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Poesie in lingua straniera


Scritta da: Alexis Karpouzos
in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
I come from the depths of infinity
and from all directions of space-time.
I traveled through dark tunnels, went through solar storms.
I went straight, circled, parallel, rotated as a spiral.
Cosmic clouds trapped me and escaped from them.
Avoided collisions with meteories.
I was helped by exotic particles,
neutron stars and the love of gravity.
Every leaf, every flower, every mountain and lake,
every cloud and every star and every atom recognize me and greet me.
I feel that I have live for million lifetimes.
Who am I? What is my purpose?
Last night I sent a question into universe, asking "who am I or am I not?
The universe responded immediately:
You asked me the same thing billions of years ago.
And then and now I answer:
You're the smile of no birth and no death,
The Hidden Law.
Composta domenica 7 aprile 2002
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    Scritta da: Alexis Karpouzos
    in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
    I know that I shall meet my shadow,
    one day, is our fate. I know that, someday,
    the light ends for us and the deadly gravity
    will absorb us. And again, a magician spark
    will shine and a ocean of souls
    will flood the universe and will
    give birth to stars and grief.
    And maybe, just maybe, in another heaven,
    my dreams will be your dreams.
    You see, everything repeats itself
    and everything will be reincarnated in different forms.
    An incredible miracle, carefree, and we live in it.
    The miracle is folded into your heart.
    Composta venerdì 14 febbraio 2020
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      Scritta da: Cristina Metta
      in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera, Poesie d'Autore)

      A fairy tale in New York (with red scarf)

      New York is frozen for March almost a desert
      without gloves hands in pockets...
      a red scarf around the neck
      I drag my feet
      it bothers me to think about you without being able to offer you the stars _ tonight
      we are a little zombie you know how it is in war
      against something without a name

      spring is foreign to me
      the real Killer is a laconic wolf like Leonard Cohen
      it kills me to know where you sleep now
      in secure arms that are not mine
      remove my memory from my eyes
      turn on at least one light in that windowless chest
      and give me air
      put me where the flowers can bloom
      where there are trees
      sidewalks with people taken by human malice
      but if you want to kick me out completely _ tonight
      it will perhaps be the right time
      in which, in addition to loneliness, I feel inside the winter
      the true one
      with the wind between the trembling bones
      my stomach on fire from too much cognac
      with nerves tense with fear
      to be alone
      Once again
      that's why winter is made
      you know _ to break up

      Liberty Street is silent with boredom
      luxury predators are missing
      the nocturnal cackles
      there are only sirens and ambulances
      who walk death
      and U. S
      all of us
      we stayed here
      prisoners of a strange enemy
      while the chill air with its music box twirls among the skyscrapers
      who dance as we dance
      to the distant singing of the sirens
      with the dead
      with the wounded
      hold on to miracles
      to hopes

      shiny shoes walk but not a noise
      an icy hand on the temple _ as I would like the life before
      a red wool scarf that winks at a traffic light
      through without looking... me and my shoes are the only ones in Heaven

      and what about you
      who comforts you
      who counts the clouds above your head
      when you are in the middle of the embrace... you get lost or talk
      there is a difference
      you were silent with me because I made you dream
      sex was not a meeting of bodies with me
      but I fly
      in all the feathers of your pillows you won't find summer
      for I have taken away all the flocks
      my bags of fairy tales
      and the brigade of ghost poets

      I have a smell on me that tastes good
      the fried and takeaway shops are closed
      I wrap the red scarf around my neck - looking at the clothes in the windows
      I follow the trails of the street lights like a Ariadnè s thread

      and all of this world brings me to you
      apartment 112 seventh floor in the dark
      who knows if you think about me and if you think about me Why?
      I would break through the door with this ridiculous love like that
      I shout your name in Central Park
      sincerely? nobody cares
      they will punish me for disturbing the quiet
      almost naked with my red scarf...
      but it's colder in me than outside
      it is so cold that only as a drunk could I stop delirious
      your call that call is not
      a Cop stops me and I tell him I'm Leonard Cohen
      why don't you arrest me? Becausè?
      I tell him about my love drama
      - go home - he says
      I apologize and sing to Famous Blue Raincoat
      while I tie my red scarf to a tree
      why don't you freeze
      hoping for tomorrow
      the summer
      with you
      it would be better
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        in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)

        We are the rainbow

        We are the rainbow,
        we are a bridge of light,
        an indestructible bridge
        from one bank to another
        of all rivers
        of all countries of the world.
        We are the bridge
        that bears the weight
        of all those who cross
        the river of life.
        We are the rainbow
        made of common stones
        and precious stones:
        many colours are our pride
        and our name is freedom.
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          in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)

          There's a new law in Uganda

          Therè s a new law in Uganda,
          approved by parliament,
          signed by the President.

