Four Poems By Italian Poet, Gabriella Garofalo
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 several books.
What a waste, what a crying shame
Any time you dive into the waves of grief
Redemption crops up
Like blades of grass from intractable stones-
Cmon, hurry up, get rid of mornings,
Those slovenly slobs who loathe
The blessed household chores, and sip coffee,
Light fag after fag, idling their time away.
Meantime, deep purple fruits,
The bastards of an exiled seed,
Keep playing hide-and-seek
In her labyrinth, where burned days and desire
Recklessly try to leash a sharp night-
By the way, did they check for her guns?
But you long for a getaway,
O sinful month that makes all wombs averse,
Scares off the skies with shootings of clouds,
Hard luck if paths in your blue get far away,
Over there a friendly sleep can shelter
But seeds of wicked dreams, or animals-
And only her soul sees them, her soul, her friend,
As they distrust a nowhere scrounging off tangled skies-
Of course her friend the moon keeps taking time,
Such an unwise move,
Why don’t you push her to run wild,
A bursting rage might do, if not,
Replace the batteries pronto,
An everlasting light being just
A pipe dream, a lonely reverie-
As in those two teens braving the pouring rain,
While giggling and looking askance at the barmen,
As in two lovers failing to make up
After their everyday blazing rows.
What are you looking for?
Caves, or a harvest of fires?
No way, men never untangle
A cobalt blue that’s shadowing her,
The harsh shade that shrank her night –
So, don’t get excited about shifting jobs
If her soul, the partner of light, peeks out,
When briers hide leaves, when branches
Give shelter to life-
Beware that only words whip the underwood,
Not your green, certainly not
The seeds shouting in the morning.
Now look, it’s creeping up on her,
Easy, easy, on tiptoes,
The day when shes called up
To settle the scores, her shadows gleaming
Among the harsh blades of fires-
What a wonderful gift for you, this sunset
As it shambles the sounds of breathing houses
And messy rooms-
But it makes no sense at all
The vision that tears you down:
Places, life, they aren’t your sisters,
And soon you’ll grow into the blind father,
No loving daughter to shelter him, I’m afraid-
Point is, some can snatch
The boundless drops of the sea,
Intractable breakers, rebel waves-
And dive to reach a blue oblivion-
Well, sometimes a corpse comes to light,
Others make do with tiny colored drops,
Taste them to reach a short blue oblivion-
Any difference? Dunno, sorry, maybe
All of them got it over and done with-
Not bad, deffo, if you consider
What we are dealing with.
Today flamboyant redheads seem
To give her the cold shoulder,
But who cares?
Meadows are healers, they work miracles
On women who’ve been dangling
Too long in a dark well, and look at them now,
They’re painting their nails in powder pink-
No longer you’ll go raving mad, angry,
Like a winter twilight,
No more sloppy limbs of lovers on the grass,
But a green hidden knot will end
The job of a helpless month,
The scrapper who smashes up the afternoon,
First thing handy
In the den of stalking animals.
But you keep waiting, and falling down the light
While wondering are words light, or shadow-
But you are afraid, you, and desire,
You hate the sharp chirp of the air,
The blue of a likely daze:
Hidden under an icy blue?
No, just comets ablaze with fear,
But you mistake candles for lanterns of course,
Desire can’t stand blue,
So you choose never to throw yourself
To the blue that raids your soul-
Do I miss something else?
Oh yes, we must ask light for the meeting,
Light, or the wind of a first season-
If not too busy they might even pop in-
But naked, naked is life, you softly sing to yourself,
While the air hisses
At the burning scent of branches:
So, no more idling time, and set the table,
The undergrowth will soon be back
Just to bite words or songs stalking the dead.
The expert needlewoman embroiders
Clouds and flowers while weeping for a lost love,
Meantime said love gets tipsy,
And tries to fumble a passer-by, no luck at all-
Truth, please, screams Nature anytime she fibs to her,
So she keeps wearing her wasteland
A coat good for all seasons
She’s never able to get rid of-
A scene change now,
You ask in those marks of light,
The rooms already shaking with joy-
But no, they can’t get in, as those henchmen
Keep giving life to men and cattle-
Its always them, you know, the moon, and the womb-
Dear life, her soul is aghast
At your unresolved skies, hidden roots,
She only loves bare seasons, naked trees-
You bastard, see where your bites end,
In the evenings where fire manhandles the light,
Where you trespass on the mother of all waters,
The only redemption being words, or withered twigs-
And look, look now at those scorching rooms,
A blue where deserted souls cut and run,
The wind her only friend, a rush stumping her,
To get done with desire-
By the way, the sky really thinks
Hell get a leafy suburban flat, with woods
Always alive with seeds to boot?
Yeah, right, if he’s lucky bare walls as immortality,
Hazards and neglect great for sales
Of the blue, that poor wretched moon
Skids, is so pale you’d think she’s anemic.
Yet the dark of the earth
Is a haven that listens to your soul,
As the brittle sand says shes not in,
And water dried up for light or dismay-
Ok, we might look into that
Only when the dainty dance of days and limbs
Sets on getting rid of skies, seasons, trees,
Yes, all that hoard, all that waste-
She’s at odds with you, dear life?
Who bloody cares?
She looks so natural, maybe a bit wild,
Yet people get on calling her demise.
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 Lo sguardo di Orfeo; Linverno di vetro; Di altre stelle polari; Casa di erba; Blue Branches; A Blue Soul.
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