Stormy weather

 

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

 

Italian version

Red cachemire

 

JB, 2017

 

You paint using so sinuous thoughts
every night all my night and my skin
quivers, trembles and asks for caresses
as she was still young and gets upset

 
Spring is trap and a danger for minds,
it’s a fire, it’s as scattered poppies
like the blood of a young woman when
she surrenders and gives her to love

 
In the winter I wanted my bed
red and I doodle my unsure dreams
every dawn as in cashmere designs
when you go far and I think alone

 
I don’t fulfil you, you don’t to me, neither
it’s enough this flesh for the immense wish
that you open wide as the blue does
when it breaks the clouds and at last shines

 

May, 9th 2017

 

Italian version

Copts

 

The new

 

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.
And death.
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.
Well.
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!

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?

 

Each bee

 

 

pic from here

 

A crucible of many clichés
dissolves me and I foolishly agree
as dull people who aim to be accepted.
So I too am perverting the words
 

The emotion stirs up any instinct
without producing reasons but cravings.
In the gloomy molasses of cheating
I am what I want be: only a bubble
 

I can see the evil spread in the world,
I am into it, part of it too.
The sense market alters me, as
when tobacco turns in smoke: poison
 

As a prostitute, I resell thinking,
while I’m mixing banal whim drives
with poor aims to be free: only dreams
Yes: each bee deeply hides only a wasp

 

February, 16th 2017

 

Italian version

 

 

Thank you Leda: without you this text, like other stuffs of mine, would be less correct as grammar…

 

She & me. Part two: me

img_5819_web

photo by me, 2015

2. Me

I have no leaves on my branches. My skin
becomes dry with the wind of the winter
that strips it both of love and belief
of each good verifying caresses
 

I’m a shiver. I ask for the Moon,
soft light twisting to my dry cold body
when I lie without words in the shadows
of all my gloomy thoughts built by absence
 

I lost feelings of sweetness and love
in the mist, which shades off farther here
any mountains and beauty semblances.
I’m a poor land, earth of little substance
 

I am the servant of demented cravings
to which I bend down, looking for toys
in my nothing. A diaphanous whisper
coats my flesh almost lifeless
 

 November, 28th 2016

Italian version

She & me. Part one

img_5819_web

photo by me, 2015

  1. She

 I have no leaves on my branches. My skin
realizes shiny drops of the rain
and they flow, as tears lost,
breaths of frozen white steam
 

I’m a shiver. I ask for the Moon
as my peace. I’m so tired. I crouch down
on the earth: I’m rejection of blue.
You hurt me with your coarse awful gaze
 

I lost feelings of sweetness and love
in the mist, which shades off farther here
any mountains and beauty semblances.
I’m as goods that have little substance
 

I am the servant of demented cravings
to which I bend down, like poor toy.
I am nothing. A diaphanous whisper
coats my flesh almost lifeless

November, 28th 2016

 

Italian version