The morning star, dethroned by you, cries like a dusty lyrical memory that nobody needs anymore. Your love’s blaze pushes millions of suns toward the margins of the universe. They look like yellow drops of wax trickling at the feet of saints before vanishing into a pile of sand.
Your touches cloak my skin with new zodiacal signs. Your kisses imprint violet maps on my lips.
I am watching you. You are taming lions. You are awakening fairies. Stella Polaris is shining in your eyes.
I was a neophyte when it came to love. You made me the king of love.
Right hand on my heart, I promise you, Clara, that I will conquer the world for you and I will lay it at your feet.
So help me God.
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”
More from “Glass Lovers”
I am the wounded healer
Clara: The Power of Water
Please find the Italian translation of my poem “amor, amore, mon amour – mediterranean” up at Gioielli Rubati Poetry.
You can read the Italian translation on the link below together with 3 other wonderful poems.
My thanks to the translator for his magnificent work!
Gioielli Rubati 32: Fabia Grenzovich – Pasquale Vitagliano – Gabriela M. – Antonella Marinetti – Macalder02 – Maria Allo – Marcello Comitini – Luisa Zambrotta.
I will see you in a few hours for my regular Sunday post.
Ciao for now!
You can find the English version of my poem here.
you do not know
how many countries i have traveled
how many marvels i have shown myself
the names of the dead souls i’ve resurrected
my victims’ kisses buried in a pink conch shell
inside the whispers of the messianic Nazareth
He who knew of His own crucifixion
picked up my tears
broke the bread
so i could lock the memory of my first kiss
inside the rocks of the eternal Spanish Steps
and walk again through fields of roses and lavender
into gestating dreams of no constraints
all that has happened
before the day you came into my life
the day when all the fallen saints
mysteriously were set free
image: Tatyana Mi; Shutterstock; [link]
i can’t see you
the spring’s floral certitude
showers petals in my eyes
lingers on veils forgotten at the altars
dreams interpret the language of cicadas
somebody plays the violin in the green room
like a flamenco dancer in Seville
i toss and turn inside my soul
your breath scatters on my neck
i stretch my arms to harvest poems
tongues of fire from your eyes
linger on my silky dress
rose thorns bite my thighs
it smells earth and grass from an old spring
i turn the page
i close my eyes
and i can see you
image: Stadnikova Mariya; Shutterstock; [link]
love strikes like the Mistral in Saint-Tropez
winds, hallucinations of pianos,
decide to howl in D major
enigmas move inside the wombs
incubations murmur under the phases of the moon
bewitched, allegories of love raise odes to exasperated nudes
a prophet gazes at a virgin sybil
whose liquid eyes foretold our love in gold
reflections, lava of our souls,
a mirror hangs itself onto the wall in the red room
a phoenix rises
our bodies drown
into the liquid time of the Mediterranean
amor, amore, mon amour
the splendid flesh of a gestating poem
washes our singular and frenzied souls
from the series “Mediterranean Love”
read more poems from this series here:
forgotten in the Port of Naples
image: Gaspar Janos, Shutterstock, [link]
the skies will open
love of cherry blossoms
my body in your arms
One hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the shade.
The scent of you and that of the salty ocean.
Sand in your hair.
Your wet shirt coiled at my feet.
Inside the echoes of a pink conch, my love for you tosses like a new born in a crib.
A paddle-like tail raises from the water; a sea snake.
Your green eyes devour me.
Why is there always a snake inside the core of our myths?
I breathe in an unfamiliar rhythm.
The sun metamorphoses into a golden liquid.
Glittering rivers inundate the sky; orange veins on a blue skin.
The water murmurs.
The pendulum of the earth goes astray.
The North Pole disappears.
The icy castle of wisdom and thought melts before my eyes.
The earth becomes a heated humongous ball, carried by Atlas on his mythical shoulder.
Did you say you love me?
Flamenco dancers toss in my dreams.
image: Jack Q; Shutterstock; [link]
Riddled with their mediocrities and their anxieties days possess me.
Oh, how few of us can find the splendor which lies in the infinite magic beyond the days.
image: Kiselev Andrey Valerevich, Shuttershtock; [link]
Oh, that quarter of the city wounded by its own sexuality.
Every street filled with shadowy characters: hungry scavenger birds looking to devour each other’s flesh.
Exposed skin and uttered sexual desires; bodies becoming their own souls’ mortuaries; a type of grotesque Greek tragedy whose protagonists lacked the nobility heroism bestows upon us.
It was painful to imagine what kind of wounds could reduce a thousand of Petrarch’s Lauras to infantile despondency.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
image: Kozlik; Shutterstock; [link]