Long enough

 

dalla tangenziale MI, 21-9-2011 (3)-min

Around Milan, JB. September, 21st 2011

 

When there’s rain on the grass, from the sky,
and I shiver and watch that dark grey
thinking of sun and summer and light

Long enough is a day
so that I lose myself

When, alone, I sit there waiting for
something new, something else, something that
could change finally me and my life

Long enough is an hour
so that I could get wrong

When, again, as a flash
sudden thought hits my mind
making thrill all my flesh and my skin

Long enough is a second
so that I could fall down

When, at last, I see this older me
looking for better, more
looking for reasons, sense

Long enough is my life
so that You can save me

 

September, 18th 2022

 

Thank you so much Lizzie for your suggestion!

 

Day of nothing

 

IMG_1313-min

There, some years ago. JB, summer 2016

 

Finally, here’s a day of none, nothing
after a peaceful night made to sleep.
My head empties, and my body wilts
with each of its so tired old muscles

Yesterday I lost words, cause my flesh
needed everything to go up and up
and then wild and fast jumping downhill
it found again strength and knowledge

Today I’m watching my day go by
like it was really and actual vacation.
I can take a book to read a novel
I still hope and wait that Something happens

 

Faé House, September, 3rd 2022

 

Italian version

Rain on the windows

 

max richterMax Richter – On The Nature Of Daylight.

 

Some years ago I discovered the world of the chats and I found some friends; one of them, that I named Annapiccola (little Annie), made me love the adagio from the Piano Concerto in G by Maurice Ravel: so I wrote this stuff.

Some days ago, another web friend, Janus Fall, asked me to listen to Max Richter’s On The Nature Of Daylight. This music made me remember Ravel’s one and Annapiccola.  

 

Rusty dripping
grimly oozes
using spun around sad thoughts
vitreous bedroom

A recursive trimming now
contracts into
cold tears that
only other one recalls

trails of boredom trace so much
a stagnate sad motif …

It doesn’t change, it doesn’t move,
obsessively tags itself.

It survives.

 

Translated on August, 27th 2022

 

Italian (original) version

A fresh wind

 

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A Wind-Beaten Tree, by Vincent van Gogh (pic found here)

 

 

A fresh wind now arises from there,
far from me, far from my usual home
It tells me about days fully blue
far from these suffocating warm times

A cold breeze drags the leaves on those trees
reaching me on my tired sad face
while I seat on my stony terrace
watching at long gone days of young girls

A sweet breeze sweeps my mind and my soul
overcoming my thin older skin:
a pale box I fill with evil, sins.
They make me defile our plain love

A fresh wind comes from your other world
it says about our love, about God
I can see both us there, both us pure
I can see both us new, happy and free

 

September, 1st 2022

 

Dulcissime

Sylvia Greenberg – ‘In Trutina’ and ‘Dulcissime’ from Orff’s ‘Carmina Burana’. Israel Philarmonic Orchestra, Tel Aviv, 1994, Dir. Zubin Metha.

Last days are very weird ones for me; maybe it’s so cause I’m writing a weird short novel about first time Eve made love. The stuff I post here is something embarassing for me, but I wrote it in English, a language I do not understand very well.

;P

Oh! I’m back!

Thanks to my so cute friend River Moonstone for some of these words.

Thanks to my Love to bear me.

Dulcissime Totam tibi subdo me

(Sweetest Love, I submit all myself to you)

Hidden under my black secret hair
there’s a Pink Calla Lily:
it’s my flower for you, it’s my gift,
charming flower that no else can see

Sweetest Love, I submit all me to you

Be slow, gentle. Be slow, foremost
take your time to explore.
take your time…
poke around, fumble me everywhere

For a while, my breath shall be the only
sound and movement: that’s all
and you, Love, you shall be
just my breath, in my breath

Sweetest Love, I give my all to you

Touch each inch of my skin.
I’ll get crazy, I’ll be as a great spasm
all my body will be as a cry
Tingling and shivering

We will merge our souls as well as
our fleshes together, to one
and to universe too: to each thing.
Put your lips everywhere on my skin

Sweetest Love, I am slave of your wish

So I’ll be my own skin
soft and warm: you can gently
bite me where you want: even there
while my mind starts to spin

Thus, my room will explode and in it
you and me, body and soul
and souls through our skin.
See the night changing into sunlight

Sweetest Love, own me now

Hidden under my black secret hair
there’s a Pink Calla Lily:
get it now as my gift
free me into wild cry

SL, Elven Forest, August, 27th 2022

Holiday

 

IMG_1728_web

Pic about me: Nivolet, 2016

I am going back to my mountains. See you soon!

