Cum poti sa iubesti un loc? (cu dedicatie pentru 2 prieteni)
Cum sa iubesti un loc? Din toata inima si cu toata pasiunea. Il caut pentru ca ma face sa simt ca traiesc, ca numai acolo exist cu adevarat, ca masca mea s-a pierdut undeva pe drum si ca voi intra pura si nestingherita. E complicele gandurilor si martorul aventurilor mele.
Cand sarut parca totul se raceste astfel incat sa simt doar caldura persoanei care imi este alaturi.
Cand ascult cum ea imi canta , parca totul se linisteste, sunetele se afunda in surdina si tot ce rasuna e vocea clara si melodioasa.
Cand privesc, parca cerul isi schimba culoare astfel incat sa fie si mai albastru, sa scoata in evidenta culoarea ochilor lui.
Cand ating parca totul devine imaterial, conturul lumii inconjuratoare creionandu-se dupa imaginatia mea.
Si pot sa visez. Si pentru cateva clipe pot sa uit ca totul nu e decat un vis si sa cred ca exista cu adevarat.
Ca talpile ma vor durea la fel fie de voi calca pe pietre sau pe nisip.
Ca soarele ma va orbi cu aceeasi intensitate fie el deasupra marii sau deasupra cladirilor obosite
Ca vantul va vuia la fel fie printre panzele unei corabii sau printre copacii infloriti.
To the barbarians in my beloved homeland
As far as I am concerned, I hope you’ll never be able to sleep again. But until then:
How would you would to feel another wearing your skin?
Would you hunt him in his sleep?
Like I know they’ll hunt you,
Harsh, and dark, and painful.
Will you remember that you wear their dried fur in your pockets,
as the fang of hundreds bites your sleazy hand?
will you tell your children stories
of how you burned life like you burn an incense stick?
And when you think of
Those who can cry but cannot speak,
Do you dream of how you’ve killed before?
(just a draft, but I needed to get it out there)
Thinking of the sea
It’s not meant to be a story; it’s the fantasy of a rainy day and a cold breeze. A breeze that smells of salt and pushes the window open. Across the street, there’s an identical row of English houses and I draw the heavy curtain so I cannot see them. I lay in bed, in the morning half-light, with that breeze as my only cover. There is no tension, in the air, in my muscles. There is no sound but that which allows the song of the morning sea to wave in. There’s a shore behind the window, with sun-kissed sands and lost shells. I climb on the window still and sit with my legs in the water. It’s cold, untainted, inviting. The promising sun is a mirror. The mirror of a romanticised view, a cliché. One that never ceases to please.
Inspiration
‘There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all.’
Alba
Wet rose, corrupted by morning dew
A Narcissus amongst inferior mirrors.
A hermit at the spider’s breast,
sleeping in its porous web
longing for another’s thorns
overgrown, its own will fall
in an uninhabited anthill.
Stolen from its muddy womb,
locked in a glass prison,
sleeping under its translucent arcade
while sisters grow tall in the fields
like cemetery stones that sit with ghosts.
It helps the Beast enchant the Beauty
trashing, the magic eats up its own.
Death is wanted of you,
crumpled petals, ashen thorns,
Then -
a phoenix momentum.
kiss, a broken spell.
With love,
Alba.
Go watch: Malena
Malena (2000)
One of my favourite scenes:
For me, it is a movie that tells so much only through the power of suggestion. In that respect, one of its strongest points is how it tackles social themes: life in a small village – where everyone knows everything – , appearances and what really happens behind the curtains, etc. If the portrayal of society is not really your thing, then Malena is a love and coming of age story that anyone can enjoy. The young Renato Amoroso experiences the awakening of his first feelings of sensuality and love alike, enchanted by the beautiful Malena. Slightly humorous, slightly grim, it’s a wonderful film worth watching even if only for the beautiful locations, good music and the stunning Monica Belluci.
It will leave you asking yourself: is beauty a blessing or a curse?
Go watch it and then tell me what you think.
The world is not vile today
It’s white!
I’m one of those persons who wakes up the entire house when it snows and then stares through the window at the ashen sky, for the better part of the morning, mesmerized by the uneven fall of the flakes.
So, when it started snowing this morning I fluffed myself up and went out to my rendezvous with the goddess Chione. I had been waiting for her. Her frosty hands set white doves free and their feathers spread crouched hope everywhere. I let it fall in my gloved hands and unfolded it with a hot breath. I was being seduced in a dance of her own, sole understanding, with flakes falling in heretical spirals. I never refuse a dance.
Life is not a fairytale. But no one said you can’t make it your own fairytale, even for a day, a moment or a second. I do not believe in love. That’s a lie. I love life, I love Chione and I offer them and myself a gift:
| A Winter Eden
By Robert Lee Frost |
| A winter garden in an alder swamp, Where conies now come out to sun and romp, As near a paradise as it can be And not melt snow or start a dormant tree. It lifts existence on a plane of snow It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast So near to paradise all pairing ends: A feather-hammer gives a double knock. |
How I killed love – an acrostic poem
How I killed love
Pictures hanging on the black walls
Hot-blooded ghost, chocked in a bottle
Oak chestnut, your color in death
Triggered my gun, wobbly, my fingers
Olive your blood, spilled on my mirror
Graceful surrender, I lowered my head
Rickety, like the snake that rattles
Another day has now gone by
Perhaps, my darling, you don’t know
How it was that I killed love
Be my autumn
To my beloved wife, the one and only love of my life.
Be my autumn
In remembrance of the old romantic poetry
Be my autumn,
On Bloomfield Avenue
where roses stroll unhindered through the winter
remembering the madrigal of spring’s fresh grass,
As October blooms into November
with the yearning of a seasons’ changing,
You hold me under your umbrella
embroidered into lace and tumbled leaves.
You sing the cry of naked trees
scarves of winter breezes on their branches
in which the larks nest their memories
of how two lovers promenade
the bricks of Bloomfield Avenue.
The addict and the crazy – a try at a sonnet
Again, this is developed from a Creative Writing exercise I had to do for my course and it’s an attempt at a sonnet. Let me know what you think!
The addict and the crazy
I’d cried for days, engulfed into that madly shame
Training my mind, for they say it should know no lust.
Light in the night, atmospheric delight, no blame,
Circumstances always design that lack of trust
That twisted affection, keeps my mind from the straight
I had to be strong; I would have succeeded. Had
It not been for white cinnamon coffee. The Bait.
Now it was his turn. He asked: Has she finally gone mad?
Yet I laughed at their nonsense, silly it was so
She may be beautiful, and to my eyes extreme
Dark inside, fair outside, her purpose is to woe
Of nymphs and imps and goblins sometimes I may dream
White sentinels need not see it, but she knows well
The addict and the crazy, here love is a hell.
