Principale Arte, Cultura & Società Empathic Poems from Edinburgh – The Body and The Soul

Empathic Poems from Edinburgh – The Body and The Soul

It is in the mirror that you notice
your thinning hair, your dried mouth
and your broken eyes.
I remain firm, looking at myself.
I do not belong to me, I am a statue of salt.

***

The infinite is inside our eyes;
not outside, not in the things of this world,
but in their shadows.

Night, Death, Blinking,
take us through the universe again,
out of time.

***

I am neither a man nor a woman,
a hook between my legs.
I have transplanted my hair,
breast, lips, I have trimmed my hips,
covered my skin, tattoos and piercings
in order to hang umbrellas.
I talk with a mother voice
Between dress and soul the bones.

***

The little, punished, infected dog shouted:
Shame has no name… repeated
…just smells, colours, pains.
In a desert of red flowers she sought
a precipice, a ground to dig
in order to bury the body.

***

Eyes do not see nails growing,
the daily millimetre.
We recognize we are older
because of our shoes,
the little coat with our initial letter
hand-embroidered.
But look: I am thirty
and I did not realize it.

***

On the bed the body becomes flesh,
it dissolves in the hot sun of August.
Afraid of the ceiling, it could press me…
Skin is a creased and dirty sheet.
Shortly I will look inside my eyelids,
I will fall from a nightmare to another.
I do not belong to me, I am a statue
interwoven of nerves and tendons.
The soul is just a part of the Body.

***

Soon we will be as the dead who,
climbing the skies, look at the fluorescent map
left upon the earth: the steps, their steps…
Will we discover, then, any design to our life?
Flower, fruit, bird, jewel…
or perhaps nothing… confused lines,
a crazy, unique sketch.

***

When in the dark night,
mixed with the cold wind,
the snow, and the rustle
of oleanders, you will hear
a shrieking song from afar,
as if it was a wolf, when
melancholic it seeks the moon
from the edge of a rock…
Oh men, at that moment,
address this shadow with a thought,
because this is the song of a tired,
solitary traveller.

***

They look.
Every single day, unknown eyes look,
and are looked at; they observe closely
or for brief instants distracted by the tip
of their nose, the only one that counts, that exists.
How many faces meet each other every day,
pass by each other, unmindful
and then disappear without returning.
Yet they go on, go on, go on…
They talk, think, eat, hope, make love.
And yet in no time they disappear,
perhaps to reappear in a dream…
But now they are dead, deleted without
having lived because each man exists
just for himself and when he dies (did he live?)
nobody knows that once he breathed.

***

An old rucksack of seashells and stones,
the noise of trains rickety in the Sur of Spain,
chance car journeys that take you part of the way,
wherein you tell the colours of your dreams.
I remember the terror of the Sagrada Família,
the twelve spires, the marks of cement
on our faces when we awoke in the station,
the women had in warm, improbable corners,
the roar returned to the ocean.
The trip is never finished, its echoes still rumble
within my walls, never to be absorbed.

***

In the burning summer night
from a little window in the heart of Cilento,
my mother seeks the horizon,
she points it out to those who listen.
The finger that tastes sauce,
that dries eyes, pricked
with needles kept on the spool.

***

Nothing belongs to us but dreams
confused images of the night,
voices that we do not distinguish anymore.

***

Childhood was too short.
A run across a field,
a counting backwards.
In the heart of this, the night fell
and we saw mad eyes only.
Now we can only cling to dreams,
to the unknown.

***

I feel lonely!
I refuse to use roundabout expressions, ever again.
The world is an empty bubble ready to implode
and men are water and shampoo, soap bubbles.

***
One day this madness will finish
and there won’t be fires,
but only silences to cradle us forever.
If I close my eyes I am there
in an endless instant, I stagger mad
with emotion when I feel myself,
such a particle of peace.

***

The Dead Body

In light the still body lies,
in the dead room.
Two souls dry pools
with white cloths,
and then the eyes
and the forehead
betray the thought
which does not vanish
in the black of the chimney.

***
The Naked Body

The skin clothing is fastened
by a button on the belly.
The breasts hide prosthesis,
then deflate in the sun of summer.
From your thorax you have pulled out
hairs with wax and between your legs
you have tied the crow
you wished had died.

***
The Impotent Body

In the mirror you observe the erection
and your double is another in which
you could become complete.
Long hair covers the lips sewn
with the string of pain.
You will not be courageous enough
to embrace yourself, you will remain there,
still, counting the wounds of time upon
your impotent body.

***
The Body without Organs

Their breasts hid the monkeys
that placed dynamite inside
the drained blood vessels.
Blocks fell down
hit by birds diverted,
gone crazy in the sun,
with their wings outspread.
The heart of the apple
will beat nevermore.

***
The Expectant Body

This insolent belly will grow up;
the monster slammed inside me
with a knife at my throat will eat my organs.
You will be a dead body in a dead land
and maybe I will not be able to love you,
as well as I am unable to throw you away.

***
The Invisible Body

There is no skin to dry
in the sun any longer.
The skeleton moves in a garden,
observing its decomposition.
Its mouth has lost its stars
and upon its fingers,
diamonds are broken now,
the flowers without love die
without dying.

***
The Delirious Body

The snakes get tangled on the head
of the white-bearded woman who
was born as Mario.
Maria has engraved the pain on her
forehead with needle and ink,
she reads it back to front in the mirror
that cannot stand.

***

I have dreamt about you,
without a tooth with sweaty, wrinkled arms.
You did not have any roses in your mouth,
but withered thorns in the wind of digestion
and in the rotten smell of cavities.
You have tortured me for a whole night,
after tying me, raping me.

***

The mirror of water is mud
and there I madly seek my eyes.

***

The heart is a spider’s web.
It veils the window and imprisons flies of art
in order to suck out their essence.

***

Oxford 13/09/2010

Light and fresh the wind in the garden,
suddenly red fruits come down
so a black and scared cat runs away which,
in peace, was licking his hair.

A cloak of rain wraps the mountains
the last birds happily make the sky free
in their beaks they hold some straw
to put on the fire where they tell
fairy stories to little birds.
Empty is my room and full my heart
and I get up and down one thousand times
to fool myself into holding time,
thoughts which escape far away,
closer to he who is without sin, to his hand.

***

Tonight I have no desire to sleep.
I want to remain here until morning
writing poetry.
The heart drowns less slowly when
the pen sheds tears and the paper
dries pain.

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