Photo by JB 2018
Golden chain yellow cries
as joy that weeps its life
Winter passed: we dance
like tits fallen in love in the woods
June, 7th 2018
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Ballerina
Pic from here
Discreet dancer, you rely upon many
long and thin glass pale wires
and vibrating reflect any breath,
even whispers of black dying flies
Growing old while days pass,
your soft silk becomes dusty and grey
as opaque cut out of so lost space,
glue of past times, disuses
Ballerina (*). From your corner you look
at my world while it hurriedly passes
towards where it doesn’t know. You don’t think
and your eyes reflect alien black frost
June, 3rd 2018
(*) Longbodied cellar spider is named “Ragno ballerino” (Dancer spider) in Italian
Dawn and sunset
Photo by JB, 2016
Maybe dawn can resolve any sunset,
vain world travel towards the main night
who wins us every day anyway,
like the nothing that dries up each thing
“Never” as well as “always” is not
nested word into mankind assets.
Someone else can define the absolute
and He lives it without a beginning
You elect me, my free jump provoking
as can water do running towards
fields that drink and give us their green life.
So I am if I belong to You
Beyond any idea, craving, wish
about what I believe and I can
You make me something possible, life.
Yes, You’re dawn that resolve sunset, night
Rimini, April, 20th 2018
Wallflower
Photo by JB, 2018
Stock plant uses violence against silence
of the moderate stones that grasp greedy
tonight breaths of last sun on the hill.
Soon we’ll go back to Italy again
You’ll stay here, where you work, maybe for
a year that you’ll add to prior ones.
You’ll stay here to prepare your main hope
that is future and family: news
It is hard letting you could do it
like the wallflower lives on the stones
near the time marked there, on the tower
of the closed nice church. Never mind.
It is difficult standing apart,
son, and let you go, who knows…there
on each unknown road, you so, so new,
while we are old and heavy and closed
Our greatest strong prayer you are
you, together with your sister young.
May God help you to be, to be better
than I am, I who now line up rubble
Montferrier sur Lez, April, 4th 2018
Arles
Photo by JB, 2018
That’s the Rhone bend, entire universe
made by control and impressive power
On the bridge broken by the last war
lions lost stand on column as guards
Creeping culture degrades itself as
evening does at night when always fades.
It’s dusk, setting of the western sun
after drunks of so selfish Lumières
Dirty and urine smell welcome us
in the beautiful town of the past
Now they sell to each visitor views
of their Roman remains and lost pasts
In the square vague chatter of tourists
mix themselves with the sad rituals
of the fast passing life. Coffins, crowd,
ice creams, photos and laughs
The church gate shines with its carved stone
that vibrates at the sun towards Christ,
majesty, centre, pin, sense and meaning
of each thing and of this sculpture too
The cathedral: a relict inside
something else that’s the world,
passing flesh. Not a symbol alone:
beauty going to high sky, real presence
Arles, April, 3rd 2018
St.Sara
Salicornia rounds up herself reddish
in the flat sweep expanse filled with
salt that denies greener bright hopes.
Far I see St.Marie and its church
Life is eaten by salt, wind and time
every year and for years, for a lot.
It sits tired in a flat backdrop
longing for something that could protrude
Then beyond Little Rhone, then forward
where more water this water receives,
earth is fading into a liquid nothing
wall or pass to so different worlds
At the seashore strong violence gives
reason to sky and sea to be roar
against rocks and the stones of the port
that protect boats and reflux and me
Wind and water run over impulses
to be still, to be calm and to stay
as if everything were just like no thing
and each place were the same everywhere
There was time when Saracens came here
from that water, now only a background.
The church was both for people and bones
of the saints a safe fortress with crenels
In the crypt Sara waits among hundreds
of lights and she is hope for the ones
that now own no more place or that keep
too much lands in their heart. Here I pray
St.Marie de la Mer, April, 3rd 2018
Cold and peace
Picture by JB, 2018
Cold and peace. A stone church is deserted,
swindled out its old decorations,
all ruined, returned, again risen
surely pale yet now surely alive
There’s a silver cross, it’s as a flame
brightly shining. It hardens immanence
of tangible solace and hope too.
Inside it a Wood crosses our flesh
In the cloister, where it now survives
– it was sold – spring and warmth
exalt us like the beautiful apses.
Truly I regret old times of saints
Hammer blows on the face of my Christ,
all the heads ripped off from white angels,
columns sold, above all the stone graves
desecrated. Every space marred, spoiled …
Stupid beasts pushed out history
which built them and destroyed their own faces
so erasing each sense, beauty, hope.
Cold and peace and memory are left
St.Guilhem le Desert, April, 4th 2018
Relic of the Holy Cross, Angel without face, body of St.Guilhem. Picture by JB, 2018
