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SEVEN POEMS FROM ITALY 2000

 

INDEX

 

E…

EVERYTHING COMES FROM NOTHING

EVERYTHING WAITS FOR US TO APPEAR

 

H.

HAMMOCKS

 

L…

LOOKING FOR SOMEONE

 

                  S…

                  SHE WAS YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL

 

T…

THE JOY OF A BEE

 

U…

UN VENTO BELLO

 

               LAST POEM IN FILE: SHE WAS YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL

 

 

7-4-99

 

HAMMOCKS

Il Paradiso, Italy

 

Hammocks are like little wombs

hanging from trees.

This one is Mexican:

made of colorful lace.

My life is hung on delicate threads.

But I like the way the wind passes through unhindered

to wrap itself around you,

the way you sleep in the sky.

 

 

 

 

Murci

Wed. June 28, 2000

 

LOOKING FOR SOMEONE

 

Love.

The clouds are white and climbing

in a sky as blue as those lakes

in the country of blue.

The wild sea is blue

and laughs with foam.

These fields are warm and dusky,

like old bottles that once held

oils of the sun.

Here, water tastes of flowers

and air of cherries.

 

Space.

Empty of action--

all brims with being.

The key to everything,

at once, silent and round:

like a river stone

honed through centuries

by the soft, relentless

fingers of God.

 

Someone,

my own since silence…

lost in time,

parted by light and shade,

is the one

in whom all things beautiful are found:

the elegance of trees,

fragrance of hay,

herbs and bees,

vines and birds,

wild eyes of longing,

breasts resisting gravity

with their soft strength,

lambs moaning ,

nibbling tenderness

in star-white Italian nights.

The black fire

of love’s eyes

are found

in the free growth

of your untamed,

and passionate heart.

 

You, love,

are as profound as a hand,

smooth, small, round,

resilient as a young tree,

active as a bee,

you hold silence

like a stone, like a star,

like the home

where I first found you,

naked and flying,

free in the wild-eyes of God.

Thin as grass,

you sang

the song of me

as I wrote the poem of you,

There, found and full

and urged by the Great Love

to leave beauty,

we vowed

to light the fires of our love

in a world where

grief has forgotten

its reasons--

like a leaf lost

in a dark river

forgets the twig

that held it to its tree.

 

 

July 2, 2000

 

EVERYTHING WAITS FOR US TO APPEAR

 

I remember the earth:

its gifts:

stories

of trembling fragrance,

tangles of roots

wrestling in clay;

tender shoots

hungry for life:

eggplants,

beans,

the aromatic tomato

longing for fatness,

to bleed juice,

to be eaten

by a lover,

or a penitent:

someone in sorrow.

 

Everything waits

for us to appear.

The emptiness waits,

nothing waits,

breathless

spacious,

wanting nothing,

longing for everything,

waiting to breathe.

 

 

 

 

July 2, 2000 Murci

 

UN VENTO BELLO

 

Beautiful wind:

Un Bell Vento…

African wind across Italy. 

Wind Chimes;

The sudden slam of a door--

The whole house rustles.

Flies are hiding;

Mosquitoes are blown out to sea.

Everything sighs

As shimmering trees eat heat.

 

In this wind,

I remember my story:

Why I should love

This journey towards you:

My naked opening.

 

My heart has memorized

Your eyes…

 

And how your free energy

Bears a cloud of golden clay:

Earth of your soul;

Hay of your hair—

Your spirit

Blown wild.

 

I am a strong tree,

Shaken and bending,

In the midst

Of you.

 

 

 

July 2, 2000

Murci, Tuscany

 

 

EVERYTHING COMES FROM NOTHING

 

Everything comes from nothing—

a single twig can break a nation

by yielding all its power,

by being fully read.

The twig sings its relations:

branch, limb, trunk, roots,

earth, water, fire, stars—

infinite reaches,

unending being.

A listening soul might echo

its song with such

passionate eloquence

as to awaken

10 million people from their sleep.

10 million listening people

--awake and singing—

can alter all living things.

All this — “tutti” — through the faith

of one twig.

 

 

 

 

July 2, 2000

Murci, Tuscany

 

THE JOY OF A BEE

 

The joy of a bee,

the light of lemons,

patient fire of sunflowers:

everything alive and

moving in your name.

 

Poetry of your name,

door to fragrance,

inspiration to live

free of all things

but this simple movement

towards you.

 

I have seen young roses:

let me kiss your lips.

I have drunken herb-fragrant oils

from an warm jar on a wall—

let me sip you in.

 

 

 

Murci, Tuscany July 2000

(written March 21, 2007)

 

SHE WAS YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL

 

She was young

and beautiful

with perfect breasts

and sat naked from the waist up

behind the tractor wheel,

driving through dusty fields,

driving my brain…

It was like that,

someone else’s woman —

the same story again and again.

So I photographed her,

made love with my eyes

and lens

and she loved the strong light

of my eyes caressing her

with such tenderness

as made her inwardly bleed

and her body smelt

like porcini, like the sweet earth,

like dark heat.

 

 


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