Io ti ** vista seduta al pianoforte
e mi sei parsa un angelo, una vergine
di certissimo aspetto - come fossi
oggi cresciuta lì su quelle soglie
di sveltissima musica, o fermento
bello di donna dalle dritte spalle
cui le dita di angelo racchiuso

hanno impresso una curva di mistero
mentre che all'apparenza ne gioivi
profondamente come in veste nuova.

E noi tutti di te ripensavamo
cose profonde e più miracolosa
che una vetta di sogno la tua dolce
cara presenza ci scioglieva i nodi
dentro il sangue del male e sollevava
la nostr'aria nel palpito felice
dei tuoi biondi finissimi capelli.

The bones of you spoke to mine,
finger and thumb picking the ivory,
screaming softly at daintiest pushes
and ground sweetly at my bones.

My hands washed over the high keys,
though settled for the low. You see,
my fingers ached without yours.
They suited the high; they were nimble

and sharply caught each note,
whilst I kept the wallowing octaves
moaning like an ocean’s breath.
Now the hammers thundered softly,

they plummet through the sails
having had lost that lengthy breeze,
tumbling into a lonesome abyss.
I had you, though now your chime

resonates right through the depths;
it leaves my heart crying for a shine,
a glimmer in the dark. These bones
play bones, and a piano plays me.

Your hands play
my back like a
piano, knuckles
contorting, twisting
pressing symphonies
to life,
pushing music into
me like I've never
heard a
song

you're like a
bird
whose singing in
the wooded
canopy of dreams
who folds
his wings against
the sky becoming
cupid's arrow

you play me
pianoforte
and you love me
like a sparrow.

Beethoven choral racing through frozen forests
through rain and frost storms
We are carried on fast horse through winter
against furious Beethoven

Making love on lost sheets of saffron and straw
a frozen speeding vision explodes into your corner

racing fierce on pianoforte
Beethoven one note pure
against humanity

The decaying mansions of English language
Rot and recede
into teenage grasses
with each unspoken year

The hired help have left their hair unmown and surrendered their uniform dress
Content with the neglect of nature
taking its timely course

When the architects and master masons of linguistics
Survey their forgotten plans in the heaven of English literature
They are not dismayed
but patiently sit and sit

The pristine edifices of the classics
Once grand and clad in deferential brick
Stand scaffolded and unread
The doors unlocked, ajar and hopelessly inviting
Into the library of the English canon
The dusty cloak on the carpets of grammar
Sheets thrown over the disused armchairs of archaic words
Echoing the plink of the out-of-tune pianoforte of the perfectly crafted short story
Bathrooms of formal poetry
With the rusty plumbing of metre and rhyme

Whereas the temporary outhouses,
hastily arranged huts of slang and idiom
are adorned by the living grasses of new forms,
creepers  of half remembered dreams
mulching leaves of half formed thoughts
forests of half forgotten loves
writhing in living incompleteness
Which will in turn harden and fossilize

And we can then rue the passing of our once organic lingo

We descend gently
into the deep well
of the pianoforte

As the sun streams down
from above
the echoes of love and longing
arise from below

You and I
have not come this way before

So step gently
and have every care
A world where I lose you
cannot exist

In truth
it would be
an outrage against nature

And if
God forbid
such a thing were to happen
I would wrap the sky
in a blanket of grief
a blanket so dense
that the sun would fail
the stars flicker and dim

I would turn off every light
erase every word

There would be no peace
because I would make war
against every continent
my armies would occupy
every city

I would plant a black flag
on the moon
and place a grieving footprint
upon the Sea of Tranquility

And I would cry
that no tranquility
can henceforth exist
in any place

Finally
I would set out
with scant provision
on an odyssey
that would make Ulysses weep

Few would weigh my grief
yet the earth itself
would careen briefly
off the elliptic
as the weight of my heart
altered its comings and goings
causing every creature still breathing
to look up in fear

So stay, friend.
It must be that I go first.
And you remain behind.

My life is a note made of notes wrote on notes,coating that part of me,making a symphony deep in the heart of me,notes and the keys which play as they please and anyway play as they do and when they are through with the score ,two notes more and two more after that,two sharp and B flat.I am slave to the staves and the music sheet saves me for one more light symphony.
Her fingers then play me,give life and then slay me and melodies lay me to rest.

Like a broken down piano
that refuses to play,
no notes today

eventually
they'll break me into firewood
and take me away

and then I'll never play,

no sonatas
cantatas
no Debussy or Britten
no tunes ever written

only the silence of keys
In the memory where
she's
waiting for me.

But that's not today
today
I shall play

even though the flames
wait to scald me
Vivec and Vivaldi
will comfort me
all the days of
my life.

How absolutely grand.

Io ti ** vista seduta al pianoforte
e mi sei parsa un angelo, una vergine
di certissimo aspetto – come fossi
oggi cresciuta lì su quelle soglie
di sveltissima musica, o fermento
bello di donna dalle dritte spalle
cui le dita di angelo racchiuso

hanno impresso una curva di mistero
mentre che all'apparenza ne gioivi
profondamente come in veste nuova.

E noi tutti di te ripensavamo
cose profonde e più miracolosa
che una vetta di sogno la tua dolce
cara presenza ci scioglieva i nodi
dentro il sangue del male e sollevava
la nostr'aria nel palpito felice
dei tuoi biondi finissimi capelli.

Breathless little pod, enclose me with your
Wooden floors. Let the rain outside play as
Pianoforte as it can. Enough
Thought to sink a ship and all I can say
Is “The horses. Oh my God, the horses.”
What about the horses? In a tasteless,
Odorless, frictionless universe sleeps
The hammer of the clouds who eats our hours
And flips to more interesting channels.

