As you may have already figured out, I am primarily a poet.
As part of my publishing project but also as a way of putting my work out there and connecting with writers and poetry readers, I decided to build a website exclusively for that.
So, if you love poetry and if you are interested in issues around it, if you look for daily inspiration and a space to showcase your work, watch this space.
When I see spring breaking in
I feel the leaves of the book of my heart closing again.
One onto another, folding, piling
the stories of winter are never to be read again
I buried the book below my bed, where I keep my monsters
I hid it in the infernal dumphole of existence
I bought myself a new one
it smells like carnations and Dutch tulips and the sea
it’s filled with laughter and sounds I cannot depicher, whispers in unknown languages
and leafhoppers singing canzoni in the night
whenever I touch my finger on the pages I can hear
someone saying I love you from a distance
and a touch of melancholy resonating
as I pack my things
it’s not a movie, it’s not
it’s real life
palpable
edible
mutable
a world within a world within a world within these words
in the middle of the grounds where airplanes come and go
heading for a new direction, but the book is there
I will not bury it this time
I will not
MY WHOLE life depends on a single, thin thread
I spend all my sunny days pondering
what means of protection to use
to keep it safe from the world
from the wildest animals out there
humans.
I build forts
I build walls
I am myself a shield against the monsters of nature
but there will come a day when
I will have to give in.
Exhaustion will take over.
The fort will collapse,
and my delicate thread will break.
I need to hold on
to keep myself awake.
My life depends on a single thread
and I feel less than zero without it.
How does the world look like to you? Is it an empty canvas or a crowded space full of indecisive minds? Is it silence and tranquility or noise and havoc? Define the world, define your worldview.
When I was just a small human being, the world seemed to me like a perplexing picture laden with colours and shades that came out of nowhere. They used to excite me and invite me to a rabbit hole. Once I got in the rabbit hole, and gazed at its ugly reflection, suddenly the world seemed way clearer to me, like an epiphany, a ray invading a room that has been filled with darkness for years.
My eyes stopped watering, I could feel my eyesight intact, almost like a cat’s eyes in the dark. Every colour shifted back to its place; it seemed as if the world was drained of colours and life after the demystification. For other people, this world would appear as mundane and grey but for me, it was a chance to draw it the way I want to, instead of sitting back and receiving its messages passively.
I used art. I used my basic knowledge of art and its various forms; it has to come from the depths of the heart; techniques are irrelevant. I used languages; the three languages I can speak, not at the same level of proficiency, but still, I can pour my feelings into them in a way that makes them so familiar, so clear to me. I’m still reconstructing my rotten world and writing my own notes, instead of just listening to its music. Noise? Silence? None of the two. A surrealist picture is what makes it timeless, a classic.
Have you ever admitted your fear? Have you ever opened up your feelings to the beast ready to suck your soul? Have you ever uttered those sounds that read ‘I am afraid’? If you haven’t done so yet, do it. Unbury your fears and admit them to fear itself. The first step to overcoming is admitting you are afraid.
How can people not understand that you can be afraid, yes, afraid? This world of dead miracles, of suspicious faces, of nameless cities, of buried emotions should not ask those obvious questions. We call ‘mind control’ a superpower, disclosing just how much we’d love to enter people’s minds. And why would we want to do that? Because we’re afraid that one mistaken word will wreak havoc, will bring about pain. The root of all our misery is FEAR. Four letters that dominate our lives, and still we pretend to be fearless, in our confusion of what bravery is and what isn’t.
Step up. Admit it. Let it boil within you, burn your soul but don’t let it steal your soul. Overcome it, gradually but consistently, with a courage coming from this unbreakable soul of yours. It may leak, but it will never break.
my exam writings, 28/1/14
As I was resting by the river
having some coffee in my hand
I saw a woman triumphantly sitting
at the top of Big Ben.
People from below started shouting
to her to get down safe
but she nodded with her head
and this is all I heard her say;
“From the first day of my life
till this moment right now
I’ve spent time with people
who had kept my head bowed.
And now I know better than to give in
to people who look at me from down low
to people who kill my dreams
and don’t like watching me grow.”
With these words she shut her mouth
and gazed at London from up there
the city of magic, the city of miracles
carved out on her open hand.
there is a question buzzing in my mind
even up to this very day
how could this woman avoid the cameras
and simply get away?
Maybe her dream was big enough
to keep the police at bay
and about her miraculous triumph
what could even the state say?
A BUTTERFLY OVER MY HEAD –
we were both at our most vulnerable state.
me, asleep, vexed by thoughts
she, lost in an unfamiliar environment.
She used to hide before
afraid of being killed
-silly thought-
but when I woke up
she was there, over my head, stuck on the ceiling
looking at me.
