March 2020 -Part 1

March 25, 2020 § Leave a comment

dedicated to @george_szirtes

15th March 2020

The world is turning,

we reluctantly spin with

it, dizzy and weak.


We hold on the next day,

the next curve on our way,

the blackbirds in spring.


Not what we know is

now. Now is not what we know.

Yet spring, yet flowers,


yet night, yet dreaming.


16th March 2020

Early night poem:


My dear, I can’t wait

for the night to fall to listen

to that blackbird.


You know, the one that

flies around the neighbourhood

boasting with good songs.


A yellow beak in blue

hours, a little light before

darkness. We gather


the things that matter.


18th March 2020

4am again,

out of sleep, out of absence,

back to the now time.


A quiet river

is this night outside. Only

one far away hum,


a busy machine

programmed not to need others

And so ignores fears


and early birds’ sighs.


19th March 2020

We feed each other

the news; it’s hard to swallow

and it burns our tongues


not to know if this

is already our future,

if nights will stay long,


if summers will come,

if sun and sons will kiss us,

if that memory


still has got a chance.


20th March 2020

You’d think the night would

have some soothing black liquid

to slow down sickness,


just as it does with

movement, sight, noise or choices.

But night’s eyes seem closed


to everything but

memories, fears and wishes,

wrapped in rosy dreams


or nightmares of real.


20th March 2020

Everything around,

too present to understand.

“Mum, said my son, when


I’ll be eighty years

old, people might invite me

to schools to tell them


about the year of

the great disease, I’ll be their

eyewitness and old.”


Yes, my dear, you’ll be.


22nd March 2020

Most of the people

are silent, their eyes strangling

to adjust themselves,


in the darkness of

this waiting room. They just stand

rigid on the shore,


feet deep in the sand,

ignoring the waves, looking

at the horizon


where the ships are still .


23rd March 2020

A Forgotten Love:


Our houses are now

clean, floors and furniture shine,

but the guests won’t come.


We’re in other times.

As the day breaks, the call of

an uncertain spring.


It’s hart to resist,

and yet it feels unwelcome,

out of place now like


a forgotten love.

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