Poetryzine Magazine presents the selected poems by the Italian poetess Gabriella Garofalo
Light never strikes, OK?
Ever seen the growers tending
The mighty flowers of my anger?
Can you see ‘em? Sure?
But I kept pure and unsoiled for you,
Yet only stray dogs and beggars keep stalking me-
By the by, are you my first prey?
Poor you, Light, you grim playground,
Empty ‘n’barren on a Sunday lunch time,
Kids too busy tucking away the scrumptious cakes,
And now getting even worse than wildest storms-
And you, my winter, your mother
Made you a wannabe Caliban,
Ever jealous of merry lovers,
Ever trying to play nasty tricks to lovely dreamers-
Anyway.
Light, my Light, guess what?
I’ve got a soft spot for you,
I’d so like to drive your van-
Only, the driver gave me a very cold shoulder,
That’s why you sulked while hurling
Chilly clouds and icy skies-
End of story as ever, you’ll blab
God was feeding you with discarded books,
Letters, blazing souls flowing all over,
Or maybe you’ll rant Odysseus and his mates
Gorge on your mind-
Hey, hold on, once you met an outcast,
Yes, the rebel who sets my blue ablaze,
Yes, blue and jangle, and chars men and letters-
But why doesn’t she drop ‘em,
Why doesn’t she obey time-honoured traditions?
And those colours, honestly, no rhythm no measure
They do possess, when hanging out
With those electric stares
Where she stalks words, where her anger
Scars with cider glazes flowers -
O days great only for mothers
Do not feel too safe, and easy for births:
Sharpen your eyes, look, only sky, only water
Quench their thirst in the bars of your mind,
And if they ever meet, they ‘ll rape
Your winter in jerky fits of adrenaline rush-
What shady types, my Gosh, and to boot
They look starving and shabby.
Oh, look, really the fire?
Yes, this is the still, motionless mayhem
She’s being stalked by:
That old geezer, the sea, so sneering,
So biting, ‘cause too much he’s seen, the blue,
Waves, gales, recks, so many bodies
Water fell in love with, and kept them with her forever-
The dopey grin dearest mothers flash
When their darlings have great fun on the slide
In those empty, barren playgrounds
Where even the sun steers clear of-
A wannabe Caliban in the house,
A sib eerily akin to a misfit from a goth tale-
Bit grim, right? Well, actually ‘twas the water
She used to love, combers, seagulls,
The sour smell of the sea, while they wept
For blind fatherless souls-
You know, fathers fly off the shelves
If the market is going strong-
Then, nighttime the labour blew up,
The sky a campsite of screams
‘Cause the moon as ever wants nothing to do
With those births they keep throwing at her-
And that’s what she saw, them, the tents,
The screams-
Nope, sorry, thanks but no thanks,
Now rivers, trees, swamps are her folks,
Sorry, no family, no friends, nope,
And cities she shuns, those passions
Madly slicing limbs and souls-
Nope, sorry, no songs no voices she can hear
When blue, or green cry quits-
But hold on now, and look at them,
They’re walking roads, walking the ruddle of olive groves,
So please don’t bother with why, where, when,
They were born to love an intractable light,
That, and the wind rising between the tents-
No prob, of course, but she can’t anymore,
So she keeps losing her wandering prophets
And all her places give her up.
The house always wins
Whispers that ruthless tyrant,
The sun, while showing off his maddening light
Just to tease those hidden
In the dark dark cellar of their souls
Can’t seem to fly off-
Such a bloody hassle, light, stalking you-
She calls at nighttime, you answer,
And it all gets a child's play,
Even the hunger of the prophets-
One went missing, the other in a deep silence
Dares his end in the waves-
Meanwhile, old ladies in the back rooms,
They don’t shelter nor they help, they just live,
And you happen to wonder: can the morning be my friend?
Breath no longer my nemesis?
Is everything OK?
Maybe yes, maybe just an emotional light
Of blasts from endless comets-
So, my death, do not curse if things go pear-shaped
By the hand of fire-
Stories are born, go settle the score with scattering woods- Oh, and women. I know, you think them harsh bitches,
But she is not, the light that gives you
The first breath in the morning-
You lost, my scattered wood, why he kept no fire for you? Wind, my wind, you yanked him into the undergrowth?
And who are you, my rush bruising steep trees?
Go upwind, soul, if troubles arise with the blue of water,
The blue of the sky, but give up on that green, quick:
Along with wolves in the wind, here they stay
As you look at them daring the cold,
Devoid of black and breakout-
Weirdos, sure, but who are they? Friends?
However, no wings on them, and they can’t fly
Close to the wind.
Yet life can be yours only when the soul thinks
You are a liability with your north of blind eyes,
Faith or retractable lamps, they talk to you
Among claustrophobic skies and wounds,
But unworthy sound the lips of your soul
Them when they pray for a bit of shine-
Lord, Master, Father,
Just empy platitudes, cliches-
God’s eyes tower above the infinite,
Above every conceivable universe you can’t imagine,
Even above your soul-
So, let those bold flowers rise to your eyes
When the shadows haunt your place-
The sculpture where women fight is white,
Between wisteria and azalea,
Where the fruits of our first dawn fall to the edge-
Don’t freak out, there is a whole story behind it,
Sometimes the poets or their henchmen
Shake the branches and words feed all seasons,
Sometimes, what a bloody nuisance,
Words fall on the soul and poets dissolve,
It happens, you know, it is very simple,
Can you see the trees and electric wires?
Well, Heaven can’t sleep if strangers
Hang out so close by, so he shivers
And sells out shadows and the scent of words
To get some sleep, the land he really loves.
And it’s your first time, maybe a life together
With your missing if you feel the lymph inside,
If light presses pushes indigo against the winter-
No biting cold, no earth, no hungry ravings-
Believe you me, God, you’ll no longer be
A light so easy to turn off if you reach out
To another hungry percussive rhythm
In the last living season.
*Gabriella Garofalo was born in Italy some decades ago. She 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”; “Casa di erba”; “Blue Branches”; “A Blue Soul”.
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