POETRY

POETRY IS A BOMB ATTACK CELESTIAL I’m absent, but the bottom of this there is no expectation of myself, and this expectation is another form of presence, waiting for my return. I live in the other objects, giving a little trip of my life in certain trees and certain stones, which I have waited many years. They are tired of …

PROPERTIES Inside me there is a kernel, like the one that tries to fill the mango. Inside is the essence of another continent. I fear that someone take it off me, but as it would be best to take it, in my arms, and run away with him! (Moniza Alvi) http://www.amazon.co.uk/At-Time-Partition-Moniza-Alvi/dp/1852249846  

INAGH VALLEY. LATE NOVEMBER Winter, and Beola’s fierce peaks, stand their ancient ground. Derryclare, defiant Binn Chorr, and farther west the great Binn Bhraoin. November sunlight moves across their glistening shoulders, while purple clouds, rich, gold-pleated, churn and roll, on the slopes above the black lake. Day fades from the deep glens, and boggy foothills. Night comes down, and the …

I WANT TO GO BACK I want to go back the ancient sweetness crying alone. So I said to her not to separate us. (Takuboku Ishikawa) http://www.amazon.com/Knowing-Oneself-Too-Well-Selected/dp/061534562X/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

DREAMS As he slept badly, he woke with anger for wanting to redo the loss. Loss of what? He was not sure. At his age, hardly love, perhaps a spasm. A narrow dense core, no more, He assured himself, breathing on his own in the dark. Why then he watched the door as if someone had come, and then walked …

WHEN I FORGET When I forget what love is, you have to be yourself. When I forget what a woman is, you have to be yourself. When you forget who I am, you have to be me. When you forget who you are, you have to be yourself. So, out loud, I compose this poem in an empty compartment. See …

IN THE DESERT OF SOLITUDE Even in the desert of this solitude, sparkle still images drawn from your words. And in the dust and ashes of the distance, still flourish jasmine and rose dell’esserti close. Right here salt the warmth of your breath, warmed by its own scent, gently, gently. And there beyond the horizon spark, drop by drop hesitant, …

THIS TRIP   I do not know how many dreams ago began this journey, the shore of the sun, the shore of death. Like a veil sinks back into memory, apprentice of exile. Oh mirror, moon ominous. From which mountain will ask the way to the waters, the shore of the sun, the shore of death. The time has stopped, …

BETWEEN THE BATTLES AGAINST MYSELF What are my work, type of weapon and fight change, one of us always wins, usually is the other. There is a dead time, punctuated forage coitus drug talk: life. It’s too long, the wounds are closed too quickly. (Heiner Müller) http://www.amazon.com/Heiner-Muller-Reader-Plays-Poetry/dp/0801865786      

THAW   When we brought you home in a taxi, through the steel-grey thaw, after the coldest week in memory – even the river sealed itself – it was I, hardly breathing, who came through the passage to our yard, welcoming our simplest things: a chopping block, the frost-split lintels; and though it meant a journey through darkening snow, arms …