Reed flute

Pic from here

 

Rumi (1207-1273), Persian poet and mystic

 

Any reed will regret her old swamp
where she was born among sister reeds.
Now she is moaning with sweet music and
whoever hear her remembers that pain
 

We are stagnant in this stifling air
while we are going through these tired sedges.
Any color today is a pale viola
secular sobriety without hope

 

March, 8th 2018

 

 

Italian version

 

 

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Ballerina

Pic from here

 

Discreet dancer, you rely upon many
long and thin glass pale wires
and vibrating reflect any breath,
even whispers of black dying flies
 

Growing old while days pass,
your soft silk becomes dusty and grey
as opaque cut out of so lost space,
glue of past times, disuses
 

Ballerina (*). From your corner you look
at my world while it hurriedly passes
towards where it doesn’t know. You don’t think
and your eyes reflect alien black frost

 

June, 3rd 2018

(*) Longbodied cellar spider is named “Ragno ballerino” (Dancer spider) in Italian

 

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

Corpus Domini

Pic found here

 

This my present is maybe described
using runes, so I can’t find its key
hidden into such alien strange seasons
full of mystery, dryness and shadows
 

Algorithms made by an abstract coldness,
betray each our human awareness,
liquefy any real essentials
and give up themselves to bestial instincts
 

Deviant morals gain day by day death
while our reason is pray of deep sleep
and so wavers and more monsters come.
Everything is due, claimed possession
 

The reality lies low as dream,
a delirium of insipid wishes.
Violence is so a normal thing
everywhere: echo and terrible scream
 

 
Existences
we shuffle around as in slippers:
only pale and blind shades
of those who lost their role in the world.
My Church seems also a joke
 

I’m a jump of acrobatic cripple
and pretend and hold me toward nothing
while each thing falls down all around here.
Make us real, me too. Give me sense

 

June, 27th 2017

 
Italian version

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

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

And finally the Italian version

They come back

img_1822_web

photo by JB, 2017

Now, again, they come back
piercing soft mosses and dried twigs,
the life buds are a new erect sign,
a new spring maybe possible soon

fast

In my little, thin world,
where I live, in the plant rack, I see
in spite of the wind running still cold
something green now grows up young and strong

fast

Now, again, also I
could be back, as new hope of a start
in spite of all the world evil, strong
maybe spring does my beauty return

soon

February, 9th 2017

Italian translation