*
everything speaks
to me
of mending lately
I hear that word
inside
a practice very few
are aware of and
even
less know how to
I see ants mending
sewing
dirt to the ground
endlessly humming
birds
working the low air
other birds unknown
to me
reach out to clouds to
attach them to the sky
for me
it’s all there to see
as I lay beside men who
only
know how to punch holes
.
.
.
.
*
.
non c’è verso
.
sempre affanno in rampicata
che non trovo mai l’oratorio
.
quasi fossi ancora tra le nebbie
.
troppi i globuli bianchi pochi
rossi e meno ossigeno naviga
.
le mie vene
.
.
*
.
shuffling fast
letters and pictures
.
a bell ringing
breaking the hour
.
more than once
so be it
.
hammering a though
of you into my heart
.
as eyes to the sky
forever changing
.
not yet rolled up
.
.
*
.
sfreccia ma come rallentato
nelle ore che corrono subito
dietro l’alba, dal mio punto
di vista sfilano uno dietro
l’altro finestrini vuoti
.
nessun passeggero quasi
dietro il cielo riflesso
.
sembra il treno dei sogni
leggero azzurro indolente
.
arrivo a riva e trovo un
pescatore che non dovrebbe
pescare e per spezzar la legge
che almeno la spezzi bene
ha tre canne allineate
.
osservo l’acqua cheta
di primo mattino densa
.
di pesci riflessi dentro
il cielo terso
.
.
*
another day gone
up in smoke and a
new one waiting
to be lit
.
as I hold off for the bed
to warm itself the sounds
of nocturnal tree frogs
the birds soon to start
.
it’s quite
an unusual temperature
no more drip drop, rain
has ceases I sit calm
.
eyes large taking
in the night fallen
a desire to curl up
in many visions
.
.
*
.
il paesaggio splende
quando si scosta una nuvola
.
quello che mi manca
improvvisamente
espresso
.
le figure silenziose
danzano sui colori
immaginati
come le pietre
si credono immobili
.
si adornano
di colori ai miei occhi
.
figlia d’astrazione
folle e certa
.
non possiedo un regno
di neri e bianchi
.
credo nella luce
meraviglia che tutto
trattiene e tutto
.
libera
.
.
*
she had wished she could go back to the places
where she spent the night while dreaming.
.
she got up to drink lots of water and opened the curtains.
later she was sitting outdoors
.
writing, after she had read from her fourth book
that morning, that was what she considers a lucky day.
.
enough peace and time to sip nectar
from the books lined up for her.
.
she was staring at her left thumb nail.
a bit uneven as always. wondering how
.
and passing her middle finder back and forth on it.
a lot of ideas to put down on paper
.
while she smelled the air and opened a bit her mouth
while curling up the tip of the nose
.
to trap the smells in.
she had learned that from cats.
.
her friend was laying on his side
relaxing in the sun slightly breathing.
.
crises passed now. he didn’t like her
gardening attempt and her watering all around.
.
.
it looks as total relaxation. yet both had attentive
ears to the sounds around. nature yes
.
and someone adding sounds of car doors
slammed back and forth and motors.
.
starting to pull them away. to their own homes
after they had bought their groceries nearby.
.
she looked at her nail once again. worried.
if she’d got up again she may loose concentration.
.
he could have get nervous by her restlessness
in spite of the beautiful day.
.
he may lose his patience. as if
reading her mind he got up
.
to lay a bit further away to leave
her space. or to spy her better
.
under his lowered eyelids.
she was very good at making
.
excuses to herself quite often.
her full potential scared her.
.
so she used to heed to emotions.
to create pitfalls. that’s it.
.
she started her first line. this time
inspiring the lemons scents in.
.
lulled by the birds singing through the air.
no one needed to read it anyway.
.
later she would go wash her car with her own
hands and file straight that nail.
.
.
*
between salted
scarce trickles of tears
.
darkened by heavy clouds
of comparison with others
.
the weight of lead
the toxicity of the same
.
I lose my way on the starred
map in the silvery night
.
my trip on earth slowed down
heavy luggage of spoiled health
.
may be a curse may be hummus
at times all I can do is smell it
.
or be bent under others’ gazes
my hands rest secure and my eyes
.
see ahead they are hope filled
certain of what has to come
.
I shall keep not my identification
with conditional or temporal
.
will have to break that mirror
obscuring the eternal light
.
my eyes need not to be on
watches, calendars or bills
.
numbers fog up my path
most people do too
.
are my thoughts aimed
at precise definitions
.
I need to remove
not my life
.
this I conclude
while closing
my eyes
.
.
*
–
it had been a long time
since I sat here – listening
to night’s nature
searching words
reasoning pain out
it had been a long time
since I had done this
in English
.
may be to draw away
from you – as I fear
the end of us – of this
half life you are handing me
that seems to not be
sufficient for me
any longer
.
I sat and recon myself a woman
a venerable woman I knew
diverse – as if she had
crossed many continents
on feet and wings
in the dark season
.
finding herself
on the porch once again
wondering over a map
of tender love on which
she had lost the way
one more time
.
.
*
.
I decided I had to open the door
at night
and step outside
walk alone in the dark at night
it had been a long time
since I did it last
.
autumn had fallen with
its sadness and abandonments
I retrieved in pain and since
then I hardly ever
stepped on the ground
around my house at night
.
I had heard the wind a bit
from the hot bath tub
while dealing with heaviness
in my mind
trying in vain to stay afloat
I was a new season approaching
that was clear
*
poetry writing
each poems a snap shot
for things that happened
for fleeting feelings
.
for things wished for
.
images of possible impossibilities
for cruelty unclaimed and unjudged
for actions sore as open wounds
for kisses not to vanish away
.
lining up words as on a drying line
shaking them off a little
pinning them carefully one by one
under the gaze of a glaring sun
.
between the whispers of curious readers
.
exposed
I stand
.
.
*
.
rivederti è stato bello
e poco buono ora volo
alto come un aquilone
.
densa di colori
.
vessata da sensazioni
sorretta dal vento
di un pensiero solo
.
.
*
.
it’s a matter of
finally finding myself
alone
in the night hanging from a
window sill gazing at a padded sky
.
finding beauty in the dark grayness
of thinking i shall call you
once more
of finding his hair everywhere
in the sink in my bed in my socks
.
.
of a picture of the hands of the other one
a poem engraved deeply down
.
of the air moved away by his presence
while he danced around me
.
.
of feeling the hands of that one encircling me
as he laid me bare and attacked me
of being centered again
of being the center of your attention
of being entered by so many emotions
.
of having forgotten the pain one left me with
of having forgotten him
of having only scars and no more wounds
.
of being silent still and thrilled
.
of hearing no more sounds
in the night just that perfect quietness
of realizing none of you matters
.
and all of you do
.
.
*
prova a leggere i miei occhi
invece delle mie poesie
ferma la mia mano
osservala
.
.
annamosca 