Friday, March 15, 2019

Women's History Month: Gabrielle Garafolo's "To JHS"


Love, maybe? Oh, stop your silly questions,
It’s always the same old story,
Those endless fruits of the loom
Mummy and dad are too foolish to discard,
And the black ribbons in the hair of a girl
Who’s pushing like mad the mobile buttons
To the beat of a frantic rhythm
From her crutches dancing wild,
Such a great blast!
C’mon, Kore, stop it, stop diverting your eyes,
Time to get rid of your waves, husband and life,
Let it go, forget that seeds never die, as an elderly scribe
Says to those artsy souls she hangs out with
In the deep of the night, when shadows creep
Into squares and arcades, and ancient stones
Hardly glimpse, for too long they have seen
That bloody court of miracles, the place where she lives-
Just like a horror comic you say?
No, it’s only too real, and so is her trashed soul,
Even if an elusive light granted her the honours of war-
Who cares, candles glow so frail,
They can’t fight the Moon
Nor can words fight demise-
OK, she lost, but teens in love keep carving
Their names on some crooked tree,
Percussive sounds keep sheltering
The tangled branches of a jungle
Born at the dawn of time-
By the way, how often she yelled no to the light
And slept with the dark? Maybe a few times,
Before the prophet came here to gather men and souls,
That, and their wild, primeval eyes
Whenever young creatures fall down
From a blue Electra Glide,
Demise, gales, and barren stars their only friends-
Afraid tender caring is not in their nature,
But hey-ho, she loves dark-haired minstrels’ hands,
She even lets go those cranky ladies who hissed to her
You renegade, you cut and run
Whenever life screws up-
‘Cause, you see, their souls are crooked,
Hers is not.
But who’s gonna live, she wonders,
Maybe a walking skeleton too busy
With obsessions and HIV,
Or Pluto always on time, he, his bloody seeds,
And a girlfriend too ready
To shear through wild blue waves?
C’mon everybody, let’s go, the sweepstakes in full swing:
Bikers, riders, wild parties crowding into ice-cream parlours:
They too frozen in ice no hatchets can break –
Of course, no one to give shelter, no sky,
No clouds, least of all that ditzy moon
Too hung up on silver shawls and permed hairdos-

Oh well, typical women, don’t you think so?

©2019 Gabriella Garafalo

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”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”, “ A Blue Soul”.

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