To M.
Any chance, you heavenly vault?
No, only blue souls at night,
And wastrels gone wild,
Such a deep indigo waste
Where wolves play foul with light
On her weird journey to minds,
And no use looking at dancing daffs,
They don’t care if grass shouts high
At showy clouds, yes, she hates
That swanky riot of blue, the sky,
And blue souls smile uneasy
For the many trees whose branches
Never give birth, so fruits stop rotting dead-
Yet, foolish stars twinkle like laughters,
You know, they see the grass a dance of dreams,
But she’s just a green loss
Of time among a sorry love for waves,
A trespassing dark, maybe her mind at night
Where every bit of guts snuffs it, and smiles.
To M., to B.
Ask her where the noxious blue has gone,
And where the hell is hiding the blessed day
When you feel the earth your mother,
The earth only, as you lost your faith
In women who wreck the scene and skip
The sunsets, that cheap tacky rave-
Look for them, c’mon, the blue, the day
Of winds and hunger hustling you
To fear and blessings you dare not hiss or dwell,
If green-eyed walls wipe you out
With needs and doubts, you know,
Worse than lovers they own and possess,
And why on earth you never cut and run
From that mad greenery that scratches your soul,
Why on earth you waste your time
Raking over its many voices,
If mothers haunt your mind, no way
Demeter who gives and shelters,
But wasted maenads hungry for deaths,
Be it the undergrowth, or a soul on a high,
Grieving minds up to something,
Or someone in a bind-
So, better get it over now,
While your house is resting, and souls
Won’t die of an endless last bliss,
Or so say the fathers, right,
You’ll be fine when stalking blue,
Or reaching out for hands, for life.
To Y.
Nothing but words, maybe light,
As she goes NC with the sky,
Freedom in her eyes from a life long gone-
And ‘what’s the time’ they ask, but no replies,
She so engaged in dispersing all over time
The shards of a fire she can’t control,
Where the orange shades look so different,
Not heated like the yellow of the limbs,
Not brazen like a red hunger,‘cause everyone,
Everyone claims back life,
Even the lowlife in your blue, days,
The palsied scalds, dirty old men,
While in her scorched grass, such great hideout,
She stops and listens to a wind ready for action,
And she’s so spooked,she begs him
To stop regrets just for a sec,
But she fails, nor can she gather spring,
Just get like them, so waste no more time,
Sky, send her a nod, big hero,
And watch out, the lady in blue is stalking souls,
She swears life belongs to her
From sunsets to shiny trinkets,
She swears souls are only
A road bristling with seasons,
And she’ll shoot them as they shout a farewell
To days, or explore the silence
From books, or tube chairs,
As they’ve got no life.
To P.
Long story short, life is on the move,
For better or worse she makes and breaks,
Stones waiting in vain,
Arcades, belfries, bulwarks-
Alright, but ask yourself
Where’s her fever’s voice,
Or why he never bolts, that dirty month
Who overstays his welcome,
And no use in shooing him away
With sistrums or crazy maenads,
If you never grasp fevers or voices-
Oh, and what language do they speak,
Maybe her limbs, those strange words
You dabble a bit, but only the sky can get-
No biggie, it’s so good when you shame
The blue into dim white,
But then again, he’s got no idea,
All in all the sky’s just a rookie,
He and his mates always on time,
Never a day off,
They never fade when eyeing the souls
Bolting, or holding fast shrubs, and flowers
Stinky like eyes or kissers,
When you pay lip service to pale blue arvos,
Or an almost friendly street,
But she’s rising up, her sleepless mind
Ready to storm her by limbs, fever,
A red inverted breath, until she moves,
Lost and dazed among seeds of words,
Unsettling clouds, strained question marks:
Will she flush spiky stares,
Or a sky who dispersed fathers, mothers,
While you wonder why do words feed
On hope, even if they contend with waves,
And a creation who listens, then shouts
What’s the point of freedom, that endless desert,
To souls if they can’t trespass
Into a wishful thinking, maybe light.
To W.
Spin it short and nice, rain,
No stony contempt for young lovers
Hungry for limbs and meadows,
Blind to a desecrated sky
Where you nicked riotous days or borders,
Where a broken wave that blazes is striking,
And you don’t give a damn for an angry light
If it crumbles up clouds, justice,
God in spite of everything-
So play the game, light, be a good sport,
As God is showing us a few tricks,
Say, how to shape different moons, different waters,
When too faraway from her sky
Words hold back, while her soul dares
Vibrations and naked nerves
As they dash against risky places-
Know what, at first sight everything a gift,
Even risky spots for the moon,
Days light mislaid, a soul that never skips the sky,
And yes, go ahead, just see children and desertion
Rebel teens when they leave in a hunt for brand new tales,
Look, one of them ablaze, the dreamer fast set
On nurturing plants and grass over there,
Where light wheezes in fear that they’ll shut
(They who? Easy nights, defacers?)
Fruits or brambles, the only witness
The echo of a rainbow, if only a gift
His silence.
Maybe these words are my Ariadne’s thread whenever I lose my bearings in that absurd maze they unwisely call life. Maybe they are my reply to a close friend who kindly keeps me company ever since I was a child, my depression.
Image: ‘Blue on Blue’ by Jo Moore
Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six, and is the author of these books “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Casa di erba”; “Blue Branches”; “ A Blue Soul”, “After The Blue Rush”.
Madwomen in the Attic 
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