Sunday, October 08, 2023

The Artist's Mystique

—Photo Couresty of Public Domain
—Poetry by Giulio Magrini, Pittsburg, PA


We elude the pirouettes of dead
Waltz through shopping aisles
Of corporate supermarket
To meet the dewy eyes of the
Scheming incarcerated crew

Replenishing their supply of
truffles and wagyu
They grin and beckon somberly
To my inquiring phalanges
“Do not squeeze the startling
Symmetry of our linear fruit”
The realization of no loftier
Beyond organized frisée
Seductive and discreet sausages
Arranged with care and last
In the adult toy area
In another section of town
Where these patrons would not be
Without the benefit of shadow
Our whimsy fades from this opulent
And pans to the softness of
No recrimination breathes in
these aisles
The assurance of organic freedom
And the thankfulness of being
rational abides
We are baptized from the womb
Through the cervix of checkout
We are the elite newborns
Sucking on the upmarket teat of
the Amazon provider
We aspire not for the best potato
or pristine hamburger
But the assurance that our
patronage is wholesome and morally
Not unlike the Lebensborn from the
good old days
And without the original sin we
From the pipedreams of coddled

And in our restless saffron
We are the ravenous and greedy
Pigsty reality
Unmindful of grunts squeals and
profit margins
Deafening our present and turning
continuously in hallucination
As the manipulators continue our
enthusiastic aspiration
For the best pork chop made from
the loins of our ancestors
 Giulio’s Mother
—Photo Courtesy of Giulio Magrini


When I was a small boy
I played in the Sharpsburg mud
I decided it would be a good idea
To kiss my mother

She was doing the wash
By hand
In the back yard

I pulled at her dress
She picked me up
And kissed me
She didn’t mind
My muddy hands
Over her clean white dress

Today my heart beats
In remembrance of those days
And the memory and wonder
Lifts me still
To a never-ending resurrection

Her love conquers the mud of eternity
In these years she has never let me go
All I need to do is remember
And I am safe in her arms
—Photo Couresty of Public Domain


Historical obscurities
Fall from the poet’s tender lips
In drops of solemn black rain
Open-mouthed listeners
Stare bug-eyed
Scrunch their eyebrows
Do the heroin nod
Blissful smiles portend
An indecipherable clarity of

The disciples
Are under sedation

The poems of icons
Are venerated quietly
In shadows and rows
As the artiste masturbates
Fifteen-watt bursts
Of antiquated mystery and
Golf applause
Golf applause
Who can appreciate
The mysteries of the gifted?

Watch them slowly now
As they scratch bleeding fingers
Into the stony dirt
To praise truth and beauty

Defined today
As a cloudy day
In the tomb

These trembling mystics
Posture and quiver their art
It is spun to us
This is the language of prophets
And the prisms of the Lord

Within the radiating jurisdiction
Of publicity men
That may be known
As the beat and swirl
Melody and word man
Initiates a brilliant twilight
Between those who are artists

    And those who are not
We are told of their muses
And foggy peculiarities

They are complex and neurotic
Zealots of the first order
Undisciplined in the use of
Controlled substances
And it is whispered
They empathize
With minority causes

Artists feel pain we can only
Hope to feel

We are apprised
This is the artist’s mystique
Oh ladies and gentlemen
Thank you
Thank you very much

I have two special friends
Who close their letters
With the phrase,
“In poetry”
How right they are

Is “In poetry”

Not poets
But people
People who write poetry
Do it because they must

Poetry is their natural continual

Everyone must write because
We are the people and
Our voice is true


Today’s LittleNip:

(After hearing the explanation that menstruation is a punishment from God for original sin in the garden of Eden)

—Giulio Magrini

At that precise moment

A perfect red tear

Slides from Eve’s genesis eye

And reminds her

Of the dew on the grass

In those first mornings

Outside Eden


Newcomer Giulio Magrini has performed at Pittsburgh’s Three Rivers Arts Festival numerous times, and many other venues in the City. He has conducted poetry workshops at alternative high schools, prisons, drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers, and has hosted a radio show for local poets. He was asked to perform his elegy to late mayor Richard Caliguiri,
The Pittsburgher, with the Pittsburgh Symphony at Point State Park before a 4th-of-July crowd of over 100,000 people. 
Today’s poems (with the exception of “Cruising the Aisles of the Whole Foods Dream”) are from Giulio’s book, The Color of Dirt, an anthology of his poetry and flash fiction which was released in 9/22 and is available by emailing the author at As Giulio tells us, “We have put our hands in the dirt and sanctified each other.”  Welcome to the Kitchen, Giulio, and don’t be a stranger!


 Giulio Magrini

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
in the links at the top of this page.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts
by scrolling down under
today’s; or find previous poets by
 typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post;
or go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom  
of the blue column at the right
 and find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

ruby wine
comes from
on the vine~