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Showing posts from 2019

In full bloom

I am ready.
My heart split open
and blooming muted green
like olive trees back home

where life grew with me
branches that take time to mature.
If I look at my feminine hands, fingers
colour of cracked, southern mud

of which roots
of olive trees give birth to love.
Bathe me in sunshine, love
and I will root into you.


Clutter - writer

How do I make my fingers dance
Oh dance
to the music in my head

I have verses waiting
to be screamed at
unsuspecting victims

Oh dance
My fingers so thin
so strong

My head is
the shell of a walnut
Tough to crack

My brain
coloured walnut earth
with earthly ideas

I am a woman
and a writer
I want to be more

of a writer
a speaker,
a sparkle on a stage.

I am a woman
and a daughter
I want to be more

of an idea
a word or line
a poem flowing like a river

How do I find
the drop
that will make rivers flow

my words
shed through sharp fingers
I want to flood the world.

The school of heart

When my heart broke and my little brain learned that love was not mine,
that love was not forever and love was not unconditional 
I became love. 
I poured liquid love from my eyes as if it would stick on as if pain was the seed I needed for my heart to be fertile.
When love seemed unachievable and family became a choice
I seeked love. 
like a mushroom clinging to trees too large  yet blown by the winds. 
When friends disapointed, bonds forgotten and unimportant...
Love became me. 
Cold and distant fingertips, eyes bulging onto a screen, anxiety typing away poems without life. 
When love, stopped being bitter and forgot for a moment its shoulds and fears and its abandon...
Love happened. 
The way no one said it would.

Being

What air do you breathe, heavenly?
That makes the waterfall of your hair drop so softly.
What sun bathes your skin in gold?

I have loved you forever.
I have cherished the words in your lips
and the memories that colour your eyes.

I've worshipped the strength of your legs
and every moment I have been safe
at the skills of your hands.

Thank the universe,
for what force has twisted your brain
into existence and survival.

But the air you are breathing lately
to make you so beautiful
must come from beyond our universe.

Where have you been heavenly being?
I have looked for you all my life,
and now you are here, your neck drips sunshine.

Absolute nonsense

I cannot read you strange being.
You are full of light and good thoughts.  I love the way our lips birth smiles together. 
I cannot make sense of words but oh I really want to because my heart is so whole it deserves every letter. 
Why did no one ever write the book of light that sheds from young and happy eyes like ours? 
I think my idols were too busy, burning papers in candlelit evenings, writing about cows, and sipping morning dew for breakfast. 
When they looked into their lover's eyes, they would see the world bursting into joyful nothingness.


Religiously

At night I read poetry and whisper
between strawberries and gin,
syllables
that aren't always friendly.

My tongue traces
from time to time
The Cynic's Monologue
at love's end, this inability to love.

And I chase
reluctantly
the gods of poetry
for answers within the words.

It might be unbearable
to seek in vain
a truth that is not crafted.
Only paper does not hurt.

And I chase reluctantly
Neruda, Browning, and Poe
but it is Agolli's dry, simple verse
the only love I know.


Now what?

It is as if  the broken pieces of my heart have shattered  so much I have become sand.
I feel 1700 degrees of happiness. 
If I melt into the right shape I will be so beautiful, it will be a crime to let me break again. 

Lies

How does your tongue roll in opposite direction to your heart?
Your mouth spits senseless apologies, this same mouth that has been begging somewhere else. The twists of your words reach me even if I couldn't care less and I can't say if I'm more curious or enraged.
Your words and actions hurt. You deceive, most of all yourself. I wonder what it feels like to hate yourself. Do the choices you say you didn't make not get stuck in your throat and choke you? Do the lies not burn your insides? You are sick.
Does your tongue not tire bouncing off apologies that will only keep bouncing back?

Take your mouth begging elsewhere, again.

A gift not asked for

It is said that lucky people are born  with a white wrap of extra skin.
when I was born, wrapped in white,  in a sunny day in December,  old wives  tales licked my skin and stained  the white sateen between my shoulders.

I was born wrapped in a milky cloth.

I still wear
abandonment
as an extra layer of skin.

