Acquaviva
Mnemosyne and Lethe
Fernando D'Amico
Title: Acquaviva - Menemosyne e Lethe
Translation by Jane V. Taylor
Copyright 2011 Fernando D'Amico
Published by ALVIS Edition at Smashwords
Cover: C. Alvani
W.A. Bouguerau, Evening Mood
National Museum of Art, Havana
Smashwords, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book not may be re-sold or Given away to other people. If You Would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy For Each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not Purchased for your use only, then please return to purchase your own copy and Smashwords.com.
Thank you for Respecting the work of this author.
"Dedicated to the memory of my Grandmother,
Lord bent by a century of life. "
"Poetry is the key
that opens the door
of all hearts. "
TABLE
OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
First
Looks
Infatuations
Love
and Other
Intermittences
Vertigo
Lassitude
Posting
and Rhetoric
Inverse
Return
I wish to express sincere gratitude to all friends and members of the Literary Salon "Artemisia Gentileschi" for their solidarity and appreciation for giving me the opportunity to publish this anthology of poems. Also allowed me to extend a special thank you to Alberto Sestrieri and Cinzia Alvani who collaborated actively, providing the technical support necessary for preparing graphics work
Perhaps,
forever
the feathered wings
of wind
make neighing
the waves of the sea and
open
in white candor
the seed of the soul.
On the glow
of the imponderable,
which beats the time,
dance the muse
half-dressed and veiled
tunic of the shadows.
With padded
along paths
prying
on the banks of the heart,
awakens in song
dried leaves
of dense memory.
Covered by the wave,
brown head
cutting edge of rock,
with your nose
crocodile
panting,
the wind breaker
hissing of a remote.
When in your eye
yellow glass
the body of water
is renewed,
the white salt
summer
is already only a memory.
Through sliding
leaves of the time,
praises silent
the blue sky
soul,
in the different feelings
that the quiet
a groove
gathers.
In obscure rules
is locked
a torment grazing
affecting
the memory of dreams,
as an experience
dense clouds
buzz in the dark
of memory.
Going and
in return
a morning
runs empty
neuralgic pain,
even if it's Saturday.
A few days ago
the snow fell
and it is almost Christmas.
In the summer sun,
cannot remain
a fixed thought,
everything is dissolved
in a brief kiss,
but intense
which opens the root
of the deep motives
to conceal an instant
awakening
in the depths of the heart.
Yearn
between the vapors of the soul,
two arms outstretched
port
towards the sea.
The haze of the evening
envelops the sunset
and thickens
on the face
The web of shadows,
a silence
even darker
creeps back.
In your eyes
is reflected
early life,
The iris
said
loved your people,
time,
the green woods and
the sky blue of the sea,
In my eyes
if you look at ,
see the love
for the good land.
Of hindsight
the pits are full,
but was
memory and
memory
is all
remains of the mind.
A sheet
flying newspaper
by the sea
and a metal pole
saturates the rust.
The gray clouds
as horizontal layers
furrows between land and sea,
oppressing the sky.
A bench white
the square
deserted, recalls
a fragment
of remote presence.
The hands of lovers
crush mosquitoes,
among olive trees,
on a road
in difficulties
towards the sea.
After the storm has stopped raining,
along the road up is slow.
A lantern light
yellow designs,
on the foaming
wave in a storm,
umbrella of a circle
dark and iridescent.
On the roundabout
parade from the wall
the umbrella tangent
the extreme edge
and I reflected, for all around,
on the white wave,
now smaller, now bigger.
Your clouds
that the train window
looked
seemed
mountains of cotton candy
that can be
take and eat.
That Corsica
fell down
the painting,
as tear
cracked on the border.
A failure to train,
and I attempt
to read stories
of gods and chaos,
in foul weather
that of Venus back.
The thumb of Aristotle
and young boys
arm with trays
Macedonians as shields.
The scarves
are cheap,
the girls
for the most beautiful.
The oil of the church
is devoted
and the cross
from the front
slanting down on your hands.
The other church
was closed or seemed to.
The girl with the cocker
was high and kind
and the short amount of time.
Nobody told me
go,
nobody told me
back.
Nobody told me.
In this summer
dumb.
A clear reflection of
silver
was only
a gradient
light hair.
Some pain
in the night
endless
with nothing,
I told myself
with a soft whimpering
of the small lips.
What do you expect
by time
is a little 'what you are,
but what you are
almost never
is what you expect
by time.
The reliquaries of books
are dens of dust
it thickens
expectations in the night,
The coral stone
will witness
when hands
will stand on the back
creased folders.
The night wraps
in a slow vortex
the mystery of the day.
White shirts
festivals of the sun,
saints in procession,
with peanuts and nougats
in stalls of toys,
musicians tired,
sweaty and sit
corner of the square,
while the bomb
blanks, suddenly,
jumps in the heart.
The petals of the time
have faded,
but not yet fallen,
some teeth biting
remained
the mouth of the past
to bite the sides
to the present.
Idyllic dawn,
off the wall,
escapes the moon,
between the lines
the unspoken words
the contours of your face
struggle
to take light.
It was not a joke
you said one day,
promise.
After time,
on the back of a photo
yellowed,
I read something,
but everything is still
between the wings of the sphinx
that opens the future
of unknown stars
off.
It is not forgotten and
even remember.
Of our past,
scales anguished
ivory pearl,
citrine hopes
the corrected proofs
from chicken legs.
Girls on the bench,
with books open on your lap
waiting for numbers,
beaten and corroded
of steam
of wet asphalt.
Small hands
a child's
to go far
and return
at sunset,
in a house
the lights dimmed
to be even
nor things present,
or elsewhere.
My birthplace,
ceiling beams with olive
whitewashed,
gave an alley :
Tanaro.
As a tributary
Green left the door
Rose of Ignatius
but allowed
the way of Fuortes
where crossed,
the height of the arc,
the districts lost
being
between a cow giving birth,
wheat fields
and swamps infested
of marsh grass.
In a distant return
a small cat
appeared from the terrace
to give a face
a maternal resilience
dormant on the border
probable allusions,
while the year
turned bright
and sound
in that month
which is opposed to this.
The avenue, over the grate,
fogs
moss thin.
Lightweight think
and write,
such as eating,
digest and more;
tired and contrite
will become apparent
somewhere else,
modest and thoughtful,
on the boundary sliding.
A reflection of ice
paves the floor,
as residual
long memory,
that crosses the step
beyond all time,
inert in the circle
a day that lingers
of lassitude
of sterile forms.
The Aurora says
Legend of things
not yet occurred,
but alone and together
is said
go in the dark,
where the whole is
deep root
a silent wreck.
The face faded
persistence of distant
as a dribble of rain
glasses of steaming
for late trains.
The path of the heart
through
hanging loops
the sea,
where the pain
melts you,
leaving a void
a silence broken
filled
innate thickness.
Green trees,
mysteries dormant
between the roots of
brackish ground clay.
The dew
that leaves wets
is sea water,
which rises slightly
in the warm night.
I crossed
four fragments
palm,
sterile branches
a day
Steam in the morning
late fall.
In the courtyard,
inland unknown
and silent,
stretches
a fire horizons
where sky
and sea kissing
with thin lips.
Changing seasons,
internal fragments,
wrecks curved
from a discrete space,
without borders, or shadows,
where the day
and night,
the joy and pain,
life and death,
are nothing
that a short
segment of the heart.