Included in my poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings.
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perhaps I was bewitched by the North Star or by a ballad as dateless as my blood geography of feelings populates unwanted interludes my eyes, the nests of dewy grass and leaves emerald eyelashes flaunt black taffeta chirps between my fingers like piano keys inside my soul your kisses soar soft lilac tones like prayers of the youngest nun perhaps because I read your poetry last night and cut my soul between a stanza and a strife perhaps a child played with a kite a kingdom for a sup maybe it was the wind that woke me up
Scents of linden trees illuminated by an old oil lamp. The night is me. I am the night where love delights dwell. Shed you skin and come with me where minutes melt like chocolate on the tongue of a child. You, sweetness from beyond the body, what can one say about you?
This poem will be included in my upcoming poetry collection Woman: Splendor and Sorrow: Love Poems and Poetic Prose.
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
amore colpisce come il maestrale nei venti di Saint-Tropez, allucinazioni di pianoforti decidono di ululare in re, enigmi maggiori muovono dentro l’intimo: mormorio, incubazioni sotto le fasi della luna stregate allegorie d’amore sollevano ondine a nudi esasperati un profeta guarda una vergine sibilla i cui occhi liquidi predissero il nostro amore nei riflessi dorati, lava delle nostre anime, uno specchio appeso al muro nella stanza rossa una fenice solleva i nostri corpi affogati nel tempo liquido del mediterraneo amor, amore, mon amour la splendida carne di un poema in gestazione lava le nostre anime singolari e frenetiche
Thank you to Kevin Watt for including my poem Moonlight Love in his new anthology Words of Power.
Here is my poem:
Bones, blood, flesh trapped in a brilliant moonlight. The sand of the shore carried faraway by translucent tongues of water. Around me the mint grows taller than the trees; lassitude turning from gold to red. Eyes become the locus where the desert and the sea meet. Imprinted on my body the number twelve; the twelve horses of the sun-chariot. He, the seller of time, looks at me. His voice penetrates the membranes of my cells. One hour of impossible love for two dimes. I, who can foresee the future, buy. The hour wraps around my hips like a passion vine around a tree. For a second you, the lover of the visible world, hesitate. Streets inundated by the sweet smell of citrus. Arms hugging a void. You cannot eat that citrus and you cannot touch me. Moonlight love, remind me, why did I buy you?
Motto I get drunk on love, charity, and passion. These are my professions.
I walk into the three days we spent together.
On the first day, a nude silence wraps around my lips. Shortly after I can hear the noise of wine poured into glasses. The hour to get drunk on love has come. I touch your skin and another you is born. Birds invade the sky. A banquet of candles floods the streets. A white thread ties my blood vessels at the exact moment when a religious procession walks by.
On the second day, drunk on charity, my sights descend upon the earth. The dirty hands of the woman… Please continue reading WP here
[This poem will be included in my upcoming poetry collection: Woman: Splendor and Sorrow: Love Poems and Poetic Prose]
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]
Italian Version
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]
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]
Motto I get drunk on love, charity, and passion. These are my professions.
*
I walk into the three days we spent together.
On the first day, a nude silence wraps around my lips. Shortly after I can hear the noise of wine poured into glasses.
The hour to get drunk on love has come.
I touch your skin and another you is born.
Birds invade the sky.
A banquet of candles floods the streets.
A white thread ties my blood vessels at the exact moment when a religious procession walks by.
On the second day, drunk on charity, my sights descend upon the earth.
The dirty hands of the woman who owns wells touch my skin.
I hear your voice. I will not counsel her or belittle her desires. All she will do is sell her fake dreams in the corner of an empty street for her entire life.
I forbid you.
By punishing her you would have ruined the very thing you set out to safeguard: our love.
On the third day, stars melt in our palms like soft grapes in winepresses.
The intimations of you and I, with their smell and softness of grass and late autumn roses, invade the room.
A convulsive joy impregnates your eyes.
Words have no pigments and no form. Their register sinks in gravity, shiny coil by shiny coil, musical key by musical key, sleepy touch by sleepy touch.
The perfection of the afternoon’s poplars blesses the air.
Possessed by passions, under the wing of a bird, we died three days ago.
My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here . Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.
image: Sandratsky Dmitriy; Shutterstock; [link]
You, evening of ours, how beautifully your lips tasted; stars in your unbraided hair spread over still waters like lily pads; rosy skin like the flesh of a pink grapefruit freshly open.
I still can breathe in your aromas of cherry flavored cigars and sleepless expectations.
