Diversità Inverse

of loVE and recognition

It is when the world clamp down
that I retire
Fear, pain, anxiety but most of all
sorrow.

How to say what have to be said?
How not to retaliate?
How to be , without extinguishing the others being?

I know , of all sentiments ,  mostly
RIGHTEOUSNESS
How to learn , instead , compassion?
How to carve it into tendons , moves , breaths?

Today as tomorrow , I might exchange sharpness.
Yesterday, when I did not know
I have failed myself to the one-other.

The arm closed , the embrace denied.

Today, tears are the valueless pearls
of this astonished petrified heart

(@ my lost lover) - 10 December 2019

Today is social media celebration of #HumanRights
The more I scroll
The lest I sense.

Fingers slow down
heart , mind , soul ache.

The list of heroines and heroes
and all the ones in between and beyond
in the overused pendulum of two genders
get longer and longer ...
their fights heavier and heavier

I stop 
Leave the field of celebration , commemoration , anger
to retire for a quiet act of recognition.

Meanwhile seven buses with unwanted refugees
are sent from the nowhere of Bosnia-Herzegovinian border
to the next designed nowhere of Bosnia-Herzegovina&EU
heartless leaderships

Suspended in plain sight their #HumanRights stay

I feel , once and again , surpassed by time

10 December 2019

A gray sky filled by rain and snow
one hour ... two hours ...
five hours ...

Entire days spent on the surface of a keyboard

The always-to-cross-border governed 
this time by electricity and power 
open the magic entrance to data-embodied-bits

0101 00110110 011010 inscrutable sequences
transfer me-to-you-to-me , us-to-us-to-them-to-all

Remote companions
at the many ends of the many keyboards
Borders ourselves of-and-to our data-embodied-bits

 11 December 2019

This is my relation with memory and reality
: a step in the door
: the uncertainty of the future

 11 December 2019 (reviewed 21 March 2021

I do think of myself while thinking of the rest
and get this self untangle from the rest

a whirl of love , despair  and , expectation
captured in a note , a pad , an erratic typing

That's when the move from the I to the We
(released from the fear of  T H E M)
has a smile of solitude and absence

11 December 2019 (reviewed 21 March 2021

There are days when I can only think of what next
fearing the decaying body
lost to the connection of the present

I jump
I run
I scream

Than occurs an accident
The unexpected augments
all other people's realities

The contorted self
become eventually redeemed
by love and compassion
by trust and belief

12 December 2019 

Un letto troppo grande rende il cuore minuscolo e sperduto

12 December 2019 

Come trovare gli angoli umidi del cuore?
La capacità minuscola di essere magnifiche?

12 December 2019 

Afterthoughts

This morning words were of the unsaid,
meanings in-between and behind

A sound mirror
reflection of pauses and cracks
of desire and being
of have and don't and get

-----

Have to be honest
in the everyday life 
I don't miss you

Is just during the non-doing
that your absence
hit as a freezing breath of immobility

-----

I would have loved you
but now
is too late
my heart is done
and you are in the afterlife

13 December 2019 

It is in this way that my days pass
the breakfast, the sandwiches, their school
my work, my desk, my computer

The Mondays, the Tuesdays, the Wednesdays
all the way to the Fridays 

Of the Saturdays and SUndays
better not to talk

TV on demand, books a lot of necessary shopping
and the loneliness of one-left-alone by death

14 December 2019 

We sit on a tiny bench
I hold your hand you hold mine
the air is crisp, the green wild,
the sound of the hyperactive town
distant and loose

I try and try
the daylight breaks
and so the alarm

Irreversible
times pushes 
the dream away

16 December 2019 

Consumed by exposure
by the work of saying and doing
by the obligation to B E visible

A flag to be seen
A voice to be heard

Submerged, drowned
devoured by urgency
the next heroine is E L E V A T E D

17 December 2019 

A bla-bla session on human rights starts

With the hope to be surprised
I sit, one among the many
as audience to the talk

The opening is one-gender-only

I stay, imagining their bodies 
feeling&defining
different from what projected

Relentless the bla-bla goes on

18 December 2019 

A fixed frame
a stopped image
Untouched
Unpaced

:

Dust
the only proof
of this me
sitting next to no-one

:

Same day
same time
millions
take the streets

:

Reality is more than perception

19 December 2019

I hear you, she says
and I believe

I hear you, she says
and I?

