Red cachemire

 

JB, 2017

 

You paint using so sinuous thoughts
every night all my night and my skin
quivers, trembles and asks for caresses
as she was still young and gets upset

 
Spring is trap and a danger for minds,
it’s a fire, it’s as scattered poppies
like the blood of a young woman when
she surrenders and gives her to love

 
In the winter I wanted my bed
red and I doodle my unsure dreams
every dawn as in cashmere designs
when you go far and I think alone

 
I don’t fulfil you, you don’t to me, neither
it’s enough this flesh for the immense wish
that you open wide as the blue does
when it breaks the clouds and at last shines

 

May, 9th 2017

 

Italian version

I’m a gift

Flower myth, 1918 – Paul Klee

A rosebloom I give you as a gift. It has whorls
red, rich, complex, compound
like the unspeakable hope that my flesh
as well as my deep spirit requires

 
This rosebloom I give you as a gift. Feel its taste:
the same of my warm blood, the same colour.
It has the scent of all my desire
that your glance upsets and fiercely stokes

 
Get the bloom: it’s my gift for your love.
Then myself I’ll be gift, restless matter
delicate with petals and thorns
which defends both my shame and frail marrow

 
A rosebloom is my gift: I give you it.
You breathe it, kiss, caress, enjoy it
This my present that is me, my question.
My rose I give you helpless tonight

 

May, 3rd 2017

Italian version

The rope

pics by JB 2017

 

Strange world, so different
from mine

All the skyline is changing: the city
is rebuilding herself without worry
about old stones. A church
sadly rests in the shadow

Over me there’s a climber, a worker
on an ice building made with glass, steel.
He clings on overhanging surfaces
without fear: in a thin rope he trusts

Strange people, so different
from mine

I like your so laborious constancy,
your smart way to be alive organised
I am only a poor provincial person
and can’t try to explain my sensations

I don’t know what you tell me while speak
your strange language or where is your God,
where you really are going toward,
what you quite want to build with your love

In the cold morning where I am walking
also I overhang all my claims
and a rope from above is my hope
to be safe despite bad, foolish drives

I am like those church wrecks on the tarmac
under new, haughty, bright towers now.
I beg that all these ropes can hold up
you and me. Can the hope bear our weight
 

London, April, 19th 2017

Cry the sap

Like some wreck of a life that has gone
stumbling over the time in the past
old dead things in the water now swim
overlapping reflection of trees

 

The leaves are blooming buds
and breath on Hardened wood
made like stone by the sadness of winter.
The canal stretches out between fields

 

Also I walk around overlapping
memories to this day, mixing tiredness
with the sighs of a spring
for which the country yearns in the cold

 

In myself there’s the yesterday’s chill
lasting in all the evil I can.
Make me water and canal, reflection
of You: I’ll show the light that is in the day

 

When You said to reborn as a child
maybe it’s like old men that can wake.
As an excess of life from my branch
cry the sap because You resurrect

April, 9th 2017

Italian version

Anyway

Pic from here

Anyway
If I think I am right
if I see black as white
If my night is a sigh
and I find not my site

Anyway
If I do not agree
and think that I could be
better me fully free
even if I am a flea

Anyway
when my life almost gone
lies like a bored swan
with no strength, without brawn
without joy and withdrawn

Anyway Easter comes
when You rise again. Does
anyone blind the shine
of the least single sun?

Anyway
You don’t need any pass
to save me from myself.
Let I be not impasse
to my way out, besides

Friday, 14 April 2017