WINTER LIGHTS, photo by ALESSANDRO GUIDO ACTIS, Torino. Poesia di LIDIA CHIARELLI, Torino

Winter-lights 
(Copyright dell'artista)

Ho aperto la finestra

Su questa fredda notte di dicembre

E le stelle

Nel silenzio ovattato

Che avvolge la città

Ancora una volta

Mi hanno parlato di te

 

LIDIA CHIARELLI

  as a response to AERONWY THOMAS’ words:

 

OPEN
THE NIGHT WINDOW

LET THE STARS IN

 

(from: OPEN THE GATE)

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BELATED PALINODE FOR DYLAN THOMAS, by LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI, San Francisco

 

blue dylan by lidia
“Dylan Thomas in blue” digital print by Lidia Chiarelli, Italy

 

BELATED PALINODE FOR DYLAN THOMAS

In Wales at Laugharne at last I stand beside
..his cliff-perched writing shed
….above the coursing waters
……where the hawk hangs still
……..above the cockle-strewn shingle
Where he walked in a glory of all his days
….(before the weather turned around)
And aie! aie! a waterbird far away
….cries and cries again
……over St. Johns Hill
And in his tilted boathouse now
….a tape of himself is playing —
……his lush voice
……..his plush voice
……….his posh accent
…………(too BBC-fulsome, cried the Welsh)
…………..now echoes through his little
…………….upstairs room
And aie! aie!
…..echo the waterbirds once again
Beyond his sounding shed
….a fig tree hides the sea
……A fishboat heeled over
……..a grebe afloat far out
……….a coracle abandoned
…………a rusted coaler out of Cardiff still
…………..a bold green headland lost in sun
Beyond which lie
(across an ocean and a continent)
….San Francisco’s white wood houses
……and a poet’s sun-bleached cottage
……..on Bolinas’ far lagoon
……….with its wind-torn Little Mesa
…………(so very like St. Johns Hill)
A single kestrel soars over
….riding the salt wind
……..‘high tide and the heron’s call’
…………………………………..still echoing
………..(Aie! aie! it calls and calls again)
As in his listing boathouse now
….his great recorded voice runs out
……(grave as a gravedigger in his grave)
……..leaving a sounding void of light
……….for poets and herons to fill
(Drowned down in New York’s White Horse Tavern
….he went not gentle into his good night)
And Far West poets calling still
….over St. Johns Hill
……to the loveliest poet of all our days
……..sweet singer of Swansea
……….lushed singer of Laugharne
…………Dylan of all our days

— Lawrence Ferlinghetti, These Are My Rivers

(reprinted by permission of LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI,

pubblicato con il permesso di LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI)

THE LIZARD CATCHERS, poesia di PETER THABIT JONES, Swansea, UK. MIDNIGHT DANCE, quadro di MONA K.V., Malaysia

Midnight_dance_monartist 
(copyright of the artist)

LINK:  http://www.artbreak.com/monartist

THE LIZARD CATCHERS
(for Molly)
by Peter Thabit Jones

Tattooed on the rocks in the midday sun,
They were hieroglyphs we understood.

Behind the boy-tall grass, we slyly sat
As patient as pyramid statue-cats.

The moments burned; the flying rooks were vultures;
The sky was blue, some brittle clouds in heaven.

Like ‘palm crocodiles’, like playtime dinosaurs,
They basked in a freedom known aeons ago.

As dry as Lazarus just from the tomb,
Legged snakes, rest lodged in them as sweet as dust.

As still as lizards photographed, like taut thoughts,
The smoke of autumn’s drug dreamed through their world.

One by one, we hurried to seize our catch;
The lizards darted, swimming through the grass,

Discarding their tails tugged off by clumsy grasps.
Then we claimed the rocks and blessed them with our laughs.

From The Lizard Catchers (Cross-Cultural Communications, 2006)

I CACCIATORI DI LUCERTOLE

 ( a Molly)

di Peter Thabit Jones

Come tatuate sulle rocce nel sole di mezzogiorno

Erano geroglifici che riuscivamo a capire

Dietro l’erba alta come i ragazzi, noi eravamo seduti furtivi

Pazienti come le statue dei gatti delle piramidi.

I momenti bruciavano; i corvi volteggianti erano come avvoltoi;

il cielo era blu, in alto  alcune fragili nuvole.

Come “coccodrilli delle palme”, come  dinosauri del tempo dei giochi,

Si scaldavano al sole, in una libertà conosciuta un miliardo di anni fa.

Rinsecchite come Lazzaro uscito dalla tomba,

Serpenti con le gambe, il riposo dimorava in loro dolce come la polvere

Immobili come lucertole fotografate, come pensieri concisi,

Il fumo del narcotico autunnale si stemperava attraverso il loro mondo.

Uno per volta, ci affrettavamo per afferrare le nostre prede;

Le lucertole guizzavano, nuotando nell’erba.

Rinunciando alle loro code strappate da prese maldestre.

Poi noi riconquistavamo le rocce e le benedivamo con le nostre risate.

Translated by LIDIA CHIARELLI