Author Archives: anna mosca

About anna mosca

Artist, poet, photographer, reader, lover, walker, traveler. Feeling in wilderness. Been writing lots of poetry, taking less pictures, teaching a whole lot, traveling less than usual, loving more than allowed, riding public city bikes and not planes, puzzled over paintings. Beside all those forms I am.

Being There

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being there
one day

where the sound
of butterflies wings

could be heard
stretched on a smile

attentive to my
body changes

on the awe of gratitude
cracking away

a bit at a time
to deeper life

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This poem is part of the published collection California Notebooks 02

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Light

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approaching the day
with dancing
thoughts

to linger in god’s
presence
light

that stays with me
at night
and in my slumber

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This poem is part of the published collection California Notebooks 02

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Winter Delving

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today too I went
to dig the winter
iced ground I had some
tears I could not let out

they were there like the
worm holes I saw
in the lumps I upturned

there are some things
I do not understand

about mankind
the worms were gone
hiding safe the dirt

just laid there perforated
all its holes not visible
before now looking up
to the sky under my eyes

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Pick Me Up

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peaceful the dust
lingers on my shelves

I touch books thrown
back in time where

is all that mind
knowledge gone

the people that
walked with me

transmuted no
stone left unturned

no thing left the same
I let dust be as

my eyes scan spines
bleached by the

sunlight come
god pick me up

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Con il buio

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Sunday’s Poems are dedicated to Italian Poetry

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i giorni in cui devo

insegnare

mi sveglio

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prima degli uccelli

parto

con il buio

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con il buio ritorno

le stelle mi illuminano

di sorrisi

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Tuesday Poems will be in English as usual.

Sì, la domenica le poesie saranno in italiano!

 

 

 

Perhaps

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perhaps I live for ever
beyond the world’s borders
without realizing

those limits useless talks
and mean chit-chats
laid out as spider webs

perhaps I fly protected

in the blinding light
and at night I cry
cause I did not grasp it

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January 27 was International Holocaust Memorial Day , this poems is my contribution to honor the victims.

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A Mary Oliver

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Sunday’s Poems are dedicated to Italian Poetry (audio version below), on Tuesday this poem will be published in English.

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poesia che scappa

liquida agli angoli

degli occhi coricata

ricordo e non trovo

parole che incartino

questi sentimenti

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Audio: Cliccare per la versione audio

 

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Once More

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I did read six pages
this morning
to make me revolve
once more
in the right direction
it has been
long since I could
poetry came
to give me a hand
to see who
am I once more

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Feeling sad… The six pages mentioned in this poem I published Tuesday are those of a Mary Oliver book, and today, two days later, she passed away…

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Making Room

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left with questions
raising as people complain
not understanding
hiking the silent way alone
making answers room

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Yesterday it was my birthday, I choose this poetic meditation for today because growing is a beautiful, truly beautiful, journey – even when we don’t understand life.

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Ogni festa comandata

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Sunday Posts are dedicated to Italian Poetry (video and audio version too)


Poesia in quattro stanze

I

ogni festa comandata è vendemmia
le persone stanno come grappoli

unite serrate vicine aggrappate

a volte tra loro solo ragnatele
pressate nessuno spazio
per muoversi

distinguersi
e si amano così
dicono

senza prospettiva
non conoscono distanza
vuoti

II

mi preferisco acino
solitario staccato rotolato via

pesante di dolcezza
piccolo il rostro

III

il primo era decisamente da grappolo
vive di social network frenetica
cicala gli arriva poca luce

resta acido
costruisce castelli
imperi di sabbia e parole

IV

il secondo si è strappato a forza
dal grappolo esule sulla motocicletta
si sa che in moto sta comodo
solo il guidatore

per assicurarsi la sua
indipendenza rompe
tutte le regole
tutte

non teme il futuro non
teme nulla e nessuno
ma l’amore

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video and audio version Italiano

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From the collection Colori Estivi, 2013

Sento

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Sunday’s Poems are dedicated to Italian Poetry

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quando scrivo sono

guardo mi svuoto

sempre più ricca

 

guardo l’albero

nella nebbia e sono

l’albero e la nebbia

 

non avverto confini

non penso sento

la poesia è essenza

 

d’essere vita

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Tuesday Poems will be in English as usual.

Sì, la domenica le poesie saranno in italiano!