I’m cold

JB, 2009

 

That pale sun comes back into the winter
that chills me childish like enthusiasms
about what I wish and I can do
to fix links that heavily go down
 

Also alcohol is back to help me
caterwauling so silly when I think
to be able to do and so playing
while we are far away

and I’m cold

 

November, 19th 2018

Italian version

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and I’m back

Gustav Klimt, The tree of life; at the right end: The embrace (pic found here)

I cling on to your body this night
when I grasp your chest and you entirely
and I take you and you take me and
spasm of life runs across all my flesh
 

I am frequently far in my dreams
lost in evil screams scattered there
in a desert, my acts can’t be true
and they have so no substance, no beauty
 

I cling strongly to you and this night
becomes lighter and dissipates shadows
that freeze deeply heart and my mind.
You feel me and you see me and I’m back

 

November, 4th 2018

 

Italian version

Todo cambia

 

This scirocco breaks forests, breaks trees:
it is wrong and my world is wrong too,
black and soaked with so mad bad feelings
everywhere saturated by evil
 

After storm, after days that were storm
now I write. Sense of fulness and peace
covers me. I dissolve my fatigue
while light breeze dispels smoke
 

A far woman sang that “Todo cambia“:
each thing changes and me and my world
and the wind and the clouds … yes: all changes
Stay with me, do not leave me, God come!

October, 31st 2018

 

Thank you Kristine: now I know this beautiful song and enjoy it.

 

Italian version

The storm

Oh, I’m so sorry: yesterday I cannot post this stuff, so I do it now.

 

Photo by JB, 2017

 

I experience the silence of mountain
lonely as balcony over the plain
where each river flows, where each old land
is now fighting against roads and buildings

 

A big storm is preparing in the west side,
it will be here soon, symbol and fact.
I stare at its black night, at its feature
that completely hides sun and blue sky

 

July, 11th  2018

 

Italian version

St.Sara

 

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

 

 

Italian version

Cold and peace

Picture by JB, 2018


Cold and peace. A stone church is deserted,
swindled out its old decorations,
all ruined, returned, again risen
surely pale yet now surely alive

There’s a silver cross, it’s as a flame
brightly shining. It hardens immanence
of tangible solace and hope too.
Inside it a Wood crosses our flesh
 

In the cloister, where it now survives
– it was sold – spring and warmth
exalt us like the beautiful apses.
Truly I regret old times of saints
 

Hammer blows on the face of my Christ,
all the heads ripped off from white angels,
columns sold, above all the stone graves
desecrated. Every space marred, spoiled …
 

Stupid beasts pushed out history
which built them and destroyed their own faces
so erasing each sense, beauty, hope.
Cold and peace and memory are left
 

St.Guilhem le Desert, April, 4th 2018

Relic of the Holy Cross, Angel without face, body of St.Guilhem. Picture by JB, 2018

Italian version

 

It is difficult to know who best deserves the title of Most Cretinous Philistine – the people who sold them [the columns of the cloister], those who bought them, or those who now decline to return them. The cumulative damage of these various acts of vandalism [begun with the French revolution] was so severe that it is now impossible to determine the number and sequence of its columns – or even the dimensions of the cloister

Black fires

Picture from here

 

I remember your eyes as two fires
even if black as black was the cape
that hid everywhere your face and the body
years ago, there, in the underground train

You seemed proud and contemptuous about
myself and all my so perverse world
too much free or perhaps I hurt you
staring at your so lovely eyes

You were Arab, maybe, anyway
from another world; you seemed me
really beautiful, so upright and sure
to be better than us, flabby and weak

I don’t know when I saw you, the year
when we met on that train, far in time.
In those days we had no fear or suspicion
about evil intention by Islam

Then the towers, the wars and the crazy
attacks made by your people … by you?
Our planet was wide at that time
now each thing changes and the Earth is so small

 

January, 16th 2018

Italian version