by Gabriella Garofalo
No questions and a dark composure, right, If April turns out a bundle of blazing questions, A sharp blade, a tense light that reveals: As they don't get her voice, sky, and myths Can’t help her, moon, and wombs Just leave the scene, while you stay Livid with green, grass, daffs, all those labyrinths Of never-honoured oaths- Erebus only will honour those fruits of her As she skims over a swerving moon Dodging them in the nick of time- Oh, and all those noisy running kids, Boys’n’girls rushing on skates, Wheelchair people staring at them- Aren’t those stares rotten like stink?- And now bees are whirling round her In a loud whisper, mosquitoes, flies Are biting her flesh, trees all gentle meekness, But you’ll find weapons ready to shoot Behind that sugary stuff- The trees are badly sick, she can’t help them, That’s why her visions are seething with borders, Convulsive words, deforested souls, A green discomfort climbing up to haunt, And they simply can’t break out for good- Not an ideal set for the sky, and your eyes- My soul, don’t skin yourself alive, Let other women shine with gloss and creatures, Hide not your vision, just your wrath that’s stalking your seeds, Slanting like fathers or heavens- My soul, set your own rules, keep in mind that Ruthless stars will always startle you If you leave the night alone, haunting seedy bars, With those shifty pals, surrender, Psychobabble maybe, or some chitchat Duller than clouds and pewter skies. Got it? It’s a dirty job, a foul play When fear digs into her soul, Who knows, an act of kindness maybe, When stalked by water words madly fight With her to see the light, While you stare at the reeds So averse at welcoming water- And where’s the heaven in all that scrape? A red orange idiom that set ablaze Lovers and baskets to weave? Say,do you really think light The rawness of a freshly mown grass? Do you really call garden A constellation of constraint, and dissent, Do you really think clouds wild maenads Shaking the sistrum all over orgasms and skies? Foul play, sure, but only by birth Grass can see the life, And an acrylic moon can’t stand out: Hills and heights deceive, No mercy from the girdling grass As trees and bonds grow older- My snaky disease, I know Mornings are your pawns, What can get your eyes if you win? No need to silence the soul, No need to drain the sounds, So, stop faking you are torn About which road to walk, When you know only too well All the debris of the sky gather in a womb- Mothers or births? But who plans the route, Who designs hurdles, and labyrinths, Maybe creatures who dodge them To hurl themselves At limbs that catch, grab, grasp- It’s too late I’m afraid, Only when water floods you realise at last Heaven needs births, and mothers, To enjoy a life of pure white, You here?- Free from creatures, and limbs, Only good for starving and whining, Only too hungry for a stony life. Simple as that, really, those intractable months Are twisting her arm, so the moon Will rush to short her heaven’s light, And you’ll get lost in a white maze, Words, trinkets of your mind- But how can soul fight for herself Or raid other limbs or obsessions, As she’s not the reckless marauder you think When dazed by wild mint, fresh grass, You long to grab eagerly, Even those who fall crippled, Even those who swerve blind, Worse than rejected winter clouds. See, they recant the foliage, and the wind, ‘Cause adolescence scares the trees- Can’t you feel the angst of roots Stick worse than damp, or honey- Limbs for you, for them a land of siege: And who’s gonna shelter you From the shift of herds, maybe the clouds? The voice of creation can’t command, Nor can she ask, your words Bring to her coking and anxiety, When you mishandle old friends struggling To throw garments away, never light- Briers might do, sure, The green you are splurging on To slam fear if she rejects the air, Then sets the fire ablaze, so they skip Women’s hands, by killing fire While you scream good wishes, And hope they burn in a helpless fire: And where’s shame, where’s guilt, If you gaze deeply into a light That’s stretching a coloured rush of rain- Keep safe, my soul, stay in, Say ‘no’ to cluttered seeds If they wish to meet you, The luggage falls down, so does your womb, After all, you are just a getaway, And in fairness he never abused you. Oh, by the by, d’you know listening is a myth, Even waves have got more strength, In the gleaming ambivalence of our being, In the tapestry born from a tangled desire- But how can light’s wrath go on, If untouched stays the day and pure, When making clouds, dust, justice, Day in day out, against existence- And how is, God, you never ever waver? Or you just play along, while shaking your head, And looking at a cupboard of storms Carefully stored and selected?
Born in Italy, Gabriella Garofalo began writing poetry at six in Italian while simultaneously falling in love with the English language. Gabriella is the author of the books: Lo sguardo di Orfeo, L’inverno di vetro, Di altre stelle polari, Casa di erba, Blue Branches, and A Blue Soul.
RUNDELANIA 