write me love letters

Write me love letters

Don Quixote is still standing in Madrid

Fighting windmills perpetually caught

In his imagination’s grid.

 

Like Dante using iambic pentameters

Write me the pain ripping your heart

Write me an epic like Homer

Armor my soul with magic art.

 

And build for me a citadel of love

Its walls the crystal of my tears

Its altar’s candles luminating

The path for lovers of all years.

 

 

21 thoughts on “write me love letters

  1. “Armor my soul with magic art”

    In the slender net of stars

    I’m sinking.
    At that night the grass
    is embracing me velvety.
    And it seems to me unreal
    that I’m an island sprung
    in milky ways.
    Yes.
    That night I’m spilling
    with the tide.
    And the joys of directions
    into the worlds are fusing
    in a kernel.
    I’m breathing uniformly and deeply
    under the arch of your arm
    and a cradle.

     
    1. Bogpan, your poetry is indeed magic.

      The Doric columns of the citadel of love
      Touching you gently from their height
      Keep going straight towards the east
      Until you reach the everlasting light.

       
      1. Oh, I travel forever there.

        The night is speaking like a cascade.

        She’s knitting filigreed lights and shadows.
        Sunk in the deep sea
        of Sargasso eyes
        I stay quiet and don’t find words.
        And the scars on your hand
        are fading, in order to burn
        in my heart.
        Oh, sailboats after a long trip
        with all the winds in the sails –
        sand is calling you.
        But it isn’t death!
        Oh, it isn’t the end too!
        The hand
        is going to knock up a hut for you
        and in the wide garden
        it smells with magnolia and manuscripts…

        And I am a sign.

         
      2. That’s magnificent!

        it’s night
        silent rocks are burning
        under your bare feet
        your heart’s pulsations
        rip your shirt…

         
      3. “rip your shirt…”

        Anathema sit

        the air of
        your skin is Paradise
        fingers all over
        my face

        your words
        push the blood
        out of my heart

        towards you

         
      4. probably because
        more people
        oh, we are
        October

        presences

        some say
        the tropics are sad
        others
        that such are the stations
        believe me
        the choice is for
        the passed ones
        and for
        a Communion
        (with one
        rose)

         
      5. I”ll take you
        to the tropic once
        to see it for yourself

        we’ll fly together once
        and pray
        in a secluded monastery
        in the Balkans

        and then
        during a starry night
        by the Danube
        we will rewrite
        il nome della rosa

         
      6. Oh, that’s a poem, a pattern of emotion! Truth.

        I’m Calling You by Name

        In a while,
        in a second
        and rain is pouring down.
        One expectation like an Alpine horn
        and you hardly,
        hardly
        are alive.
        With your little hollows you’re listening
        to the Labyrinth.
        And I have no knowledge.
        And I have no map.
        But the long movement of moss on the skin
        of obelisks.
        The calm waters are unleashing into me
        and the chestnuts are putting white candles on
        (and the autumn is a palm).
        Wings, raising
        upwards and
        upwards…

        I’m calling you by name.

         
      7. Highly appreciated it!

        i am calling
        your name
        you can’t hear me
        maybe
        the messenger of gods
        going retrograde
        lost his way
        in the Labyrinth
        or maybe
        the moss
        buried
        my voice
        in the moonlight.

         
      8. “my voice
        in the moonlight.”

        Hear

        Behind the black olives redianted*
        the moon this night
        is handing over a bloomed sign.
        Why are you going to bed alone
        in colorful bed sheets?
        Hear! In Syracusae troubadours are singing
        in one love,
        about that while you burn into,
        you burn endlessly.
        But you are falling asleep.
        A domestic bird, hidden
        behind curtains of brocade
        and pressed her lips on a golden spider.

        A homeless night in the black olives
        and a sound of our Beyond.

        * ? neologism created by the author expressing that something is shined on by radiance

         

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