Inno Alla Bellezza

Se l’italiano è la lingua della poesia,
Patria di Petrarca nella sua corona a tre punte,
E il francese la lingua degli innamorati,
Patria di Hugo, Baudelaire e Francois Villon,
E il russo la lingua di neve e foreste
Dove è cresciuto l’abete rosso di Checkov, Pushkin e Lermontov,
Il cinese è la lingua dei fiumi che scorrono,
Dare alla luce Cao Xueqin e i tre grandi salici,
Dove emergono le parole della bellezza non posso andare.

Perdonami per le lingue nobili che non ho ancora incontrato,
Lingue spagnole, portoghesi e settentrionali,
Perdonami se le mie parole suonano
Come una corteccia stanca, sradicata e vuota,
Ho perso il conto dei dolori della mia patria,
Perché l’inglese si perde come il sangue
In una prosa sanguisuga.

Swan Song

This is how it begins,
Because everything is
Born from beginnings;
From alpha hatchlings
To supplements of omega,
Although one is not
Necessarily completely
Distinct from the other.
Even the Miseries of Achlys
Were initiated and embossed
On the bronze shields
Of Athenian hoplites,
Before Time made remedies
In the form of Poetries,
And reminded me of
The birth of sorrows
Growing like
Bone marrow
Inside me.

It takes form
Like honeysuckle
Seedlings,
Which we may mistake
At first sight
For pervasive weeds;
A season later and
The fragrances fill the
Nostrils of bees
And the space taken
By souls we remained
Quite oblivious to,
When in reveries
On sun-soaked lawns
In June. It pollenates
On the tide of a Muse
Who exudes the words
And the words turned into
The life of poets,
Prior to their
Metamorphoses
For swans reborn.

Painful, humid days
Swept away by prevailing
Blustery trespasses
Of outlaws from
Atlantic squalls
Bring rainfall.
Sometimes the downpour
Is sufficent, Muse-willing,
And the songs of the rain
Are recorded as they land,
And some we give to the fields
And the valleys,
The water table’s replenished
From the peaks,
So that we can
Return to the springs
And the streams and feel
Inspired again.

These days,
Do not write if not
To unify something
Whether the schisms
Within you, or the
Disagreements of a family
Of nations, something
To chime with the
Pendulum of your soul.
Do not write unless
It terrifies someone,
Whether yourself, the poet,
Or someone who would
Rather mute the swans
Of their language,
Shackled on a
Stagnant pond
Of compliance.
Better to write something
And have authenticity,
Your poetry will flourish,
Than keep the words inside
As someone else’s charity.

An Elegy

The fallen ones do return, Marina,
With many roads to death, one exit;
Restored in rosemary and verbena,
They’d laugh at Pandemics and Brexit.

You see, nothing will change or fade,
Wheelwright’s brand humanity,
Where only wheels were ever made
For conveying misery.

Your golden hair was poet’s fire,
Verses like arson, exploding malpractice;
I could not disrobe the clothing of liars
The way you exposed them, a female Atlas

Condemned to bear a crate
Of man’s rotting apples, the weight
And the shape of a globe. Your gate
Wanted oiling, your river in spate.

So I thought again of my childhood,
Suppression is more than state-welded;
It spores like moss and ferns in the wood
Until darkness and sunlight are melded.

I rode a bike like a horse into battle,
The driveway my Sevastopol,
My pen’s an unsheathed sabre’s rattle,
Through fields of rye for alcohol

Fermented, how adulthood lamented
For the limits and shackles it made itself;
Carefully the state had creatives cemented;
Two decades later, your book’s on the shelf.

I am blessed, I could escape as matter stands,
I hope to never know the pressures
Which exist in the mind and the hands
Of wheat in the wake of the threshers.

Use powerful words to sentence strife,
Fly me, poets, to Yelabuga; 1941;
Let’s bring a poet back to life,
Let’s fill old age with her song.

 

Ninth Sonnet

Less the requirement for tablet or shed,
Poetry’s gardens are seeds in your head;
Daily distractions will chatter and chase,
All their dull efforts, one rhyme will replace.
Minutiae delights, heaven’s your ceiling,
Don’t hide from your self, hardships revealing;
You don’t need a war for a war poetess,
Injustice and conflict sow your success.
Your heroes don’t live in scripts or a screen,
Your heroes prevail inside you unseen;
Don’t over-bake, or burn with keen edits,
Don’t wait for their praise, the obverse discredits.
More words you’ll intuit, let the free world fight,
Follow terms for your self, and freely write!

Bluebird Ballad

Through this time of catastrophes
And near misses,
The Tower Of Winds and Hypotheses
Would measure your kisses
As Cyrillic keys pressed
Like notes from a typist,
Pinned to a wall
In a traveller’s room
From Budapest to Athens.
We absorb each other
In dissimilar ways,
The weather-vane spins
With bluebirds in rain;
Possessive apostrophes misused,
A crack in the bath,
A lack of sleep and
An aftermath in blue;
Every village has its limits.

Strange to consider then
How we are the same
As when many months of the Moon retraced
Lands me lost in a Saturday
When I bought your book,
Your anthology, that’s still
I confess, not fully read
Nor, I confess again, much understood,
But the passion and the act
Of guerillas uprising through verse
Had me infatuated.
Same eyes, yes, same hair,
Same faultlines from a post-war flare,
Standing on the self-same spot
More or less in Cambridgeshire
As if the bookseller’s plot
And my unmade bed
Are layers in blue
Of the High Poetess, on her
Alter cloth and within her dress.

If a curse made the earth
The size of a grain,
The universe inversely would shrink again
To the size of the inhabited planet,
Before from the massive mass it sinks.
If I carry my chances in marginal atoms
Why does my heart still roam untamed?
Reunite us on the beach
Held together with words and speech,
Type a letter of love to reach
Beyond the sands of time and graves.

Seventh Sonnet

We faked creation, misled the west trees,
Defrauded white horses and hoarded the sea,
Wild continents crashed, enforced marriages,
Better for writing, than one memory.
The bitter gale feigned, and bluffing the frost,
Old errors cursed, now the rubble’s not lost,
Latched on my cells as we turned and we tossed,
With counterfeit scales, love’s wage inflates cost.
With cattle I’ll talk, and prattle with dogs,
Weightlift in forests with woodcutter logs,
Blue kiss reduce me to spawn of the frogs,
Better for verses, love’s lapsed in life’s fogs.
If I could replace a shelf or a tyre,
I’d write with less time and lesser desire.