I am the S H E of an untied circle
the she , the you , the me
the one, the two, the three

I am the anxious and the certain
the questioning and the questioned

I am
I am not

The line
The round
The hole

I did love
I did hate
I made angered promises
I stayed
I left
I
I
I

. a full stop
, a coma
~ a suspension

Caught reflection of a pitiful self

20 December 2019 

Two poetry - one for Sunday and one for the evening in wait 

I am passionate with words -you say
It's true -I answer

(I lost the one person I loved to a suicide -I whisper to myself
Can you imagine how many times each words rewind
with its potential wounds?

And yet, I am passionate with words, the knife sharpened
into what could be the next heart)

-----

Poetry unsettle me
and comfort

Make me strong 
and vulnerable

Poetry is the way
I exist in life

23 December 2019

I live in a country 
where I was not born

circumstances and will
brought me here

circumstances and will
kept me here

Circumstances and will
are two spared earrings
different in shape , purpose
and strenght

I wear them sometimes casually
other proud and intentionally

they never fail to remind me
of the country and its legacy

25 December 2019

If I could leave everything
I would transform in a lake
hidden by mountains

I would surrender my heart
at its bottom
surpassed by the water
insurmountable and still

If I could leave everything
I would become
the sky and clouds
above the lake
to look at the heart
reckoning its soul

25 December 2019

the bell , the door
the open , the close
the right , the wrong
the now , the after

a pendulum
a spectrum

the might be
the ought be
the must
the will

a me , a she , an us , a they
a room , a bed , a mirror , a shower

the touch , the grip
the mess , the order
the mind , the body
the blink , the shuttering

tuning of spirals
of infinite desiring

26 December 2019

Holidays

Sitting in the kitchen
one coffee after the other

no tik tok
no calendar
no apps to scroll

A shower
some washing
of clothes and dishes

Purposeless
luxury
of not-doing

Until
:
the brain
detects
the solitude
of the body

26 December 2019

The story says she left
but stories have as many sides
as the tellers

In the story she left
and her she was staying alone

In the story there is a flat
and a cemetery

In the story there is
no happy ending
or sorrow

It is an end-story
for evenings
with though silences
pumpkin soup
black pepper
and a cat

and it is a story
with the unnecessity
of tomorrow

27 December 2019

Coming back to places never really brings anything back, is a fast forward instead into a present without (our) youth.

Walking trough the streets, between the buildings, into gardens and parks where we have spent time drinking, sipping, tossing our bad and good days, the youth we see are not the youth we were.

Years, similarly to passed seasons had rolled wrinkles on all faces. We traveled to rejoin the one time where we are not and, most probably, we never be. 

Memories like tales, live in the moment of narration, in the sparking lights reflected by the eyes of the listeners. Because of them, when re-visiting, our talks searches for the ghosts. We call upon them as calling a spell of possible going back. By surprise, the memories for one second become the door opening to the miracle.

30 December 2019

It is a private pain. A cold marble tomb. The snow.
Light the lanterns. Pose the arranged flowers. 
Pose the silver-green new year ornament. 
Re-light the lanterns. One. Two. Three times. Win the wind.
Take a photo from your perspective. The one of the corpse laying in the coffin under the snow, under the cold marble tomb.
Tears run. I run. You stay. Under the snow. Under the flowers. Under the lanterns. Under the silver-green new year ornament.

30 December 2019

As simple as life

Good morning. A cold polluted sun. Frozen snow. Last school day before the last night of the year. The mother sits in the kitchen with a cold coffee. Rap loud music fills up the little apartment. It is Coolio@s Gangast's Paradise. One of the sons is in the bathroom, the other in the bedroom. Their voices come together to sing another Eminem hit. The sons are fifteen years old. The mother is fifty-three years old or she will be soon.

It is the 31st December 2019. The cat on the couch fall asleep. Outside is - 100. Inside the heating defuses it to a comfortable warmth. All three and the cat live together in the small capital of an unfinished country. Both, the country and the capital are in a permanent resistance to changes and against better.

The sons and the mother are busy. Tonight for the last night of the year they will eat and drink at a friend's place. Tonight at New Year's Eve they will be together. Than alone. Than together. Than on their own. This will be as simultaneous, as parallel, as continuous as in life.

 31 December 2019