Thank you to Flavio Almerighi for the beautiful Italian translation of my poem The Ides of October. Grazie di core, Flavio.
I paid for all the happiness that was bestowed upon us by the Ides of October. I used to feel the presence of the child all around me. A woman said I should pick a piece of slough cast by a snake and wear it against my skin. I did it. Flushed as a young peach every sunset became a resurrection. Roses wrapped around my waist and later in June the child was born.
A new October sets our pictures on the Spanish chest. Emotions animate your cheeks. Every night above the trees the moon nurses the stars. When I see cocoons of the larvae, I think silk as soft as the hair of the child. When I say I love you, I think death as the harbinger of birth. Your lips tremble and your voice flattens. I know you love me. With nude fingers the Ides of October betroth us again.
[Ides as the 15th day in March, May, July, and October according to the Roman calendar]
Ho pagato per tutta la felicità che ci è stata concessa dalle Idi di ottobre. Sentivo la presenza del bambino tutto intorno a me. Una donna ha detto che avrei dovuto scegliere un pezzo di melma lanciato da un serpente e indossarlo sulla pelle. L’ho fatto. Arrossata come una giovane pesca, ogni tramonto diventava una risurrezione. Le rose si avvolsero intorno alla mia vita e più tardi a giugno nacque il bambino.
Un nuovo ottobre pone le nostre foto sul petto spagnolo. Le emozioni animano le tue guance. Ogni notte sopra gli alberi la luna nutre le stelle. Quando vedo i bozzoli delle larve, penso che la seta sia morbida come i capelli del bambino. Quando dico che ti amo, penso che la morte sia il presagio della nascita. Le tue labbra tremano e la tua voce si appiattisce. Io so che mi ami. Con le dita nude le Idi di ottobre ci fidanzano di nuovo.
[Idi come il 15 ° giorno di marzo, maggio, luglio e ottobre secondo il calendario romano]
deification of the virgin nymph within my palms the flesh of violet sunsets flips like fish on land my eyes, inheritors of light singular sinkholes punctuating a low sky your love…
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on Vita Brevis Press here.
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world. Federico García Lorca
open your veins Andalusia let him drink from your lynx blood inject the rhythms of the flamenco under the coldness of his eyes tattoo his flesh with tiles of azurite pour the sounds of castanets into his arms my fingers swirl the flesh of ripened olives covers the old shroud the flow of blood from the white shirt has stopped I hear his voice there is one cross and you’re my only love my body arches oils flame in my hair a Moorish verse falls from a wall covering my cries
Andalusia I kneel among your cacti fed by salt your wounded lashes resurrected him for yet another night
I open my veins in warm waters
each time when you like what I write
the sound of the sands in the darkness
the eyes of the desert are dried
the midnight windows are opened
I jump like a lynx from a cage
dressed in cold winds and in black
I land on the yolk of young times
I paid all the bills do not worry I buried my bracelets by the green wall white shirts are lined in the closet this sand tastes like canvas and paint I sharpen my eyes my fingers are stretched from the cosmic tomorrow I enter tonight
I’ll return do not worry disheveled, loves cry between us remember the words of Persian Sibyl who sold you my soul for three coins? the time is fluid like rivers waterlilies can bloom in the sand
trees whisper, cries of cloudy skies inaudible, unseen, you, Astraea, you push me on a long-forgotten trail the ocean, poisoned, green, unsettled warm tongues, ecstasies of memories un-lived defiled the innocence of maiden-stars tears, corridors of sand you, universe that dreamt us all the pain of suffocated myths that die kisses, floating sanctuaries Astraea, you who don’t know desire burn the nihilism of flesh the plight of souls sold for two pennies in slave markets inside the lonely poetry of night
published in Indian Periodical on January 23, 2019
A fabulous poem written by Mogamat Shafiek Reggiori. I am honored Mogamat accepted to be my guest. You can find Mogamat on Twitter @ShafiekReggiori
Mogamat Shafiek Reggiori, 4th generation South African with an Italian background. Born Cape Malay. Loves to write poetry. The kind that touches an essential part of your soul. Love ballads being one of his favorite creations. Occasionally revisits long time Fantasy Scifi novels in the throes of creation. M. S. Reggiori is a soul whisperer that enjoys indulging with creatives of all genres. Read his words and he’d kiss the day you came. A dream of his is to be a distributor of God’s wealth, hence he would donate parts of his book proceeds to CANSA ORG (the South African Cancer Foundation).
Tonight I will sit on Signal Hill Above Bantry Bay & watch the Sun go down Creating that champagne sky While the world slows Or perhaps its our voices inside That quieten into These viscous moods, we rely on
All turns bronze If but for an hour While yours slowly awake Into a tepid dawn That magic hour, spreads Before both
& I cringed within Crying happy tears Down my rosy cheeks For an hour We’d share the sky Between our two worlds
Well much the same Halved by night Would you watch it rise It came from here From me There is a message written Deep within Its luminous beams Let it rove over your skin As if my soft warm lips My hour calls for waffles Beneath the Poplar trees & I’m thinking yours For warm steamed tea
If I could walk that path Between us, this life’s roses Like a bridge across the sea I would run it A hundred mile sprint To the very edge of my will I’d kiss you & release A thousand butterflies Into your sky & I’d never again let you go I’d hold you, so you could drag me Into your prevalent day Until the Sun burns the night away But I’d stay, I want to stay
emotions leave the wombs of souls inebriation nakedness of pearls forgotten on the shore inside the warmth of the unknown the mystery of you is locked somebody’s wearing yellow, sign of death doors close the ocean’s mortuary room your hands stretch all the waves toward the North my ankles stuck in sand
hibiscuses bloom in the bed delusion a cat is running outdoors over the world the breath of love and death a verse from you and then Pompeian red