mango pickers.

February 23, 2013 § Leave a comment

Gauguin, Gauguin, I’ve seen you naked in the sun

painting your heat into remembrance

and morning, Gauguin, stepsisters

sit shaded between blue trees

and your repeated orange dawn, Gauguin

in order, truth and colour. The sombre

yellow dwelling from hence the herald angel

failed to sing, Gauguin, a welcoming.

change.

February 23, 2013 § Leave a comment

five hundred made to measure

came from out the night

came from out the night

 

a lemon in the snow, now

leak a smile into the stream

 

how have we turned the world around when its

eyes remain the same; it sees

our sky

from the outside in

 

and the mountain weeps its weather down

on us. one eye harbours this

 

hush

 

La vita secondo Benigni…è veramente bella…?

February 19, 2013 § 7 Comments

Image

nocturne:

February 18, 2013 § Leave a comment

amore ancora, no

non posso, no

le mie mani, vuote

il mio cuore, libero

testa come un cesto di rifiuti, no

non posso, no

Pink sky at night…poet’s delight

February 18, 2013 § Leave a comment

Image

the hush:

February 17, 2013 § Leave a comment

she stops to observe her purchase, pearls in a paper bag.

the pointing lady with the red hair in her wake.

I don’t recognise my own soft voice on soundtrack Italian.

who is that woman?

from sounds:

February 16, 2013 § Leave a comment

sabato in sunglasses, white wine.

the car pulls up by the dry fountain in the cold evening at the right time.

the beginnings of night and still,

the sun is bleeding behind the mountain. come, come on

down. No, it won’t let me

wash the wound. cyprus like a barb against the sky

soaks up the moon and I.

 

Non Voglio Perderti

February 15, 2013 § Leave a comment

Image

III

February 13, 2013 § Leave a comment

Bruised portrait of a stunned butterfly at grandmother’s

on the wall, from Cyprus.

I’ve been having these dreams in which memories come back to me

and are mine again.

 

Your face, bleeding. She is feeding me

nougat to stop me crying.

When we play on the carpets I leave my footprints.

 

I wake up at strange times; the doors and windows

are in the wrong positions, my bed faces north-north-east, it’s not my room

in sleep nor waking dream, it’s not the taxidermy my mother

brought her home.

yo la tengo

February 3, 2013 § Leave a comment

gauguin, gauguin: you are my first true love

your eye’s wit neglects

silence in the colours, gauguin

my heat, burns

my language, quickens

my blood is a young calf, gauguin

my God a sleeping girl, half

facing art, gauguin, my first

sweetheart: how water turns

the sun’s

fire in your palms

Where Am I?

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