Above and beyond

What is poetry for?

Well, obviously
for limitless self-expression

for total freedom
and impunity
for the most contemptible
real or would-be action
and - for want of the real stuff
or awkward discomfort with it -
for virtual affection.


Thus

I go above and beyond
the line of my duty as a poet
indulging in this shield of exemption
from censorship, punishment, revenge.


Ironically, though,
I long to suffer such penalties
for my impertinent offense.
I want to be punished
sometimes.
You see,
punishment -
however painful -
is a recognition
of my crimes.

There but for ungraceful God

She walks with you
talks with you
confides in you.
As I could
if I were her
and you were you.

You call her
caress her
confess to her.
As you would
to me

If I could be
more than a sigh
If I were truth
and she a lie.


So, there
but for ungraceful God
Go I.

The rush

Here I am
wanting to make
a compromising revelation
to you
without knowing how.
Trying to figure out
a way to balance myself
on the edge of language
without risking a fall.
Treading carefully
upon beautiful sea shells
Trying my best
not to break them all.




There are, of course,
those occasions when falling off
and smashing what's under
is required:
then I go with the rush
plunge into the thrill
and let go.
But it doesn't take long
until I have to come up
to breathe in
the air of consciousness:
I think hard
of you and me - and this
till I almost blush.
Only then can I feel
absolute bliss.

There, I said it.

And that's the best use
you can give to a metaphor.
That's what poetry,
in the end,
is good for.

In cielo mi portò...

Suspension (or: travelling by airplane)

Life is somehow suspended
and a universe of possibilities
can be conceived.

We look down on the world
smiling condescendingly
feeling slightly godlike
and unreasonably powerful -
since nothing
nothing
is in our hands.

We seldom
look back.

It is the perfect time
and setting
to consider the now
and the later
to ponder about
the cans
the coulds
and the shoulds.


So suspension becomes
somewhat troubling.

Luckily there are magazines
with interesting pages
to flip through
as well as bites to grab
drinks to sip
and our own gadgets
for us to play with
absentmindedly.

Still,
the atmosphere gets heavy
with unwanted thoughts
and uncomfortable sighs.

Some start imagining
what goes on in others' lives
as if their own did not deserve
any more consideration.

Then finally
we come down to
wherever.

Instinctively
we clap our hands -
more relieved than impressed
with the pilot's good job.
A gentle chime
the lights come on
the plane has landed:
 
we can continue
to feel safely chained
and stranded.

Scarlet ribbons

Poking sticks into wasp nests

Poking sticks into wasp nests:
a dangerous hobby,
stupid and pointless
almost suicidal -

any sensible mind would conclude.



And yet...

Discard

To a used book




Readings and feelings
from nineteen seventy five

Worn and outdated
Discarded
by the very keepers
Who treasured it for years
And at some point decided
Upon its uselessness


Who would have thought
That out here
So far
Both from where they were conceived
And from where they were kept

Someone would choose to cherish them
And wept...?

Intuition

...And that's why I enjoy writing with you.
My intuition assists me
and I grasp
- be sure that I do -
the underlying truth within your words.

However,
my friend,
you do nothing,
nothing,
with the discoveries you make

And so you leave them all to waste.


Wouldn't it be better, thus,
if your intuition failed you
and I was forced to explain in clear language,
accompanied by undeniable evidence
what you claim
to have inferred?

Then you'd be unable
to stand back
and stay aloof
like a careless, clever little bird.
Then,
You'd have to react
and to respond
to the revelation of the proof.