          It's as black as the grave,
          as yellow as fever,
          and as red as blood.

          It orders the stars to go out,
          and the birds of the forest
          to cease their song.

          It commands the sunsets
          to stop painting the sky red,
          the yellow sun that rises
          over the Ruwenzori mountains
          to change colour
          and the night to take off its black robe.

          Therè s a new law in Uganda,
          approved by parliament,
          signed by the President.

          It's as black as the grave,
          as yellow as fever,
          and as red as blood.

          It's a law that orders life
          to turn to sand,
          hope to turn to stone
          and love to turn to fear.

          "Therè s a new law in Uganda"
          writes the sunset in blood ink
          and the night, cloaked in black,
          reads those words to the lovers,
          who listen
          and hold each other tighter
          because every moment of love
          contains all the colours of the world.

          "It's as black as the grave,
          as yellow as fever,
          and as red as blood"
          sing the birds of the forest,
          while the stars,
          shining brightly,
          listen to them.

          And the yellow sun rises
          over the Ruwenzori mountains
          and life does not lose itself
          on the wind as sand
          and hope does not crystallize
          and love does not tremble.

          Because on dark nights and starry nights,
          beneath the yellow sun,
          or in the fire-red sunsets,
          everything has its own destiny
          and every moment of love
          contains all the colours of the world.
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            in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera, Poesie d'Autore)

            Lockdown

            E fu impossibile sfuggire il sogno in veglia
            di pulci infettate

            tra la trama e l'ordito della stoffa pregna
            accanto al focolare del sarto

            nella cara vecchia Eyam.
            poi fu impossibile non vedere

            La Pietra di Confine,
            un dado sghembo con sei fori bui,

            ditali ricolmi di aceto di vino
            per purificare le monete appestate.

            Il ché mi ricordò la triste storia
            di Emmott Syddall e Rowland Torre,

            sfortunati amanti divisi
            dal confine di quarantena

            il loro muto corteggiamento attraversava il fiume
            fin quando lei più non comparve.

            Mi addormentai nuovamente
            e questa volta sognai

            l'esiliato Yahsha che spediva parole
            alla moglie perduta su una nuvola di passaggio,

            nuvola che seguiva la mappa terrena
            di piste di cammelli e sentieri di bestiame,

            ruscelli come collane,
            pavoni coda a ventaglio, elefanti dipinti,

            coperte ricamate
            di campi e siepi,

            foreste di bamboo e vette di neve ammantate,
            cascate, torrenti

            i geroglifici di gru dalle grandi ali
            e il fiore del loto luccicante dopo la pioggia,

            l'aria
            un ipnotico vedere attraverso, rara,

            il villaggio, a tratti gravoso, lungo e lento
            ma così di necessità.
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              in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)

              Lockdown

              And couldn't escape the waking dream
              of infected fleas

              in the warp and weft of soggy cloth
              by the tailor's hearth

              in ye oldeEyam.
              They couldn't un-see

              the Boundary Stone,
              the cock-eyed dice with its six dark holes,

              thimbles brimming with vinegar wine
              purging the plagued coins.

              Which brought to mind the sorry storry
              of Emmot Syddal and Rowwland Torre,

              star-crossed lovers on either side
              of the quarantine line

              whose wordless courtship spanner the river
              till she cames no longer.

              But slept again
              and dreamt this time

              of the exiled yaksha sending word
              to his lost wife on a passing cloud,

              a cloud that followed an earthly map
              of camel trails and cattle tracks,

              streams like necklaces,
              fan-tailed peacocks, painted elephants,

              embroidered bedspreads
              of meandows and hedges,

              bamboo forests and snow-hatted peaks,
              waterfalls, creeks,

              the hieroglyphs of wide-winged cranes
              and the glistening lotus flower after rain.

              the air
              hypnotically see-through, rare,

              the journey a ponderous one at times, long and slow
              but necessarily so.
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                in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)

                In the Time of Pandemic

                And the people stayed home,
                And read books and listened, and rest and exercised,
                and made art and play games,
                and learn new ways of being and were still.
                And listened more deeply.
                Some meditated, some prayed, some danced.
                Some met their shadows.
                And people began to think differently.

                And people healed.
                And, in the absence of people
                living in ignorant, dangerous,
                mindless and heartless ways the earth began to heal..
                And when the danger passed,
                and the people joined together again,
                they grieved their losses, and made new images,
                and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully,
                as they had been healed.
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