I am not sure how to title this but I felt like writing it

It's all gone now. My cluttered childhood is a distant memory of a disease from which I am completely healed. How strange it feels not to feel damaged.
It's all gone now. The difficult soul you learned to love at seventeen has slowly opened up. So slowly...
So this is a thank you note, to my best friend.
Thank you, for sheltering me when times got rough.
Thank you, for making me believe I could be loved.
Thank you, for showing me that I could love.
You're all gone now. I healed. I healed so much that I can cry at the mention of your name and admit that I miss you.
We are gone now. Maybe we were always meant for this. Maybe you were always meant to make me cry like the 'real girls'. The girls with 'normal' problems.
So thank you, for all that you've done for me.
I miss you every hour of the day. I miss talking to you. I miss your distaste for the guys I date.
I don't have your annoying voice in my head telling me to behave anymore.
I've healed, a…

Fragment: La verità

You said to me last week when in my still childishness I stomped my feet at not getting my way, you said: "Why is it that girls who have it all, the brain, the kindness, the looks, the love, have such low self esteem?"
I looked to you and laughed. I don't have it all, and I don't have a low self esteem.
My dear friend not everyone looks for faults in themselves, and not everyone who finds faults in themselves has low self esteem.
I am not kind. I have never been. Not to myself at least. I work too hard and I tire me out. I struggle with myself. I tell me off, I put me down. But you must know, at the end of the day no one has ever held me as high as I've held myself.
Why is it, that girls that seem like they have it all, have such low self esteem? I do not know about that.
What I can answer, is that sometimes, people think of you too highly, they ask of you too much. Sometimes you're in constant competition with a perfect fictional version of yourself, and you…

Beyond the last return

I want to write again, but just as the tears that have now been stuck at the bottom of my throat for months, words lay sleepy in my veins, and my fingertips have forgotten how to type.
My fingers, so cold and frozen, are no better at touching the expensive keyboard of my new laptop than a bunch of hard cold twigs.
Oh would you please hold my hands and warm them up? We can pretend we're even younger and untroubled. We can pretend life is just us, holding hands, feeling maybe a little guilty and a little strange.
We can pretend all that matters is a touch and a poem, and the world is against us at all costs but we have each other. Let us pretend, just one more time that we still have each other. Isn't that what we do nowadays anyway?
Let's make it convincing.
Keep me warm once again. If you hold my hands, my fingertips may dance with the keyboard one last time.
If you hold me whole in a hug, pretty please, maybe I would be able to cry again. Oh won't you let me cry one l…

The other one

Her reflection glooms late in the morning and early afternoons of long summer days in England. Like a dark cloud, her existence rains over me, showers my wisdom away.  I was wise...I think. 
When I look at her, when everybody looks at her, she is the perfect imperfection. She is the shining light in the lambs eye, the glistening of tiny waves in a vast calm sea. She is beauty.  Her reflection darkens around me in the gloomy wake of my soul. It shadows my insides like there is nothing left. I am the walking dead. 
She is beautiful. I hate beautiful. But yet, I love her, I resign to my fated collision with her. I am her's, belonging, praying, kneeling at her ruthless beauty. The more I try to escape it, the more she enters me and shadows me.  I have no wisdom, no talent, no love left. 
Her beauty rains over me, showers me away.

Casual thoughts of someone raised in grappa

Is it comfort I find in glittering glass filled with potions? Or is it a distorted idea of inspiration?
The sparkling and squeaking of clean bottles on the shelf. All filled with colour and shimmer.
I am no alcoholic.
Only a writer, whose muse sometimes is clicking bottles, glasses and mixers. Whose eternally drunken eyes can see, in a glass bottle, the sand it was made from. A writer who, eternally drunk or high on something beyond life, sees colours and patterns that no hand nor nature can ever make.
And I see beyond, the grapes and redcurrants that have been pressed, the barrels, the heat, the sweat that goes into a bottle, filled with liquid.

I am just, sitting at a bar in Covent Garden called Cafe Murano, I have had a cappuccino, a gin and tonic and something unknown that tastes like a subtle, very subtle red grappa. Stubbornly making someone wait for me while I wonder at this lovely but unplanned bar simply because I can. I have a fever and I don't know, if it's that tal…