Forget it, c’mon, she isn’t looking
For baptisms, dreams, only the sound of grass,
While teens are flying on bikes, skates,
And her soul is daunting the fire,
That white space great for the ranting of silence–
So, spin it nice, and keep them sweet,
That awful lot, clouds stalking her soul,
Then ask for light, the best artisan to get the job done,
And fix a shattered soul–
‘Cause neither trees nor men she owns,
Only blue, deserted words, a desert waiting
For a trawled night where a runaway teen is hiding
In the hall, yes, really her soul time would hold so close,
Her lover back from blue and his brave quests–
All right, enough for now, just stop that blue rogue
If you need the light to leaven days of birth and winter,
Careful now, comets are so choosy, they make such a fuss
When light calls for you, swearing she’ll even rekindle
Your nicked names, your greenery, and venues,
Just a sec before words rub you, Father,
You, your blue, and your sky–
So, God, you’d better hide, but let her soul decrypt the sky,
Throw her a handful of light getting lost
Before prophets went missing out of the blue
For playing foul with starving souls–
See, the branches are shaking their heads in the night,
As they already know a promise will be broken,
No words, no smiles, no smarmy warmth all around,
No prophets when in jumps life, all huggy,
So keen to be your bestie–
Thanks but no thanks, sorry, and don’t you dare blame her–
If dull days and first seasons stock already sold out
She’s one of them, so just leave her alone,
And give her soul her due.
*
To S.
And that was her Lethe, the infinite sand
Waves always tried to ambush along with February,
His harsh season, her hunger, and voices
From the undergrowth, when mothers, and the moon
Kept playing trusted advisors,
‘Get that green off your head, and give birth
To meetings, dancing parties, maybe write’–
Don’t listen, no way, as long as your soul
Looks like a green–eyed meadow pleading
For water to slake the unquenchable thirst
Of stones, beds, boulders,
And your wrath is brewing like wine,
Ready with blades, bullets or words–
But oh but what’s there to bite for a bit of diversion,
Only the usual harsh edges, drawbacks
Among breaths, grass, and the green hanging out
Next to her while she’s looking round
For fresh days madder than words–
As she lost all of them, home,
Walls, furniture, dust everywhere,
She lost ‘em to write, and give soul
To those weird colours, maybe red, maybe white,
And sure, they remind you of game cards,
Or prayers hurled at you, God, just to rive
A nicely assembled sky–
Or maybe, who knows, those two souls live side by side,
The midribs of a world where blues and twos
Lash the place where your mind stands still,
No one to shield the walls–
But c’mon, my soul, buck up, bug out from those colours,
‘Cause among hidden trees, denuded branches,
And a naked house you might even glimpse
A bed, a window, a first time miracle, even your life–
Well, almost.
*
To M. W.
It gets her goat when those restless clouds,
All mixed up with house moves and exiles,
Go so tender and advise her to play the wise little ant,
To skimp on life, and never waste herself, Heaven forbid–
Meantime, a tramp is crying her eyes off
While desperately clicking on her mobile–
Look, it won’t happen, her light shall never burst forth
To starving trees if white with hunger or desire
Her days disperse the grass, or the prophet's fire,
And she whiles away her time in some swank cafe
Wondering if it’s a wise move for the soul
To hide away all wrapped in blue, to skirt
Those mothers dicier than Lethe,
Ever so ready to charge against white hair,
Weird limbs, those words only wind listens to
When she walks through her pages
In a winter smashing up words, questions, maybe grass,
And her truce with life looks shakier than dawns,
Now that the moon can’t get the screeching sounds
Of loves braking abruptly, and demise lither than heather
Shows her cool and a crippled smile
When stumbling on weird limbs just a sec before
The blades of grass show up, but who cares,
If the wind is her close friend, and he’s moving,
Yes, not those arches, those shrines that can’t stalk
Her heaven if hunger or light cut the skewed trees,
But who cares if the wrath of time is setting
The green ablaze, or shaking the clouds–
As ever, she smiles, gives thanks, plays along,
Only she’s dying to break into the dark, snuff words out,
And yes, give her some slack, as truths or tricks will out
If you silence a moon who sheds light only on weird limbs–
And who cares, of course, if she ends up running out
Of life, limbs, and light.
*
To S.
What’s happening, deserts and their thirst
Get no words as poets stay secluded
In ghettoes clouds and waves set ablaze–
And no need for self–control if burnt limbs
Shake the time when their green sows
Words among lovers, as words
Can’t feel safe in her mind’s undergrowth,
No antibodies, no ramparts, no walls,
So don’t trust those shapes turning up uninvited,
Yearning for hanging out
With first seasons, light or wind–
See, demise is blowing out stars dreams fires,
Her nimble fingers dance among the stocks
Of bargain outcomes, ready to grab
Souls, rooms, meadows, her ready–made food
When she gets hungry, and no,
Flowers can’t help, those captives lying still
In the white ambivalence of a crystal holder,
Nor can help woods ablaze with fear
For trees at stake, so she just shivers
When the light’s hands wave if shadows
Cut and cry, ‘cause her soul can’t get
God who keeps blind fires among her words–
Sometimes they hide, sometimes they beg her
For a trench warfare, but it’s winter only,
The endless search for sins, not her fault
If they’re going to slip the slant stares
From skies, or rainbows, and that be her choice,
The eternal blue of dust, a bread the cold wolfs down,
The answers streets give her when doubts or questions
Tear the sky asunder:
Those bundles of rags in the corners, tramps curling up
Among stale food, wine pouches, and a nonchalant blue
From passersby who got spared, got dosh, even time–
Those guns ‘n’bullets parading as life.
Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of these books “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Casa di erba”; “Blue Branches”; “ A Blue Soul”.
