For those who can’t see the sky

The day got so short

behind closed doors we hear a tune,

someone learns singing.

 

Even in the dark

there is the feeling of space

for those with voices.

 

A train roars so far

away; no one can reach it.

The night feasts on dreams,

 

hours and tomorrows.

Apologists of waiting,

are insomniacs.

Decade after Decade

 

I hadn’t realised till I heard it too repeatedly from different people that the decade changes this year too. I guess being an Earthling who has already entered a new century, even worse, a new millennium, back in 2000, I have been offered proof enough that nothing spectacular will probably happen from that minute before 12 to that minute after. The changes that really have an impact on all of us are of course more subliminal, though much more significant at the same time, also much older too, they have started centuries ago with lots of steam, coal and capital.

And yet specific dates like that do something to people. For I would lie if I said that turning 30, 40 or 50, the later this very same year we’re now already leaving behind, didn’t do something to me.

Time is an issue in everybody’s life. The issue is mostly the lack of it. Absolutely conscious of the fact that anyone of us who hasn’t been given a deadline by a doctor yet, should be grateful, I still must complain of how time declines with age. Not just the time ahead of one, but the “daily“, insignificant to others, everyday time, the personal time. The hours. The hours of a day.

There are positive aspects too. Something does increase with age. I hope you can hear the small cliché alarm here, for as your grandma told you about age: One does know more. It is of course impossible to say if what a certain person knows about the world is what the world needs to know, but one, if lucky and introspective enough, knows a bit more about oneself.

For instance I know I’m a mixture between a very simple farmer girl and, grandma, again, would love that expression, a “woman of letters”. This is as enriching but also as dividing as the fact that I’m constantly moving between cultures and languages.

I’m also very sensitive to the fact that most men are so used to patronising women that the freedom and kind of respect I and many others seek won’t happen in my lifetime. Don’t think of yourselves dear male readers, think of the big majorities in many parts of this world, or think of the plumber talking to a housewife somewhere in your country, or the top-manager talking to his secretary, or even the professor to a young beautiful student. Men find it difficult to respect women. Respecting women means for many candid men just being polite and cordial to them. And of course for many others still means not a bloody thing.

The most profound experience for me as a human being so far has been parenthood. It’s testing one’s greatnesses and inner devils everyday. It trully means sacrifice and everyday self-restriction. Of course there is a chance that when children become adults everything will get easier and their lives will run fine and thus the work you’ve done will be rewarded with gratitude and obvious results. But the reward is much more immediate, though not obvious, and already there. For this kind of love you grow a prophet everyday, if lucky, if strong enough. You go to the desert every morning and come back to the well at night. Circle after circle your heart gets stronger.

Last but not least: Our body. Our body will, as a friend put it in his wonderful essay about his battle with his own once female body, finally betray us at some point, but it won’t ever go down silently. Our body doesn’t care about others. It exists on its own terms. It won’t care about motherhood or marriage or age, won’t care about your female or male strangles, won’t care about distances or time. The body won’t care because its mind is the sensual touch. Your body will always seek the tasty food, the good light, the warm water, the other skin, this earth itself. For most of us it is the only mythical relationship we’ll have, and the one we must constantly manage with all its dramatic ups and downs. We’re animal and human, we live in reality and in our physically real at the same time. We’re centaurs, we are minotaurs, we are wanderers between Olympus and Hades. Decade after decade.

Christmas Eve 2019

Unexpected clear

night, like a wish with closed eyes

to be fulfilled soon.

 

Those stars like letters

from my selves in past winters,

reminders of light.

Moons and Stars Apart

How the night deletes

forms and time and distances

by just falling deep.

 

All those who have said

what the day ghosts have ordered

silenced now, dressed black.

 

Stars and moons apart.

 

A second layer. Gold.

Those skies are heavy mirrors

of our secret thoughts.

 

One secretly smokes,

while the other walks on glass.

Fragile diaries.

 

Stars and moons apart.

 

We fall in silence,

bodies implode in darkness

that blue hearts can’t stand.

 

All not forgotten

on the top skin, on the breast,

pressing for retreat.

 

Moons and stars apart.

 

How invisible

we are. In the winter fog,

last year’s candlelight.

 

The sun reigns elsewhere.

Warm skins, bare feet, all small sins

that don’t leave shadows.

 

Stars and moons apart.

 

Behind the eyelids

there is a private darkness

where fears and hopes dwell.

 

These moments before

we open our eyes to light

and enter the world.

 

Stars and moons apart.

Midsummer

The longest day is just gone

drawing behind the horizon,

took my long hair and my song,

stroked the fields and kissed the hills,

found a half-opened door

on the other side of the world.

Dinner Talk

Long fingers on the metal of a knife

Dinner before one leaves for many years

Even if you forget how a body feels

it can still take place and hold your hand at night

 

It’s not a ghost if it’s a living soul

It’s not lost if it doesn’t want to be found

It’s not there but also not gone

1st June

Past ten and the light

keeps licking winter and night,

this sumner begins.

 

Now open windows,

now open doors will betray

the secrets of walls.

 

A cacophony

of musics, of TV-sets,

of human voices.

 

We forgive so much

for the privilege of warmth

and one more summer.

Bad Dream

Bad dream like a nail into your wound

A glass of water like the right to live longer

The day breaks and the blackbird has found your tree

The soft grass and the new leaves in the trees

Now is the time to choose what to believe

No Big Deal

What about the afternoon poems?

Yes, the nights are long and silent,

words are heard easily

and spoken out with less fear

 

But what about the afternoons,

when the builder comes home,

when the train is late again

when you forgot to buy bread

and you have to walk all the way back.

 

There are not so many words

in the afternoon, are there?

We come, we go, we walk

sometimes we sit and drink a cup of coffee

 

Some smoke, watch the news,

call a friend on the phone

to tell him why they haven’t called so long.

One or two write a poem on the go.

Globally Speaking

One after the other you fall asleep

as the light moves on and wakes up

the ones at the other end of the line

We move so fast that we cannot see

A merry-go-round of dreams