pic by sellsworth, from here
Paris, London, Kabul, Teheran …
Stormy weather again on the lake
as the troubles I keep in my mind.
People run to look for some repair;
I still here wait for cool on my face
Stormy weather again in this world.
Someone somewhere is preparing wars
in the middle of eastern warm lands
where the mankind knew how to eat grain
Stormy weather again in lost towns
where no one understands to see sense
in his acts further what he can see
with his eyes or touch with his own hands
Stormy weather again in my soul,
in your one and wherever a man
or a woman can live or can stay.
Without horizon there all falls: rain
June, 6th 2017
From the sixth hour until the ninth hour darkness came over all the land. About the ninth hour, Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken Me?”
(Matthew, 27: 45-46)
The word “Copt” is indirectly derived from the Greek Αἰγύπτιος Aigýptios meaning simply “Egyptian” (from Wikipedia).
How many times I go to the Sunday mess only because I always do so? Only because I must do so?
How many times the mess is boring to me?
The same mess, in the same day, for other Christians is an important and precise choice.
The same mess, in the same day, for other Christians can be pain and martyrdom.
As the first mess was.
As the mess of Christ himself was.
… and I go there without thinking.
Or, better: and I go there thinking to some most important matter!
…and I go there and the mess often annoys me.
I think that if I’ll go to the Hell, it will be so not for an excess of life, but for my omissions.
Not for my luxury, but for my accidie.
Yes: for my sloth.
Now I pray for all you, dear sisters and brothers.
Now I ask also to all you, sisters, brothers: “Forgive me, please!”
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?
Anemone nemorosa in wood. JB, 2017.
This silly spring song is dedicated to Angel Morning
Almost spring, sunny day, winter goes
in the grey velvet of each past times.
Under young woods the anemone's light
is the breath of the new life that cries
White and pure, fresh and lovely
you start dancing cute and lonely
Each tear drop that falls from the sky
like the kiss of dew on morning grass
recalls me that each thing must fast run
toward cold places; I always ask "Why?"
White and pure, you are so lively.
When you dance I grow sad, lonely
When the sunlight becomes low and shy
as at the sunset, when the mist wins,
leading me though me toward black nights,
I am a shiver that seeks my Love's eyes
White is your soul, I am ugly
like a savage herb, a pussly
Sin and death are deep in me: a fight.
As in a dream I saw you this morning
dancing alone in the wood clearing.
You are anemone light, fresh and white
Without thoughts of sin, lovely
you dance cool. I look at you freely
Second Life, Elven Forest, March, 11th 2017
Thank you to my dear friend BC for his suggestion to my bad english
Almost at the end of this strange year, just when its true sense comes another time, these are my best wishes for a Merry Holy Christmas.
Suddenly, in the winter,
you went out
beyond sights of blind eyes
toward lands, perhaps ice,
without cries, without shout
Suddenly, in the winter,
as old news full of white
as a flash in my night
like some cuddles to us
Suddenly, in my winter,
death is wife
of the life in each day.
I retry this old pray
pain to faith could be knife
Suddenly, in that winter, Christ was born
in the cold, into death, into life,
as now does. Christmas comes.
Still awake, my heart find its true peace
December, 19th 2016
Also you walk away
You, mystery more than the others,
stubborn silence and coarse
You, obstinate boy,
now you too
you have gone
as a last surprise
You and the other
you all ever don’t stop
December, 5th 2016
I liked a lot the beautiful poem “Catastrofi” by Marina Raccanelli. When I talked about it with my dear friend Leda, she had the idea to translate the poem into English. We did it and Marina liked our work and gave us the permission to post it here.
Well, I was impressed because the tranlsation was very easy and also a first automatic translation made by Google had an interesting result: when I try to tralslate my own stuffs into Italian or into English, Google does not work well and to respect rhytms and sound (as far it is possible) a lot of work needs.
That consideration is probably stricly connected with the nice style of Marina: she writes about very important matters but in way simple, immediate, very easy to understand (even Google understands her!). She writes using a lovely music but her rhytm is without any strict cage of metric. On the contrary, my own style is complicated, convoluted, rigidly trapped in the cage of decasyllables; the risult is the contrast between the beautiful poems of Marina and my poor attempts to do something.
Anyway, this is the poem of Marina, translated into English by Leda and me:
by Marina Raccanelli
There is someone who shouts in the silence
and the great house full of echoes
now is empty:
the eraser of time bleached white
peevish cheerful voices, sounds sung
chattering children and hoarse old man
I do not know where they went
and who I am, where I live
beyond the dark screen
this is the no man’s land
place of everything, home of anything –
I do not understand the languages of the crowds
nor their gestures, nor clothes, tattoos
and they swarm in absurd rituals –
while I wait for the anguish of the minutes
I am my land, I am nobody
and I go on along this long way
cut off, I don’t know for how long
from the deafening catastrophes
Translation by LedaEuropa and Judy Barton