Modest redstart

Photo by JB, 2018

 

Modest redstart watches me behind
old wisterias and then comes down here
on loose gravel where frisks looking something
at the ground as I too often do
 

I feel birds’ joy and freshness that chirps
in the clear and bright light of the day
while I smoke slowly thoughts in the shadow.
Just this moment is beautiful God

 

June, 15th 2018

 

Italian version

 

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Dawn and sunset

 

Photo by JB, 2016

 

Maybe dawn can resolve any sunset,
vain world travel towards the main night
who wins us every day anyway,
like the nothing that dries up each thing
 

“Never” as well as “always” is not
nested word into mankind assets.
Someone else can define the absolute
and He lives it without a beginning
 

You elect me, my free jump provoking
as can water do running towards
fields that drink and give us their green life.
So I am if I belong to You
 

Beyond any idea, craving, wish
about what I believe and I can
You make me something possible, life.
Yes, You’re dawn that resolve sunset, night

 

Rimini, April, 20th 2018

 

Italian version

Arles

Photo by JB, 2018

 

That’s the Rhone bend, entire universe
made by control and impressive power
On the bridge broken by the last war
lions lost stand on column as guards

Creeping culture degrades itself as
evening does at night when always fades.
It’s dusk, setting of the western sun
after drunks of so selfish Lumières

Dirty and urine smell welcome us
in the beautiful town of the past
Now they sell to each visitor views
of their Roman remains and lost pasts

In the square vague chatter of tourists
mix themselves with the sad rituals
of the fast passing life. Coffins, crowd,
ice creams, photos and laughs

The church gate shines with its carved stone
that vibrates at the sun towards Christ,
majesty, centre, pin, sense and meaning
of each thing and of this sculpture too

The cathedral: a relict inside
something else that’s the world,
passing flesh. Not a symbol alone:
beauty going to high sky, real presence

 

Arles, 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

Baux

Pic by JB 2018

 

It no longer exists, nor its rooms
nor its battlement towers. The castle
is reduced to a tourist fun chance,
its shaped stones were removed, dispersed

Still alive is the village; the white
rocks are cut and experienced again
while pine and holm trees are now the bush
calm and warm and dark green spread so much

The so powerful strength of a time,
the splendour of tapis and silk velvets,
the luxury and the glory are all faded.
They are only pale spectrum and far

As Baux does, I am often a ghost
made by hopes and illusions: past days.
I recycle my stones; they are old
as lost dreams, as a presence not true

I would like to be more, really alive
I should be what I am, what You want.
There’s a me in my shaped white heart
please discover it, please come to me

 

Baux, April, 3rd 2018

Italian version

Ochres

pic by JB, 2018

 

Vivid red earth here burns and her blood
raises as violent cry to sky,
as a flame that begs for existence.
Ochres are a magnificent spasm
 

They shine as does the light in the deep
upset when a day starts, like life does
in the dark depths of woods
when they rise from the winter frost time
 

We were primitive, we were naïve,
like beasts innocent starved of senses.
With the hands and the earth here’s a dough
made by amazed, just early beauty
 

As this earth I beg You; my fragile
female flesh yearns for You. You graft me,
for You can, in the space of my way
while I ask never filled true matters

 

Roussillon, Le Sentier des Ocres,

April, 2nd 2018

Italian version

Easter eggs

 

Easter eggs, as if someone can live
in spite of these black nights
 

Easter eggs, as if I could be alive
even though so poor, bad
 

Easter eggs, for You now still spring up
despite all my dark night
 

Easter eggs, thoughts of happy new life
for me too and for this my poor world

 

 

March, 31st 2018