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

The death of God and the beauty

 

Up: one of the music of yesterday ceremony, here by one of my favourite ensable…

 

Last night I went to a church where there was a Via Crucis sung by a chorus in which I have some friends.

It was beautiful and touching; each station of the Cross was marked by a chant a cappella: before and after only silence. I listened to several treasures of the millenary cristian tradition: from medieval songs to Allegri, Mozart, Rachmaninov, Bardos.

All that beauty surprised and moved me deeply, above all because it was all about pain and death and not only human pain and death: God died. How much beauty the man was able to build in the arts about such a tragedy!

So, I thought that it is not only the blue of the sky, the colours of the springs, the lips of my love or the joy for the life to show me God, but also the darkness, the pain. The death.

If the man, this very poor being, has the power to make beauty from the death… what’s the power of God?

 

Primo vere

Photo by JB, 2017

A wreck blackthorn is a candid moan
in the hedge, border of a wild fallow.
As cheek blush of young woman in love,
as the bush, also my heart now blooms

Unassuming, the blackthorn is shining,
everybody now sees how it’s beautiful,
candid life in the incipient season
which promises songs to little birds

A white blackthorn is a candid smile
in the sad sea of everyday, twigs wreck.
Please, put blossoms on me, on my branch!
Spring founds Easter out from the usual time

March, 21st 2017

Thank you Leda for your suggestions!

 

Italian version

Soft breeze

img_1728_web

(to my love, to my mountains)

 

A soft breeze carries me far away
toward mountains where rocks and lights leap
where my steps, my effort and the Beauty
bring me somewhere so near to the sky
 

We are together, I walk and you walk
on the path within silence. We are close.
I need you, I need also the enormous
feeling of boundless life, soaring love

 

September, 6th 2016

 

Oh, Leda, thank you for your bright suggestions!

 

Italian version

Nivolet

IMG_1729_web

Photo by J.B., August, 25th 2016

 

In the setting of rocks and silences
waters made as green emeralds, jewels
of sapphire follow each other pursuing
the chaste song of snows and cotton grasses
 

All is silent and smells of enormous
drawn up towards impossible Height.
The sound of my vain thoughts now is stopped
and the blue floods me whole violently
 

I am drunk of this clear light, of this sky
I feel good and dissolve each my trouble
as a stone far away among stones.
Everything is just strain and both beauty

 
And I’m fine. I feel good. I feel good

 

Col Rosset, August, 25th  2016

Italian version

Also the time died

“Visioni devastatrici” by Tom Porta: the Velasca Tower, Milan

 

 
I grew wild
exhibiting rejection
and abjuring bourgeois moralisms.
Now
I hear doctors who say to wash hands
before eating
I see many idiots to pee
on the guardrail without any worry.
On the train no one looks at me for
everyone dreams somewhere on the web.

 
I’m dumbfounded and wonder
what did happen
to the artists and the common saints
born among the poor people?
And the navigators?
Where are you,
what about your nice works,
Where are now you, Italians?

 
I mourn our ancient culture
and the old and sharp rules
and the duty
and the intelligence too.

 
When it was that also the time died?

 
 
May, 31st 2016

 
 

Italian version