04 Monday Jan 2016
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
The storm is over. Must be something in the air
A metaphor to keep me silent
Those small snowflakes that are hanging down
Swell likely to drop the iron
Down the river, in our hiding-place
We still not ready for archeology
What I became move us away
From prophesies and from sounds of History
Away from iron windows and flags
The first to remember Benjamin MiTudelo in Sicily
Will still hear the bloody distant milk away.
14 Monday Dec 2015
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tags
I did not smell the apple
behind Proust Madeleine
But your scent yes
a scent of cinnamon
My kippur shall be without apples
And without smell
Dives have no odor
14 Saturday Mar 2015
Posted in Poetry
Picture: Courtesy of the Wolbach Library, Harvard – Étienne Trouvelot 1872
The meandering routine
Is a bottomless volcano
Where everything must burn
Like the sandal of Empedocles
Left at the lip of a crater
Signs for the presence or absence
Preserve the longing to become tangible
Hide the En sof from us
Then an aesthetic consumerism
For a lifetime unless it falls.
13 Friday Mar 2015
Posted in Poetry
Picture : Andrea Galvani, The Intelligence of Evil #6, 2007
We do not want to disappoint
Even those who count for nothing
This is very mortifying
And this freedom you speak about
Is a fantasy but not sure…
I am not like you
I am cerebral, not visceral
I have the introspection
My roots grow there
In the tree where I hang down
The Kabbalists are wrong
My infidelity is in the Kether (כתר)
I forsake the flesh
I take it off
This is not new
Three years
Every second burning
Before I had to open
Then I went in and locked the door
31 Saturday Jan 2015
Posted in Poetry
Apache tears
Must bee seen
The crawling blade
That we believed to be the sea
Those bodies that were believed to feel
Untie their incredible prehistories
Like the water on dumb temple pilots
Inner excavation opens a garden of stones
They consent to silence
To the immobility of the leaves before the storm
For a wing to unfold in the light of aging
The bird in a metal flight
Comes like the rain through the observable
I am free cried the bird from love gripped
Just take what is alive
I will burn the stone
The wind mistaken wheat
Silence doesn’t disunite
His flesh in words of core aims and bends
Our intimate orchards
The line takes off
Cutting edges
Of the white hole in the gesture
No door for departure
Use only the faithful and naked Coal
I remember a lovely July
The pure echo of demolished walls
A foot, a wing in Buci
I remember my voice lost in other vocals
And Guillevic
I remember the thickness of things
The hand that holds
The blue abyss
Inks
We will go for tomorrow
Full of doubts and wheat
I wait as only shadow could
Surrounded by the sun
Look for a meaning to eclipses
Forget my decipherable shadow
Let only my stone bear down
No voice left to bend the other voices
My real world is silent
In the unexplored retread of me
Rises a metamorphic seed
The stone
And it birds weigh
There is a story that is told
Then the waves, the stunning waves
I have for her the obvious
Dead shoes
Unknown caramels
And perfumes from Edo
29 Saturday Nov 2014
Posted in Poetry
Rimbaud on his boat
Screamed: Earth Remember!!
And before sinking
Saw a million of golden birds
Thus, the line
Goes
Geometrizing my soul
With a blue mathematic
When your blue line calls me
My soul is flooded by
Like a window in the sun
The stream of life fills Washington streets
But all I want
Is to be the blood flowing all day
In the inextricable maze of your skin
How many are like me
Hiding under a cloak worn by the wanderings
Their wrinkled wings?
How many are like me
With a lack hidden by thousands words?
The green seems gray to me
Only the blue survived
And your hands
Holding me like Montaigne
Painted the passages of my soul
And even if I read Flaubert
Even if he assures me that the immensity
Has no conclusion
I remember
The “Vayéchev”
In your arms
And all your flowers with some scientific names
That I don’t know
Remind me the face of Ophelia
