—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
BORN BACKWARDS
Why do I keep writing?
B., like Bangladesh, was
sixteen years old, on the windowsill
of the balcony of a Milanese high school,
but sixteen years was not enough
For God to embrace her in his leap.
R., as Romania, was
thirteen years old, feeling a hundred,
and no angel
was flying by her side.
E., as Ecuador, was
thirteen years old, with no Genoa
reminded her of Quito,
in the solitude of her dress
off-brand, disintegrated.
C., like China, was
twelve years old, worn out quickly,
looking out on a balcony
with the desire not to see the world,
throwing herself into the vortex
of performance anxiety.
Their names are not difficult
to forget, they are names
—like me—born in reverse,
pressed against the glass
of the windows of life
jumping to the asphalt.
Why do I keep writing?
B., like Bangladesh, was
sixteen years old, on the windowsill
of the balcony of a Milanese high school,
but sixteen years was not enough
For God to embrace her in his leap.
R., as Romania, was
thirteen years old, feeling a hundred,
and no angel
was flying by her side.
E., as Ecuador, was
thirteen years old, with no Genoa
reminded her of Quito,
in the solitude of her dress
off-brand, disintegrated.
C., like China, was
twelve years old, worn out quickly,
looking out on a balcony
with the desire not to see the world,
throwing herself into the vortex
of performance anxiety.
Their names are not difficult
to forget, they are names
—like me—born in reverse,
pressed against the glass
of the windows of life
jumping to the asphalt.
MUM, I AM AN AUTISTIC
Mum, i’m an autistic, not a municipal transport
company autistic
i know in your mother’s heart you always dreamed
of settling down as a state employee,
without the worry of a time card to punch and
unemployment
doing eighteen hours a week, three months off, with
the anxiety of defiscalising repetition.
Ma, i am an autistic, bad luck has decided to crown,
me, as a writer
no, ma, i don’t write therapeutic remedies, no
invoice, like the doctor,
i have explained to you a hundred times that i deal
in endiads and alliterations
i dialogue, every night, with ghosts and communi-
cate with martians,
and, by now, like the Villa, no ma, not the baker
of via Mentana
i mix latin, dialect and the average italian as a
seasoned courtesan.
Ma, i’m autistic, i speak in distich, or in anapestic,
but go on, you understand, it’s not like i’ve become
spastic,
at most flexible and elastic, says so even the troika,
thrown into life with a rocket like i was Laika,
victim of the artistic environment’s lack of
communication
nailed, backwards, on my cenotaph the epitaph:
“Here lies an autistic man”,
since no one can catch me in any verse
or ma, don’t bother me, i’m a deviant.
Mum, i’m an autistic, not a municipal transport
company autistic
i know in your mother’s heart you always dreamed
of settling down as a state employee,
without the worry of a time card to punch and
unemployment
doing eighteen hours a week, three months off, with
the anxiety of defiscalising repetition.
Ma, i am an autistic, bad luck has decided to crown,
me, as a writer
no, ma, i don’t write therapeutic remedies, no
invoice, like the doctor,
i have explained to you a hundred times that i deal
in endiads and alliterations
i dialogue, every night, with ghosts and communi-
cate with martians,
and, by now, like the Villa, no ma, not the baker
of via Mentana
i mix latin, dialect and the average italian as a
seasoned courtesan.
Ma, i’m autistic, i speak in distich, or in anapestic,
but go on, you understand, it’s not like i’ve become
spastic,
at most flexible and elastic, says so even the troika,
thrown into life with a rocket like i was Laika,
victim of the artistic environment’s lack of
communication
nailed, backwards, on my cenotaph the epitaph:
“Here lies an autistic man”,
since no one can catch me in any verse
or ma, don’t bother me, i’m a deviant.
THE FORGOTTEN CHILDREN'S PARADISE
Forgotten children's paradise,
there play dead children asleep
in hot cars, without relief,
victims of mnemonic crises from work fatigue
that make them forget budgets, meetings or
certificates.
Little girls play in a relentless summer,
indifferent to the sun that has dehydrated them,
free to soar in tides of air
in spite of the bad moments spent in respiratory
crisis,
without having to feel heat and thirst.
Forgotten children's paradise,
dead children asleep play there
strangled by the insecurity of belts,
eagerly waiting to re-embrace, without rancour,
those who murdered them.
CARMINA NON DANT DAMEN
The story of a coin is of no interest to anyone
two sides never so bold to see each other face to
face
on one side imprinted the effigy of a queen,
austere, draped in silks and thirsty of drapery,
on the other the image of a minstrel, clad in a
mantle of earth,
surrounded by the golden sadness of war songs.
The enchantment of love turns into coin
two hands, arranged one with care and other
artisanship,
shake hands, and two faces, two metic eyes
protrude from the copper reliefs,
keeping alive, embraced, suspended in the void,
the one observing the amenity of a realm
where rivers run free, flowers smile,
clothed in forests and fruit forever,
the other gazing into hell.
My art is powerless
to cast spells so influential
to keep two faces timelessly suspended in the void,
mixing in forge the two worlds
into a single world where minstrel
and austere queen harmonise thoroughly.
Minstrel, continue to sing
your useless song with a broken heart,
waiting for fragments of tears
to flow again
in the blood of a halved love.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.
—Ray Bradbury
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Ivan Pozzoni for his fine poetry today!
The story of a coin is of no interest to anyone
two sides never so bold to see each other face to
face
on one side imprinted the effigy of a queen,
austere, draped in silks and thirsty of drapery,
on the other the image of a minstrel, clad in a
mantle of earth,
surrounded by the golden sadness of war songs.
The enchantment of love turns into coin
two hands, arranged one with care and other
artisanship,
shake hands, and two faces, two metic eyes
protrude from the copper reliefs,
keeping alive, embraced, suspended in the void,
the one observing the amenity of a realm
where rivers run free, flowers smile,
clothed in forests and fruit forever,
the other gazing into hell.
My art is powerless
to cast spells so influential
to keep two faces timelessly suspended in the void,
mixing in forge the two worlds
into a single world where minstrel
and austere queen harmonise thoroughly.
Minstrel, continue to sing
your useless song with a broken heart,
waiting for fragments of tears
to flow again
in the blood of a halved love.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.
—Ray Bradbury
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Ivan Pozzoni for his fine poetry today!
Ivan Pozioni
For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. 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!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. 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!
