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Gabriella Garofalo Poetry

Gabriella Garofalo is the poetry author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”

Can you come along?
Look, have I got any choice?
Abel was the first, then they all followed suit –
You know, they were dancing
Mindless of the main guardian of our past,
The moon singing so proud of her silver lamé show,
The vain cheerleader!
The grass stayed silent,
No words, no name she’d got –
But I was only too aware of her eyes,
As soon as you get into the wood
The tallest branches clog around you
So you can’t, you simply can’t flee,
Yes, I heard people call her birth,
Which might or might not be true,
But all in all who cares?
Certainly not the ladies who collect totes,
The girls who long to be loved only for the sake of love,
That’s why they had been shouting to God
‘Can’t you turn me into a star that rips the sky
Into shreds?’
Light can be dangerous, of course, but hey ho!
Can’t you turn me into the North wind that lifts the souls
Up to your stars?
I know, the North wind can be stone deaf,
But to hell with that!
Can’t you turn me into a storm that hushes
Limbs and desire?
Sure, a storm can be so very blind,
But isn’t love much worse? Forget it!
Silly girls, they trusted words were light,
Just as the moon trusts her silver lamé –
The point is words are dark
And skip your voice and mine –
Oh and what was God’s reply?
Well, intact skies, tamed winds, casual storms –
Come to think of it, I won’t come along,
Enough with airheads, totes and fancy dreams:
I’ll do as I wish, so please count me out.

Just nice, just there, so bland
Those endless cups of tea,
How can they warn the twilight?
Something sure went missing,
Perhaps the night or your address book,
Both fading slowly if water echoes
The silence when kids stop breathing –
Careful, now, if green leaves or dead kids
Clutter your ghastly rooms, demise,
No wintry moons for you, they’re grieving
Hidden among indigo blankets and blowing clouds:
Leave them alone, even if you never saw
Graffiti walls showing
The frenzy of misshapen words,
The polite strain between time and fear –
You can’t grasp it? Too bad,
Her night let in percussive prayers,
Well, drums abusing a sky
Who never warmed to her,
Just the odd cheap gift, that handful of blue
He give her on the sly –
Meanwhile women sick with welcoming wombs
Happily reject words or life,
And stands still in the stains of my tea cup.
Oh, the wonders of life, the easy-going kindness,
Quick, you’d better leg it,
Four a. m. a good time for fags rejections
And savants suddenly turning into boozy pervs.

Keep schtum, words, you’re hurting me!
Animals stay silent and I, too, am a silent woman,
Only once I shouted to Him
‘Turn me into the wind that lifts the grass up to your stars’ –
Of course, wind can be stone-deaf.’
Only once I shouted to Him
‘Turn me into a star that rips into shreds all the sky’ –
I know, light can be a sneaky piece of work.
Only once I shouted to Him
‘Turn me into the moon that longs for silence’ –
Of course, the moon can be so blind,
As lust when blanking stares.
God’s reply? Oh well, loose moons, tamed winds, intact skies, –
I know, He didn’t want me to share the hope
Lust might even say ‘why not?‘
Yet poems too, starvation black, but slyer
Like to foster this dream,
That they are invincible towers –
No, no towers for me, thank you very much,
And my flat hasn’t the rooms, only three,
Aggro, hidden memories, a chthonic harmony
Where they’re waiting for me,
The matron busy knitting blue tapestries,
While the queen shines swords and spears –
I know, snow petals look shy and frail,
But crystals, oh, what a different bunch,
No trespassing for them,
As light gave us so many gifts
Shall we keep them safe, sure, sure,
She’s mine, she’s ours, so no chit-chat please
And trust you me, one day you’ll meet your folks,
My lover of a never-ending art –
Or is it God, maybe our hidden father?


We Hope you enjoyed this poetry.


Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six.


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