Foolish is the man who thinks a woman can completely control her feelings.  A woman cannot control what hurts her soul anymore than he can seem to control the assaults that march from his lips "emotionless". It is only in stillness that either man or woman can gain perspective and grit to lift away burdens heavier than they know what to do with.  Being strong is an effort not made lightly for the faint of heart, being softer is an effort not made easy for those born tough. I came into this world with a fragile heart, time ravaged my mind and I became hard and clipped by my brushes with death held in others. Being soft again is to be stronger, it is an honor to drop to me knees beneath trees of my ancestry to reweave my own roots. It is a battle that will rage in me Eternally, for I always seem to attract the ones who need me, for I know I will need them too. I transmute their sorrows through my own heart. It takes its toll making others stronger, but it also makes me stronger through them. I will always march on with my faint heart. The ways I swoon make me beautiful.

Within the gentle heart abideth Love,
As doth a bird within green forest glade,
Neither before the gentle heart was Love,
Nor Love ere gentle heart by Nature made.
Created was the sun,
And lo, his radiance everywhere held sway,
Nor was before the sun;
Love doth unto all gentleness aspire,
And in the self-same way
Doth clarity unto clear flame of fire.
     Love’s fire is kindled in the gentle heart,
As virtue is within the precious stone;
From out the star no glory doth depart
Until made gentle by the sun alone.
When the sun hath drawn forth
By his own strength all that which is not meet,
The star doth prove its worth.
Thus to the heart, by Nature fashioned so
Gentle and pure and sweet,
The love of woman like a star doth go.
     The reason Love in gentle heart doth stay
Is why the fire unto the torch-head flies,
Burning as he doth fancy, bright and gay,
And were too proud to do so otherwise.
But Nature’s cruel scheme
Contrasteth Love as water, flame; as heat,
Quelled by the cooling stream.
In gentle heart doth Love his bower divine,
Since like with like must meet,
Thus diamonds in the iron of the mine.
     Upon the mire the sun sheds his bright rays,
That is still vile, nor doth the sun turn cold:
“Gentle am I by birth,” the proud man says.
33 He, mire, and the sun, gentleness, I hold.
Let no man think that he
May be possessed of gentleness, although
He boast a king’s degree,
Unless a gentle heart be found in him:
The water is aglow
With stars, and yet the heavens have not grown dim.
     God the Creator in heaven’s mind of grace
Shines brighter than before our eyes the sun;
There it is given to see Him face to face,
Whence in their beauty the skies, serving one
Just God, to Him do turn
And the blest end of primal love fulfil.
Thus the truth which doth burn
In my sweet Lady’s eyes she should make clear,
Of her own gentle will,
To him who in her service tarries near.
     My Lady, God will say: “Didst thou not fear,”
(When my soul standeth yonder in His sight:)
“To pass the heavens and seek Me even here,
Vain love pursuing with My image dight?
To Me doth praise belong
And to the Queen of Heaven, who from her sphere
Of glory endeth wrong.”
Then I could plead: “Thy angels up above,
O Lord, like her appear;
I did not sin in giving her my love.”

We pilfer light here in these cold far rooms
Fast stolen to our beds and darkened fears
Unbowed and casting evil eyes and stares
On any soul who dares to dream of home;
Alight in shadows, tricksters view false thrones
While basking in the glow of claps and sneers
Amid the stench of truth long dead from spears
Like lies inflicted ******* hearts and bones;
Still, somewhere reason now ignites the mind,
It calms the righteous anger of our tears
To carry feet on paths that passions hide;
So long as we defend the joy of days
Hope cannot wane nor freedom ever fade.

Skinny little legs, like the bees
you loved to draw, propelled you
down two flights of old stone stairs.

Banging on your namesake's door,
calling out in a child's Italian:
"Nino, let's go play!"

An enclosed courtyard held us at the center
of modest apartments where our neighbors
hung out laundry, watched us play.

In the early evening light we counted, hid,
and counted again under quiet Roman skies.
It seemed, then, that this was life.

Counting rapidly in that musical language,
searching for a new and better place to hide,
we never imagined that soon, we would
want to hide here, in these memories
that would never leave us.

When an avalanche of tragedy hit us
one year later, we had these soft days
in our father's country to remember.
Hiding, counting,
and hiding again.

Vorrei la foto tua
d'un tempo andato
amore mio adorato

–per esserci, con te

quand'eri giovane abbastanza
per non sentire ancora
la mia predestinata

–assenza

left you behind
left a small *** of forget me nots, queen’s park, bakerloo, about an hour away from you
a goodbye letter in a plastic bag
“you’re the best lover i’ve ever had.”

“i loved you most when we said goodbye”
i’ve never seen more beautiful, actually, darker eyes

forget me not as i fly across the sea
airplane crashes and you promise to remember me

making love in my landlords living room
a bicycle thief “you’re leaving too soon,”
how did it feel to stay
how are your ankles
your eyes
too grey?

We are to come and leave and not return,
But hand our secret scroll to those who'd be.
I'll pass the writings on which passed to me,
And shrink to blackened ash with flameless burn.

As far as those who'll be--of whom will earn,
That secret scroll containing some of me,
Quite like yet quite unlike, in no way me--
They'll mourn for I'll have gone and won't return.

To live on in a heart or memory,
Is not living or life or anything,
But trite consoling words of sympathy--

A metaphor or best a simile--
suspending truth, and grief that loss will bring.
In truth no more am I nor shall I be.


(C)2015, Christos Rigakos

Precipio


Beneath the cherubs of Basilica di

Santa Maria Maggiore, St. Frances of

Assisi inculcates the embroidered

    Il tuo sorriso è l’alba che ** perso questa mattina

word of God, threaded into centuries

of artwork extinction, rehabilitated

into the minds of a museum, where

we cannot touch, only to distinguish,

what is ours, what is there’s, why

we must perderò  understand the

implications of sunrises bringing

another day of God to teach.

Our loss of Nativity is

freestanding figures

brought on by time.

...

I was invited to read poems as a response to Ann Hamilton's exhibit at the Spencer Museum of Art. Read more about this event here: (This poem is actually shaped like a face, but I can't get the lines to stay, but you can see the actual shape at the link)

http://shannonathompson.com/2013/04/19/reading-event-ann-hamilton-at-the-spencer-museum-of-art/