*
before is the bird’s
song and the occasional
car passing by
then the refrigerator
freezing while shaking
the hot water boiler
or an airplane
far away the mailman
comes dropping
volumes of papers
we need to lift glance
at a minute then dispose
that’s how days roll
away how solitude
serves me well
.
.
.
This poem is from the California Notebook collection, available in paper book and digital format.
*
.
we are here
softly abandoned
.
glaring at the shadow of
an airplane on the ground
.
one of those luminous day
where every detail is out
.
for count and thanksgiving
following a time dark as
.
the night upon which we
both struggled with
.
eyes wide open to
no avail in fear
.
.
,
*
time leaving
traces everywhere
victims never
to be avenged
time cannot
be hold it can
be classified
never arrested
and if doing some
serious thinking
we last but the
length of a breath
time shows itself
and swiftly go
.
This poem is part of the bilingual poetry collection California Notebooks 01 on sale on Amazon.
.
Sunday’s posts are dedicated to Italian Poetry
*
mi adorna
un sorriso inaspettato
io che attendo poco e vivo
d’ora che esploro sorvolando
non trattengo nulla lascio
che il movimento accada e non ho
indirizzi punte di spilli o di matite
mi trovo felice tra le ultime tre righe
.
.
.
Sì, la domenica le poesie saranno in italiano!
Poesia tratta dai “California Notebooks” in vendita da Feltrinelli.
This poems can be read in its English version here.
Tuesday Poems will be in English as usual.
*
the volume of the sky
above me and the land
stretching from my feet
.
.
.
.
.
.
Sunday posts are dedicated to Italian Poetry
*
il tempo lascia
tracce ovunque
le vittime non sono
mai vendicate
il tempo non si può
trattenere può essere
classificato mai
arrestato
e a pensarci
seriamente
non duriamo ma
il tempo di un respiro
il tempo si mostra
e fugge veloce
.
.
.
Tuesday Poems will be in English as usual.
Sì, la domenica le poesie saranno in italiano!
Poesia tratta da “California Notebooks” in vendita da Feltrinelli.
.
*
a petal can lead
to an expanse of flowers
of poetry and lightness
surprisingly colored
to an internal suburban world
projecting me with telescopic
vision toward the earth I who
believes to be above it
within not yet under
I who believe and know no more
I who believes evermore that
I’m and nothing else matters
who loves to live an atom
at a time my own explosion
.
.
.
This poem appears in the first volume of the California Notebooks.
.
A tiny taste of the radio interview I did in Milan, Italy, two weeks ago. The first poems is in English.
Un piccolo assaggio video dell’intervista all’Onda di Radio Navigli di Milano del 21-6-18. La seconda poesia è in italiano.
Text below/Testi a fondo pagina
*
I’ve seen rain
stepping on the sea
incessantly tapping
not able to carve
ancient holes
as on rocks
because it
was welcomed
it was welcome
*
ho visto la pioggia
camminare sul mare
bussava senza sosta
incapace di scavare
buchi antichi
come nelle rocce
perchè era
accolta
era ben accolta
Una sorpresa per questa domenica pre-pasquale (sembro un pulcino appena uscito dall’uovo), il segmento della mia intervista in diretta a Seilatv – Pomeriggio216. Racconto dei miei viaggi nella California del Sud dove ho “raccolto” i miei due volumi poetici bilingue California Notebooks
A early Easter surprise (yes, I look like a chick that just cracked off the egg in this interview, LOL) a live interview for an Italian TV where I tell about my trips to California where I “gathered” poetic inspiration and where I wrote the two volumes of the California Notebooks
*
it’s the beauty we hold
and carelessly wear around
what we’ll be missing more
I’ve been that route
bumps holes and crevices
known to me if you’ll let me
stop the nonsense and hold
dear what we have
.
.
.
This poem is part of the collection California Notebooks
.
.
*
I realize we
do not need more
cosmic abstractions
nor painful flights
to the Himalayas tip
for the misty fog
that sometimes
surrounds us in
a cage of boredom
to wane at the sound
of us being liberated
as we simply focus
on what we know
now that we didn’t
know last week
.
.
.
.
*
when my words
surfacing out of
poetry define
who am I
I cry
I also
rejoice and
stand still as
if suspended
all at the same
exact
time holding
that tiny particle
of truth inside me
that shining in spite
of me
.
.
,
,
,
*
they cut the air
with a fearful sound
the desert ravens
flying low
above my head
almost to halt me
to get way to set
the way
.
.
.
,
,
*
it seems some days
that the sun moves
at a faster speed
it raises for a kiss
as I get a cup of coffee
and let the cat out
I see them playing
together in the shiny
grass birds may
join too as I give
shape to new poetry
typing away
suddenly it taps
on the backyard for
a sad goodbye
as I sit speechless
.
.
.
.
*
showering
under the full moon
each drop a miniature
globe satellite revolving
my breath slowing
with each step
in the garden
eyelids lowering
under the rays
reflecting
.
.
.
.
.
