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

Cry the sap

Like some wreck of a life that has gone
stumbling over the time in the past
old dead things in the water now swim
overlapping reflection of trees

 

The leaves are blooming buds
and breath on Hardened wood
made like stone by the sadness of winter.
The canal stretches out between fields

 

Also I walk around overlapping
memories to this day, mixing tiredness
with the sighs of a spring
for which the country yearns in the cold

 

In myself there’s the yesterday’s chill
lasting in all the evil I can.
Make me water and canal, reflection
of You: I’ll show the light that is in the day

 

When You said to reborn as a child
maybe it’s like old men that can wake.
As an excess of life from my branch
cry the sap because You resurrect

April, 9th 2017

Italian version

Anyway

Pic from here

Anyway
If I think I am right
if I see black as white
If my night is a sigh
and I find not my site

Anyway
If I do not agree
and think that I could be
better me fully free
even if I am a flea

Anyway
when my life almost gone
lies like a bored swan
with no strength, without brawn
without joy and withdrawn

Anyway Easter comes
when You rise again. Does
anyone blind the shine
of the least single sun?

Anyway
You don’t need any pass
to save me from myself.
Let I be not impasse
to my way out, besides

Friday, 14 April 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?

 

You introduce me

You introduce me to the sun today
when the summer is falling into autumn
and the night wins again on the day
and my face grows old while I watch you

You reflect the sun also today.
The equinox just went down and the mist
demurely dresses brown dry old twigs
that already sleep dreaming for leaves

You were sun and it was autumn day
in the strange old age owned by Rome;
we were young and my being across
the time was quite without any reason

You direct my gaze towards the sun
even if the time hurts also you
and my anger denies all the light.
In your eyes I see marks of splendour

September, 23rd 2016

Italian version

After all

afterall

A beautiful photo by Anibrm Joung. Tank you Anibrm!

A long queue of poles enters the sea
as the wish to run toward the sky
where two landscapes quite different meet
each the other, where perhaps there’s true

Where do they go forward? To the sea?
They can not reach the line so far, there
the horizon is still farther, none
of those poles can go there to see God

I’m a beach, sandy place under waves
that come here then along always go.
My life swings like those cold and blue waves
my thoughts like those poles want to go there

All the lives are a wave: stop and go
start again, up and down, then be back.
After all, yet a gap then that line
which confuses my mind like my end

SL, Blue Curacao, January, 21st 2017

 

Italian version