Oct9

Cum poti sa iubesti un loc? (cu dedicatie pentru 2 prieteni)

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Cum sa iubesti un loc? Din toata inima si cu toata pasiunea. Il caut pentru ca ma face sa simt ca traiesc, ca numai acolo exist cu adevarat, ca masca mea s-a pierdut undeva pe drum si ca voi intra pura si nestingherita. E complicele gandurilor si martorul aventurilor mele.

Cand sarut parca totul se raceste astfel incat sa simt doar caldura persoanei care imi este alaturi.

Cand ascult cum ea imi canta , parca totul se linisteste, sunetele se afunda in surdina si tot ce rasuna e vocea clara si melodioasa.

Cand privesc, parca cerul isi schimba culoare astfel incat sa fie si mai albastru, sa scoata in evidenta culoarea ochilor lui.

Cand ating parca totul devine imaterial, conturul lumii inconjuratoare creionandu-se dupa imaginatia mea.

Si pot sa visez. Si pentru cateva clipe pot sa uit ca totul nu e decat un vis si sa cred ca exista cu adevarat.

Ca talpile ma vor durea la fel fie de voi calca pe pietre sau pe nisip.

Ca soarele ma va orbi cu aceeasi intensitate fie el deasupra marii sau deasupra cladirilor obosite

Ca vantul va vuia la fel fie printre panzele unei corabii sau printre copacii infloriti.

Feb18

Sick Smoke

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One of the very first poems I wrote in English.

Sick Smoke

–

I blew the candle on the table

and my irises turned red,

so that I couldn’t see your figure in the smoke.

–

The smoke got trapped into your bag

and cut the lyrics that I wrote you

and lit the candle form the mystics.

–

You thought they’d heal you

with their books of remedies and magic,

but you remain unsettled.

–

Your hair, butter scotched

like melting melon ice-cream

and your nails too.

–

The smoke piped around your eyes.

Red vines in an ivory void,

purple underneath,

Sick.

May11

To the barbarians in my beloved homeland

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As far as I am concerned, I hope you’ll never be able to sleep again. But until then:

How would you would to feel another wearing your skin?

Would you hunt him in his sleep?

Like I know they’ll hunt you,

Harsh, and dark, and painful.

Will you remember that you wear their dried fur in your pockets,

as the fang of hundreds bites your sleazy hand?

will you tell your children stories

of how you burned life like you burn an incense stick?

And when you think of

Those who can cry but cannot speak,

Do you dream of how you’ve killed before?

(just a draft, but I needed to get it out there)

May8

Thinking of the sea

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It’s not meant to be a story; it’s the fantasy of a rainy day and a cold breeze. A breeze that smells of salt and pushes the window open. Across the street, there’s an identical row of English houses and I draw the heavy curtain so I cannot see them. I lay in bed, in the morning half-light, with that breeze as my only cover.  There is no tension, in the air, in my muscles. There is no sound but that which allows the song of the morning sea to wave in. There’s a shore behind the window, with sun-kissed sands and lost shells. I climb on the window still and sit with my legs in the water. It’s cold, untainted, inviting. The promising sun is a mirror. The mirror of a romanticised view, a cliché. One that never ceases to please.

Mar13

Alba

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Wet rose, corrupted by morning dew

A Narcissus amongst inferior mirrors.

 

A hermit at the spider’s breast,

sleeping in its porous web

longing for another’s thorns

overgrown, its own will fall

in an uninhabited anthill.

 

Stolen from its muddy womb,

locked in a glass prison,

sleeping under its translucent arcade

while sisters grow tall in the fields

like cemetery stones that sit with ghosts.

 

It helps the Beast enchant the Beauty

trashing, the magic eats up its own.

Death is wanted of you,

crumpled petals, ashen thorns,

Then –

a phoenix momentum.

kiss, a broken spell.

 

With love,

Alba.

Dec10

Go watch: Malena

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Malena (2000)

One of my favourite scenes:

For me, it is a movie that tells so much only through the power of suggestion. In that respect, one of its strongest points is how it tackles social themes: life in a small village – where everyone knows everything – , appearances and what really happens behind the curtains, etc. If the portrayal of society is not really your thing, then Malena is a love and coming of age story that anyone can enjoy. The young Renato Amoroso experiences the awakening of his first feelings of sensuality and love alike, enchanted by the beautiful Malena. Slightly humorous, slightly grim, it’s a wonderful film worth watching even if only for the beautiful locations, good music and the stunning Monica Belluci.

It will leave you asking yourself: is beauty a blessing or a curse?

Go watch it and then tell me what you think.

Nov30

The world is not vile today

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It’s white!

I’m one of those persons who wakes up the entire house when it snows and then stares through the window at the ashen sky, for the better part of the morning, mesmerized by the uneven fall of the flakes.

So, when it started snowing this morning I fluffed myself up and went out to my rendezvous with the goddess Chione. I had been waiting for her.  Her frosty hands set white doves free and their feathers spread crouched hope everywhere. I let it fall in my gloved hands and unfolded it with a hot breath. I was being seduced in a dance of her own, sole understanding, with flakes falling in heretical spirals. I never refuse a dance.

Life is not a fairytale. But no one said you can’t make it your own fairytale, even for a day, a moment or a second. I do not believe in love. That’s a lie. I love life, I love Chione and I offer them and myself a gift:

A Winter Eden 

By Robert Lee Frost
A winter garden in an alder swamp,
Where conies now come out to sun and romp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree. 

It lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead,
And last year’s berries shining scarlet red.

It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast
Where he can stretch and hold his highest feat
On some wild apple tree’s young tender bark,
What well may prove the year’s high girdle mark.

So near to paradise all pairing ends:
Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,
Content with bud-inspecting. They presume
To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.

A feather-hammer gives a double knock.
This Eden day is done at two o’clock.
An hour of winter day might seem too short
To make it worth life’s while to wake and sport.

 

 

Nov29

How I killed love – an acrostic poem

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How I killed love

Pictures hanging on the black walls

Hot-blooded ghost, chocked in a bottle

Oak chestnut, your color in death

Triggered my gun, wobbly, my fingers

Olive your blood, spilled on my mirror

Graceful surrender, I lowered my head

Rickety, like the snake that rattles

Another day has now gone by

Perhaps, my darling, you don’t know

How it was that I killed love

Nov23

Be my autumn

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To my beloved wife, the one and only love of my life.

Be my autumn

In remembrance of the old romantic poetry

 

Be my autumn,

On Bloomfield Avenue

where roses stroll unhindered through the winter

remembering the madrigal of spring’s fresh grass,

As October blooms into November

with the yearning of a seasons’ changing,

You hold me under your umbrella

embroidered into lace and tumbled leaves.

You sing the cry of naked trees

scarves of winter breezes on their branches

in which the larks nest their memories

of how two lovers promenade

the bricks of Bloomfield Avenue.