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/

with his breath on my neck, his brown italian eyes exploring my body, he whispered, "i want to educate you, physically and mentally," and i shivered, a whole body shudder, longing and lusting, wanting him to take me by the hand and show me the way.

Freshly baked
  Italian bread aroma
    permeated Sunday mornings
      in my old familiar neighborhood
      we'd inhale the heavenly scent
    drawing in deeply as we briskly
  entered the shop to buy
      a steaming hot loaf




© Carmela M. Patterson, All rights reserved.

This takes place on a rooftop above the city
Almost twangy, almost

Stars are out, and boy, are they ever strong
The sweetest lullaby of a love song
Sung to me from your fingertips
Patetico

Strumming the notes as you would a lover
Best friends turned to endless memories
Perfect, soft whispers
Harmonies that make me listen so close
I don't want to miss a thing

Breathing in the calmest wind-- your air
Sospirando
Coming together with a melody that grows
Two bodies unified as one loud symbol--
Crescendo, dolcissimo, fortepiano, melting gelato  

Rosy reds and the palest clouds
Awakening both hearts, not a dream
You tighten your grip and beg me not to go
Ostinato

As long as you keep singing from your fingertips
Appassionato
And if those hands are your outlets
Bravura
I’ll stay here
Al fine

A pair of black shoes
draw a dollar bill from your hand
with their coal-dusted paws
But rumor has it
they prefer hundreds--because they're blue.
            Blue gets their wings trimmed
just right.

Wine is dry at Contessa's party.

Liquor gives it a merciful taste.
                        A little salt
(draw it from her body; it hangs
from her lashes)  adds to the universal
bitterness.
                                   Her sadness.


8-11-14

Fratellino's rock collection
turned into flower petals.
      Madre has a portrait of him
putting them in his hair, turning into Sorellina instead.

Boys play football in my heart
Their ball falls in a canal in
Venezia.
It's lost in
Venezia because I closed my eyes,
Guidebook in hand--
Phrasebook at my side--
Dictionary omnipresent somehow--

Mother calls them inside, it's time to learn again.