Take a minute for yourself, this is just
An experiment, and run up those stairs.
Be sure to stop when you hear the lightning
Then nip back down like thunder so you can
Tell me the result. Breathe in, count to ten.
Breathe out, breathe in and try to remember
The middle of “Rondo Alla Turca.”
Take your time, it won’t be nice outside for
A while. Enjoy the breathless little room.

i passed and looked at the oaks
on their foolish great peaks
to their great fairy tale words
to their unique skies

i walked around the apple trees
and rushed straight to the inspiration
i became a wind blowing away
from huge calves of fire and foxes

i passed near the oaks of mighty
and I took a couple of mushrooms and flowers
tomorrow i'll put them on my hat
put on my golden hat

because tomorrow i'm going to play on
pianoforte
and will sound among the oaks
and the cities of the franz liszt sound

25.07.18

Io ti ** vista seduta al pianoforte
e mi sei parsa un angelo, una vergine
di certissimo aspetto - come fossi
oggi cresciuta lì su quelle soglie
di sveltissima musica, o fermento
bello di donna dalle dritte spalle
cui le dita di angelo racchiuso

hanno impresso una curva di mistero
mentre che all'apparenza ne gioivi
profondamente come in veste nuova.

E noi tutti di te ripensavamo
cose profonde e più miracolosa
che una vetta di sogno la tua dolce
cara presenza ci scioglieva i nodi
dentro il sangue del male e sollevava
la nostr'aria nel palpito felice
dei tuoi biondi finissimi capelli.

I want a man whose heart is so full -
Rainwater dripping from the pitcher on the drizzled grey of yesterday,
A soft sound in the great symphony of the wet garden,
Bejeweled and glistening,
Pianoforte drops
Upon the wet leaves
Falling.

I will know him by the way he writes, the kindness in his eyes -
Flashes of him in my professor,
In myself, caught laughing like a child,
In the quiet teenager who is becoming an
Unlikely philosopher, frontal cortex in heat,
With the implications of existence
(He’s awake in the early dawn, a furious Jacob,
wrestling with his God)

And he will be a Seeker of Beauty:
“There is no medium unworthy”
He will tell me, but never in words,
Crouching for perfection’s grace among leaves and dirt
Like a widow beneath rainbow fractals
At early morning’s mass.

He will be effortless, like the unspoken love
Between two old friends, bookends
Scattering crumbs of baguettes in the park
To clicking beaks, and dancing pigeon feet.

Burying himself in pages, when he thinks no one sees
(Was that you there, on the subway?
Dark eyes, fixated on the lines,
Crinkling with understanding?)

Both of us adventurous spirits -
“Let’s run away, you and me” and we will
Melt with ease into cityscapes, so transparent, adaptive,
Young and free,
Like the wood moths becoming one
With the aspen in its serenity,
We light upon
France, Spain… Italy.

I know I will find him
In my own verse.
Will discover him
In pages that I’ve turned.
Will recite his thoughts back to him, and will
Love him like poetry.
I will know him by heart.

My treacherous hands,
Having fragility hold their dexterity a hostage,
On an old time-bitten Grand,
Sitting in dust,out of tune,
Play the nocturne of my hopeless night.

And one grief,
Your grief
(Summoning all its cousins,commanding
The weak sinews of my tender hands,
To play the requiem to my long un-granted wish)
Still speaks and prays and cries inside me,
As if it were blind to the wilderness deep within.

I am not but forced to question myself.
Should I still warm the strings of this mellow pianoforte,
With the constant rush of unsettling emotions for you,
Or should I just fade into an uneasy silence,
Deeming my emotions mundane,
And die a pitiable death?

My consciousness has been stolen by the rain's screaming melody.
Sharp as a knife, trying to knock down on rooftops in the middle of this cold dark night.
Thunder rolls upon the heavens,
A streak of light appears in skies like a sudden burst of anger.
There is calm and distraught and nothing in between.

Now the rain has silenced;
it has toned down into a pianoforte piece,
Still knocking and dancing as the city tries to breathe.
Heavy clouds pass by my window, mimicking the procession of the passing time,
Giving me nothing but a strong sense of loneliness in this solitary night.

For the first time in a long time, I found myself craving for light.

Her eyes shake in her sleep.
Is she awake or is she dreaming?
Dare I ask her and bother to interrupt?
No, I'll wait for her to naturally wake up.

It's so loud in the nighttime. The silence is deafening.
The hums of the refrigerator,
air conditioner,
the small city rurality.
Crickets chirp like frog croaks,
dogs bark at bicycle spokes.

She murmurs in her dreams, words that make no sense.
Completely static expressions leave me in wanting suspense.

I wonder where she is now.
Blurry confines of pianoforte,
soft & loud,
like our bed sheets and pillow tops.
Comfort without a sound.

Sleep for her is an ease within which she slips carefully.
She wakes with dreams and stories, descriptions bare
vividly her soul for me to sip.
She happily spends a third of her life having the plaque
of her mind scraped fresh and waking anew.
From the autumn dusk to the spring dawn,
the drying evening to the morning dew.
I sit here awake planning out a future based on days long past.
Watching as dust lingers in the first reminders of sunshafts.

Have you ever watched a loved one wake up from a gentle kiss?
Feeling guilt in the hope of having her wake with your wish?
Seeing the smile split her lips wide and her eyes linger longer
as if she had been worried in her sleep that you had forgot her.

I was always here in the nighttime making sure you were safe.
I'm sorry I fell asleep on you while you were still awake.
But I saw your eyes and they were thriving in their shake.
I assumed you were dreaming, my darling.
Now I'm left with guilt and shame.