Saving Fall

You’ll carry on with the conversation – you who so often

stopped at the meaning of pause or pauses carrying on

the old dilapidated pushcart (with the dignity of a responsible

day laborer of course)

the furniture of the poor student (who honored you with his

choice)

from one basement to the other or the loft on Periandros Street

being careful as you carried down the narrow rotten stairs

the two unmatched chairs so that they wouldn’t scratch the wall

because the stony merciless landlady stood at the top

behind the railing with crossed arms observing you

when you tumbled down the stairs and landing on the ground you

simply sat on one chair having the other chair on your head

upside down like a strange impenetrable helmet

with four antennae or four legs raised in the sun

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WHAT POETRY GIVES, WHAT IT TAKES

What does poetry give and what does it take?

When under the weight of a cloud

all your internal body parts lean sideway

when one glance scratches old wounds

when a new handicap opens new wounds

when the sky’s lanterns shine

at a close distance to your future

and when the pieces of life you’ve saved aren’t enough

when a sorrow that hasn’t yet come tyrannizes you

when pain has neither name nor color

then poetry touches your forehead like a soft hand

and convinces you of your special purpose

that your verse won’t end with your life

that poetry if the accountability of your soul.

Then you take the pen

and you think of being one

with beauty and immortality.

But what sacrifice is poetry asking of you?

What does it want in return?

Only one thing.

Don’t demand anything

of the soil you walk on

you don’t expect reality to reward you

nor to enrich you

with infinite ties nor to become

the way you wish it to be.

You better crave only one thing:

that reality will remain around you and that

you’ll love it being there

even if it is frowning, even if it is grumpy.

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Execution Squad

Since everyone always liked to know

where they belonged, the Fates played their role:

not only they embroidered everyone’s history

but they also helped externalize one’s true self

that stood opposite the Abyss and we took

up arms to fight against our virtues, to obliterate

all our golden grace that we would stand naked

before the intuition that sprang up from deep

within us and from the lips of our initiate.

And since the desperate were afraid of inexistent

ghosts, new curses and dirty etiquettes,

we drew images of the Inferno on snow white pages

and we presented the gleaming Purgatory to keep

them eager to learn and blindfolded before

the execution squad.

And this, He said, was good and just.

I like those who resemble heavy drops of rain that

slowly fall from the black clouds which cover men.

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