To B.
By Gabriella Garofalo
Listen: this is your prayer,
The moment there isn’t any green left,
The moment there is no way to go north again,
As poetry acts a stray cat in heat, jumps away
From your mind, and like a keen shining knife cuts
Through words, limbs, and the blue-
Here, at dusk, the god of loss holds wandering souls,
No sense of time at all, so be September
And the ambivalence of love her loot,
Then flowers shared, unshared, shards of affection-
But a blue light, looking aslant, now says
‘What are words, if not imperfect gods?
Why can’t the earth be pure?’-
Only the wild knows-
Or maybe the answer is a rhythm like tides at dawn,
Resounding in the shine of limbs swaying to unseen gods
Moulding again the raw earth of bodies,
Holding the echo of breaths long since turned to stone-
Here, poetry stares at love from afar,
A wary animal that fears both net and predators,
She holds memories and loss in the blue amber of her mind,
Knowing only too well sooner or later loves born
At night come to an end, and all that’s left is
A great white father, silence, when the house holds
Its breath against a silent welcome from a stranger,
Whose eyes hold the map of blue shores, and thwart you
From hearing the cheerful sound of a fire
Where a mislaid lover lost books and rooms-
No need to answer, not yet, just close your eyes,
And let silence grow, let the blue light look good
On your sorrow-
Amen, sister, amen, or whatever-
See, your glass is empty, and ice still on the glass.
To W.
It is here that innocence shatters,
When lust blooms like wildflowers in the dark,
A lust that cleans away the names you used to wear,
Bruised by winds-
When silence hugs the edges of every breath,
And you tear through the brake, under the limbs
Of ancient trees, where shadows conspire
And fear takes root-
How weird, is it love or fear that grips the hearts?
‘Cause even in the heat of a shared gaze
You are afraid of what you might chance on,
Of what will stay of you once dawn disrobes the trees,
Yet you get close, you let fear around your limbs like ivy,
You don’t let go, drunk on the raw daring of limbs,
You tread the grass where twilight folds its hands,
And shadows dance like whispers at the edge
Of a no-name land-
Here, among rustling leaves or wild stories,
In the hush among breaths snatched from the night
Lovers entwine, two souls drawn together
By nature’s breath, sweat and shadows fading the edge
Of who you are and where you end-
But can you see the fear, the lust, the silence?
And why this tangled breath, is it fear,
Or the harsh rust born of the breathing earth?
Yet, beneath the skin, your rhythm goes wild,
No fear allowed in this blue field,
So, don’t be afraid even if silence holds you tight,
Just step beyond your shadows carved into the bark
Of trees, and breathe in the green that asks for nothing-
Only the sweet freedom to bloom, and turn
Into the grass that can outlive desire.
Bio: 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 these books “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Casa di erba”; “Blue Branches”; “ A Blue Soul”, “After The Blue Rush”.
Author’s Note:
‘They [my words] are my soul’s home and shelter, the moon, the stars, the night, trees, grass, flowers, and, above all, my relentless presence, the blue. They provide my words with lymph, and breath. So do places, and people whom I happen to stumble upon. So do fragments from conversations I listen to, or take part in. Then I try to reshape them in new different shades, so to give them a fresh soul- this is, I think, the drive that lets my words be lit by that green fuse we might see as the very life and soul of poetry.’
