Out of a pesky arthrosis time is forced
To stand still, he is bedridden so can’t dash
To centuries and millennia, to wolf them down-
The soul is gently soothing him, with those platitudes
Eerily akin to a generous dollop of salt on infected wounds-
Soul, don’t waste your time with him, better for you
To look for a light blue sky, where light stands as a survivor
Along with lighter colors, maybe blue, maybe desire-
And she suddenly raids him, touches his lips, a biting cold
Breaths life to your winter, but, oh, those hands, them
And primary colours, such a bore-
Never complain, never explain, just remove them quickly,
No good for you to end up like her
For a cheap sunset, too much sorrow, and hot tears,
What’s the bloody point?
Listen, be wise, grab a reliable night, a pocket gift,
Don't you know the roots of your being are born blue-
Wasted, unstoppable, they show
The weird rhythm of your days to a lover who always
Dodges a bit cagey-
However, that’s very much for him
To get in touch and say ‘hello’, he usually dodges
Dirty jobs, if the soul stares in awe at briars,
The sunset hides to ravage them-
Long story short, you too hide in the blue
The soul desires-all right, all right, no choice for you
If your places don’t live in you so they reject
A rendezvous with you-
Well, Father, to be honest even the moon rejects
To quench her thirst, maybe it’s the right time for sounds
To fade away, not that you like them, as the days from the mothers rape
Your winter, same here, same here.
The point is, one fine day the roots of your being
Would like to wither away leaving no trace-
Great, but your body your limbs are set on
Making it hard for them-
They might just love life, or they can’t wait to ground
Father who threw them at you in bulk.
Hers was the sort of kindness born out of fear,
The soul was a scared lady:
Particularly when in the morning the grudge of the light
Was quite a piece of work:
No depths of an abyss for shaken souls,
They might get excited, and anyway
The swamps weren’t that dangerous-
Those problems apart, her days made the clouds blue-dust,
And did justice to the blazing beings-
Maybe God in spite of everything? -
But blue was the dawn of words, when she was listening
To her myths, where even the waves are wild,
Stronger than the shocked rhythms
In a tangle of matching reds-
Meantime, for his part, the angel of secrecy,
So very sick and tired of his aging Eden,
Breaks in your house and shuts
All the blue hours in your days.
Awful, isn't it, mainly because you have
No moors at hand, no wild grass, no stray leaves-
Just make do with your wistful stones,
A betrayed green if the water stays still-
What a foolish makeshift, what a waste of limbs,
And you’d love to swap them
With meadows, rapids, streams-
Oh, don’t I know, you look for green
As the father of every tale, but your search is tangled up,
Even words meddle in and cut up, my soul, your grip.
© 2022 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, and A Blue Soul.
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