"sprezzatura" poems
*The way a candle weaves its light through darkness.
How a snowflake trickles down from heaven above.
A virtuoso plucking guitar strings masterfully.
Your glamorous eyes, delicate face, memorizing body.
You sing an enchanting song, full of zealous love, and I cannot help but lose the breath from my lungs.
The fireflies dance and twinkle with grace, yet they are put to shame by your marvelous beauty. Each twinkle of the stars is a testament to their jealousy of your resplendent soul.
This must truly be an angelic dream!
Your voice carries across the air smoothly, eloquently, serenading my unworthy ears. Would you reward my boldness if I were to trace your lips with mine?
Take my weak hand and dance with me. Dance with me under the fairytale night. Step by step, hand in hand, unlock the fortune of this tragic heart. Hold this tragic heart. Love this tragic heart.
You are full of grace, a bewitching vivacity in the recesses of your heart, deeply entrenched and guarded. It is why I admire you from afar. Why these words spill from me to this page. Because of you.*
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
In the afternoon of a Sunday evening, all painted
in the dust lingered in sunshafts, a giant
though smaller in person, entered my life.
She spoke in common prosaic, until she didn't.
And when the sunshaft lowered itself as sun did
in the evening horizon; so did her native naivety.
She met once, or more, a man who with hands,
acted as God. And in her life he swelled around
her heart a strangling deluge. Inundation of temptation.
Regret like the pirouette of dust as faltered in dusk.
By now I saw her stature as looming shadow,
and in moonlight I read her leylines.
Runed with the abuse of self and worth a penny more,
than the collection plate gathered at friend's expenses.
I watched a stumble in her walk that never molested her gait.
In her a sprezzatura, and finally, a person deserving of the word.
She woke me with a lantern, once, and pointed to the halo--
the beam encircled as accretion disk, the darkness pulled
and we were the gravity.
And so danced the dust, again.
As of many thoughts, and her my imagination, she had to leave.
A must. A certainty. And I will never be the same.
With each stitch I sew, forevermore, her will shall exist braided within.
Somewhere in the sinews of my chasm breaths beats in pace with love.
Saudade creeps into the same cavern, now darkening;
sonatas with no moon,
shafts with no dust,
art with no art.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:58 AM UTC
I took a ride to Hell and back today during that half second when you looked away just as I met your eyes. When I saw those eyes, those hazel eyes drunk on the wine of the young, your straw hair unkempt and your clothing exuding that imperfect sprezzatura that I loved to memorize, my stage-smile fell. Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to come home? Seven months of pretending, crumbled in half a second!
I took a ride to Hell and back today, staring at the mismatched bowtie around your neck. I saw it, but I didn’t see it.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC