pics by JB 2017
Strange world, so different
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
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
Estote fortes in bello
et pugnate cum antiquo serpente
et accipietis regnum aeternum,
Be valiant in war
and fight the ancient serpent
and you shall enter the everlasting kingdom,
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
Pic from here
If I think I am right
if I see black as white
If my night is a sigh
and I find not my site
If I do not agree
and think that I could be
better me fully free
even if I am a flea
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without joy and withdrawn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?
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
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?
The sharp steel of the plough
turns nude thighs made by earth
shaping clay into forms
of exotic brown women
Even if I can count
everyday in the mirror
many springs on my face,
this one twists hard my flesh
A light rain shines the field
where I cross lewd forms
and disperse silly thoughts
while I walk with you, talking
My mind is sick with fog
penetrating my depths
My desire is dull substance:
wash the mud from my eyes
March, 26th 2017