Homeless wave, by AtélieKemi
I dream of a wild, a giant wave
white foam shaking the deep blue immobility:
widespread on ocean bottoms
I am the wave and I wander restlessly
with no place to sleep quiet,
without peace in the senses; my body
grows old and yet it craves caresses
Each of us is the wave, and we’re restless
if love doesn’t touch us, if anyone
never looks at us with sharp desire
to be one with us in sweet embrace
There’s no peace for the wave in the world
of concrete yet distracted earth things.
The Reality is larger than what
forces us and cages us: it’s the death
May, 1st 2021
(English version translated from the original Italian one)
Dohmangreda, by AtélieKemi
Silky turgor on your skin
stretches tremors of that May
when each thing went toward life:
grass and trees and naïve young girls
Silky turgor on your skin
yet your breast withers so fast
where are now all your past springs
where your surge and needs of love?
Had you love during that time
when you lifted young firm breasts
in the pride of your fresh years
now lost like each rose loses petals?
A sick pallor grows on you
and a cap hides your thin hair
yet your mouth blooms and it’s a
brilliant explosion of red
It’s reminder, regret or
will to win against the time?
Maybe it’s a dream, blind hope
that denies these current things
Like you I am fooled trend
caged by old memories
Thus I lose my present life
and dye hair and certainties
SL, Osta Nimosa, April, 8th 2021
I’m my demon
I am evil, I spread
my day following wish that can’t give
me light or to turn to happy my time.
Thus my time runs away… toward what?
When I entered the water of life
there was beauty of black hairs and strength,
there were soft lips and eyes so clean, bright
grey and green. There was hope
Now I’m leaving this sea where we swim.
No more soft, this my body dries up
yet lust and will to make love grows up.
I’m my demon, that horrible bitch
Yesterday is no more, with no sense
except sin: I awaited that skin
cuddled my face and chest and down there…
Don’t’ let me alone with my bad thoughts
Don’t let me alone or I’ll be sin
Sunday, November, 8th 2020
JB, 2020, There
I leave each thing behind. I relax
my weak arms on the grass, where the moss
is still fresh by last rain
which already swells rivers downstream
Water flows like my years,
dragging memories and things
that are no longer anything, mists
so that mix hope with life
Still new holiday, old mountains too:
they are motionless, wide
and compete with the sky for more space.
I’m a shadow in the forest dark
August, 2nd 2020
After holidays and winter flashes
there’s sun warmth.
I stretch out legs and arms.
All around mist congeals and blocks my
world and landscapes, remaining pale there
I begin to feel older myself,
to realize my acts are now more slow
despite my flesh that throws my mind far
toward young girl’s thoughts and toward dreams
I compressed emotions, a life
which now overflows causing this upset
that disturbs both my brain and my flesh,
old yet learning me as maiden stuff
Where did go years I spent, time I lost
without kisses and cuddles or smiles,
filled with duties and jobs that I now
feel so dry, feel so cold,
feel as lack?
I’m ashamed of so many words I
group with pens on sheets I hide, unknown:
those are outbursts of people I am,
schizophrenic mind without good drive
Other people are into my deep,
men and women that sometimes like flares
can arrive to my eye to look out:
here’s thus laughs, sometime cuddles
February, 14th 2020
Photo by JB, 2014
Here we are again: a year more
fell due silently amid empty memories
that don’t give substance to this my present.
What is left of all travelled time?
Plum trees and buds wake up again, now
while I see new green in fields and woods.
Dry and dusty ground supports my steps
I think Easter is a far mirage
March, 17th 2019
In that day, for the first time in my life, I did not go to my work to avoid snow chaos.
Winter ice freezes any trees’ shade
covering with thick and clotted frost fog
every branch, every trunk and this landscape.
In my heart I feel that rime and hoarfrost
Where are beautiful mountains’ white ghosts
which adorned my strange and flat sea:
the Po Plain waiting quiet for green life
dreaming any sap turgor of March?
Snow is now only an accident, chaos
really not virgin whiteness, it’s hitch
and I live into thoughts of old childs.
Lazy rest in the warmth of my bed.
Frebruary, 1st 2019
Italian versione here
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
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
Photo by JB, 2018
Grass and shrubs here devour all the light
and become lust for life and for colours
while distil fragrance into the air:
helichrysum and dreamy remembers
Buds swell fast among the sharp thorns
ripping each winter’s hard and brown scales
yellow colours spread right all around
and the heather’s flesh is purple blood
Oak trees show hard and prickly, strange leaves
dark and small; they are head bent so close
to the ground. Valerian lights up as it’s a red
flame and rough bindweed is slithering down
In the clear afternoon a strange calm
envelops me; I look at myself
into limestones corroded by years.
We were sounds and too colors. Thus once
St.Guilhem le Desert, April, 4th 2018