Lol… not too much soon, indeed.

Kisses

🙂

 

Perhaps

 

angelo

Pic by Dony Mugnai, found here

 

When you say “perhaps” you
talk about something vague
that might be or might not
something maybe you’d like
it to be. It’s a hope, maybe vain

“Perhaps” sounds as a breath
come from nowhere, as breeze,
fresh air moved by my mind,
breath from odd thoughts, from hide
spots of brains, hearths, of urges
born as mere odds, as chance

So “perhaps” refers to
dreams, not aware tools, acts;
something that could be true
yet now it is not so

My “perhaps” is like hope
about love, about life.
I would “perhaps” could be
I wish me can be true
I would like see my wings
to spread out of my shell
to make fly this my wreck

 

SL, Rainbow Rhapsody, July, 23rd 2022

 

Swifts

 

DSCN0260-min

Pic by me, that place, that day

 

A short holiday makes little lighter
all the cares that give me many troubles
This old town gives itself to us and
owns us like it did when we got married

Crazy game all swifts play fast and freely
while I watch them black under the sky
                                                            over Siena.
As it’s usual I envy them when
my eyes and mind scroll across deep blue

Please, don’t let our memory wane
and our passion turn to old regret:
It’s my love odd and needs skin and flesh,
to be concrete and not abstract trend

 

Siena, July, 1st 2022

 

 

Italian version

 

My crow cries

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Pic found here

My crow cries like did Poe one once shouting
nevermore
even if everything always happens:
life and death, love and pain, hate and joy
run together

A gull flies printing its shadow fast
on this Earth where we stand up like dreaming
while I confuse to do, to be, sleeping,
to find shivers of love on my skin

Save me, oh!
Free me now, again, free me now Lord
watch at my ill poor weak troubled mind
see the flesh You gave me as weird gift…
Please consider how much I’m poor thing

Give me each thing I need, that is love,
that is knowledge to be safe, that’s peace

Castiglioncello, July, 6th 2022

Word

Word

S.Quasimodo

Pic from here

You laugh at me, flaying myself for words,
bending around me in the straining elms,
the blue edge of skies and hills
and quivering waters’ voices,
wiling my youth
with clouds and hues
the light submerges.

I know you. Waylost in you
beauty lifts your breasts,
scoops to your hips and in gentle sweep
spreads over you shy sex,
flows down in harmony of forms
to the ten shells of your lovely feet.

But wait; if i take you,
you too become word to me, and sadness.

Salvatore Quasimodo – Traslation by Jack Bevan

This is one of the best poems I ever read. Better: one of my favourite poems.

So sensual and so sad both. Almost densperated. That “I know you” (Ti so in the original Italian version) bring us into a deep intimacy and meantime into an immense sadness.

Those two last lines are almost unberable and filled with a so great pain… Well, rereading it in these so strange days makes me understand better the poet and feel a sharp melancholy.

Original version (Italian)

Parola

Tu ridi che per sillabe mi scarno
e curvo cieli e colli, azzurra siepe
a me d’intorno, e stomir d’olmi
e voci d’acque trepide;
che giovinezza inganno
con nuvole e colori
che la luce sprofonda.

Ti so. In te tutta smarrita
alza bellezza i seni,
s’incava ai lombi e in soave moto
s’allarga per il pube timoroso,
e ridiscende in armonia di forme
ai piedi belli con dieci conchiglie.

Ma se ti prendo, ecco:
parola tu pure mi sei e tristezza.