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The first to remember Benjamin MiTudelo

04 Monday Jan 2016

Posted by Sallyzoph in Poetry, Uncategorized

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Bayswater lighthouse, Benjamin of Tudela

 

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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.

 

 

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14 Monday Dec 2015

Posted by Sallyzoph in Poetry, Uncategorized

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Edith Piaf, kippur, Proust Marcel

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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

 

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The sandal of Empedocles

14 Saturday Mar 2015

Posted by Sallyzoph in Poetry

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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.

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Geology of the Sephira Kether

13 Friday Mar 2015

Posted by Sallyzoph in Poetry

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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 

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The thickness of things

31 Saturday Jan 2015

Posted by Sallyzoph in Poetry

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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

the thickness (2)

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Sea Level

29 Saturday Nov 2014

Posted by Sallyzoph in Poetry

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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                                                

 

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