearts. No more place for public toilets, no more gutters for beggars. They sleep shoulder to shoulder, their eyes hollowed out by hunger or thirst. It smells again like dead souls, they all fall from the tree of life like apples baked on the stove, sizzling, sprouting juice and cracking on the peel. The core shows up as if it were pus under the surgeon’s blade. A flood of souls is deleted from the big list.
I come back from the market with empty bags. My neighbor has a bitter-sweet smile today, like a thread of fabric torn from the hem. The small old lady from the attic passed away. She had her rhyme poems in print at some publishing house and a photo from her youth on the cover. She begged for a soup helping and shared with vagabond cats. When I hear that another human blessed to be alone died, it feels like pressing a too ripe pear with the thumb. Against my will a dimple appears, and it doesn’t taste like honey anymore.
In my room it smells like mold more and more. My bedroom is a pantry with rotten fruits between bed sheets. It looks like I will remain a worm this spring, before becoming the ant left prisoner in a deserted mole. From my white flesh only a few fat sparrows from the nearby monastery will taste. No one escapes from the common pit, except for those who know how to dig.