anche se non lo vogliamo ammettere il tempo scorre
ripara, aggiusta
cancella, sopprime.
e così le ferite si riparano
e i ricordi svaniscono
e per ogni giorno che passa noi sentiamo sempre meno dolore, ma senza lasciare mai che questo si estingua del tutto.
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Dove sei? Come stai?
Sei ancora qua? Sei gia via?
Che nostalgia che mi lasci.
A volte vorrei davvero che mi abbandonassi e basta, senza rimanere col piede in mezzo alla porta.
Chiudimi fuori.
Farebbe davvero meno male. Vorrei vomitare. Tutto.
Divertiti ancora, o come dico io:
divertiti sempre,
senza di me.
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Tu ha’ ‘l viso più dolce che la sapa,
e passanto vi par sù la lumaca,
tanto ben lustra, e più bel c’una rapa ;
e’ denti bianchi come pastinaca,
in modo tal che invaghiresti ‘l papa ;
e gli occhi del color dell’utriaca ;
e’ cape’ bianchi e biondi più che porri :
ond’io morrò, se tu non mi soccorri.
La tua bellezza par molto più bella
che uomo che dipinto in chiesa sia:
la bocca tua mi par una scarsella
di fagiuo’ piena, sì com’è la mia ;
le ciglia paion tinte alla padella
e torte più c’un arco di Sorìa ;
le gote ha’ rosse e bianche, quando stacci,
come fra cacio fresco e’ rosolacci.
Quand’io ti veggo, in su ciascuna poppa
mi paion duo cocomer in un sacco,
ond’io m’accendo tutto come stoppa,
bench’io sia dalla zappa rotto e stracco.
Pensa : s’avessi ancor la bella coppa,
ti seguirrei fra l’altre me’ c’un bracco :
di che s’i massi [?] aver fussi possibile,
io fare’ oggi qui cose incredibile.
You have a face sweeter than boiled grape juice—
it looks as if a snail had walked across it,
it shines so much—and prettier than a turnip;
and teeth as white as parsnips,
so much so that you could entice the Pope;
and eyes the color of a medicinal brew;
and hair whiter and blonder than a leek;
so that I’ll die, if you give me no relief.
Your beauty seems much more beautiful to me
than any man that’s painted in the church;
your mouth, it seems to me, is like a sack
filled up with beans, just like my own is;
your eyebrows seem tinted from the frying pan,
and curved more sharply than a Syrian bow;
your cheeks, when you sift flour, get red and white
like poppies in fresh cheese.
When I look down upon each of your breasts,
they look like two watermelons in a bag,
so that I’m set on fire just like tow
even though I’m worn and broken by the hoe.
Just think: if I still had the cup of beauty,
I’d follow you through the other girls like a hound;
so too, if getting blocks of stone were possible,
I would make incredible things here today.
— Michelangelo
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Il tempo scorre con noi, amore mio.
Guarda dove ci ha portati,
siamo sempre qui, siamo ancora insieme,
sono ancora persa, e tu ancora mi trovi.
Amore mio, sulle tue labbra,
ho cantato canzoni a squarciagola, ho pianto lacrime di gioia, ho vissuto un amore travolgente.
Continuiamo a viaggiare insieme, ti prego.
Portami ancora con te, esploriamo tutto il mondo insieme
e costruiamo il nostro futuro.
Sei di un calore e di una brillantezza unica,
continuerò ad amarti anche quando
mi spegnerai come le sigarette,
che separano le tue labbra
dai miei baci.
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A bit of history
My great grandmother came from Italy. She sold olive oil in a storefront in New York. Most of the stories about her have been lost to time. But she was, among other things, a witch. She provided remedies to the neighborhood, when they came to call with an earache or a problem.
I only remember meeting her once, during the holidays when I must’ve been only five. She was in a wheelchair, and she had a kind face. Together, we rolled the cold cuts up for antipasto. (I mostly just kept her company.) Since we were in New York they were what I’d come to call the good cold cuts, alongside the good cheese.
From the stories I was told (by my mother and others), I know she was a strong woman who lived a hard life. Harder than is easy to wrap your head around. The truth can be like that sometimes: a creature as much made of shadows as it is light, seemingly impossible. And yet.
I have always had an affinity for witches and witchy-hearted humans. A large portion of the poetry I write are tarot poems. I read tarot cards, albeit inconsistently. I am always and forever learning.
There are days I look to the past to remind me of who I am. Today is one of those days, so I am sharing this glimpse with you.
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milex and a poem
i read this poem and shed a few tears because it reminded me so much of them, because it is so them... so i invite you to suffer with me.
Friends with No Benefits, Megan Fernandes, Poem-a-Day, 2023
I now replace desire
with meaning.
Instead of saying, I want you, I say,
there is meaning between us.
Meaning can swim, has taken lessons from the river
of itself. Desire is air. One puncture
above a black lake and she lies flat.
I now replace intensity with meaning.
One is a black hole of boundless appetite, a false womb,
another is a sentence.
My therapist says children need a “father” for language
and a “mother” for everything else.
She doesn’t get that it’s all language. There is no else.
Else is a fiction of life, and a fact of death.
That night, we don’t touch.
We ruin nothing.
We get bagels in the morning before you leave on a train,
and I smoke a skinny cigarette and think
I look glam, like an Italian diva.
You make a joke at my expense, which is not a joke, really,
but a way to say I know you.
I don’t feed on you. Instead, I watch you
like a faraway tree.
Desire loves the what if, the if only, the maybe in another lifetime.
She loves a parallel universe. Or seven.
Meaning knows its minerals,
knows which volcanic magma belongs
to which volcanic fleet.
Knows the earth has parents. That a person is raised.
It’s the real flirtation, to say, you are not a meal.
To say, I want you
to last.
+
the author said this about it:
“This piece is about a friend. We drink martinis and talk poems all night. We have an energy easy to mistake for desire but that might instead mean something more earthbound. Desire is instructive. But she’s often instructing us toward some edge, toward some abyss. As I get older, I’m re-narrating the intense feelings I have for some people that don’t take the form of ravenous, cosmic, and consuming intimacies, but intentional, rooted, and durational ones. What’s better than the dumb luck of living at the same time as someone you truly admire? It’s so mortal and random. No cosmos could compete.”
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