She may not even believe that
but we have a lot in common.
We may be two totally different species
but we can be both lost
confused
baffled
stressed
depressed
thrown in an unfamiliar space
where we can barely recognize a friendly face.
I know she may not like me
she may believe I somehow trapped her in my room
but I know she’ll protect me from all harm
her wings shall be my warm blanket for the night.
After all, she should know
that she’s part of our most romantic collocations
she’s there in our stomachs when we meet that other
special half.
She’s there when I sleep
and always there when I wake up
she’s my butterfly.
“Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
WHEN TO PICK A BOOK
If your days are hectic and depressing, pick a book and let its colours and shades flow into your blood, until they become an indispensable part of your body. They will wipe your tears and make your fears fade out, like a macabre image moving away from the corners of your brain.
If you are facing a situation you cannot escape from, pick a book and let all the solutions enter your body and your brain; you will work it out, eventually, buddy.
If you lost a lover and your heart is broken, a good book is your remedy. The words and their seductive dances will distract your attention and draw it to words you never knew existed. It’s like sunshine after rain, a rainbow emerging slowly but opening up a new world with its arrival.
If you look for a loyal friend that talks a lot, lose yourself in the pages of a book. Constant talking, an overflow of ideas, a totally new world on paper.
If you are a writer and suffering from writer’s block (the infamous disease), get inspired by somebody else’s ideas and views. Eventually, your brain will start functioning properly again and you will write 10 pages of a novel within 24 hours.
If you want to learn the world’s secrets but you’re not sure which secrets you’re aiming for, read as many books as you can. Symbols, images, experiences will wind up on your hands and eyes. You will unlock mysteries and see meaning where it’s not obvious.
If you are in any corner of this world and you want to forget,learn,start feeling or distract yourself, pick a book. Books are there, warm and inviting, waiting for your embrace. Run to your local bookstore or to any internet store and start reading. But remember; there is life outside books, as, if there weren’t, how would our beloved authors get inspired?
She constantly moves from city to city. She has no problem abandoning the familiar and embracing the cold seductive charm of the unknown. The beginning of the utopia is the bus, and the end of it. It’s all a full, perfect, vicious circle, like a story ending in itself, reproducing itself over and over again, like an open-ended tale.
She anxiously worries about losing her ticket, her ticket to the land where dreams happen, where night drags itself for longer than usual. She gets on the bus, and stares out of the window, glancing at the landscapes running like wild animals, trying to escape from forgetfulness, trying to gain forever. They look like hastily sketched cities with a gloomy background.
At night, these towns seem to be lost in a black sea of no beginning and no ending, of no evident limits. To the traveler, they look like small spots of light breaking into the dark background of the winter night, as if the painter spilled his entire white colour onto the canvas. After a while, they are lost, like humans who cannot swim, under the surface of vengeful nature, who sucks in all the outcasts that dare challenge its laws.
In the city itself, the initial impressions are always discouraging. This seemingly cozy town attacks the potential tourist with snow, wind and rain to keep them away from its heart. Little does it know that the ones who persist will eventually unlock the surprises hidden beyond the vengeful, dark soul.
The city is full of romance and vibrant souls, singing, dancing, and concealing themselves in cozy little spots in order to be protected from the harsh face. She enjoys love, fun, laughter and simple sips of hot chocolate that make everything better, friendlier; all until she has to get back, and rewrite new memories on top of the ones just made.
It’s hard to leave but harder to stay. Seasons are swiftly changing, bringing about duties that have to be fulfilled. She bids her boy goodbye and gets on the bus once more. It’s nighttime, now, and there is no safe haven for her to look at and forget her destination. It’s all a black sea, an abstract, surrealist canvas. Here and there, spots of light are scattered, slowly descending into forgetfulness and abandonment.
And behind her back, the town she just left becomes but a small light dot in the horizon, drawn into the vengeful natural processes, and she eagerly waits for the next taste of frozen fire, of unfamiliar darkness. And one day she will be able to hold the frozen light of this now unfamiliar city in her hands, and it will no longer be but a small dot in the horizon; they will no longer play hide and seek. It is going to shine, again and again, like an enormous heart awaiting the traveler and welcoming them into her wide arms…
HIREATH
Sometimes, I find myself
looking through pictures of landscapes and cityscapes
like a prisoner glancing out of the window
sucking light
producing a melody unheard by others.
My home is where my heart is
and my heart is but a bird that migrates
to wherever there is sun, love and beauty
wherever the clouds are pushed aside by the power of freedom
this is where my heart is.
Hireath is the emotion I have always had
ever since I opened my eyes
and realized
how dissatisfied I was
with being in a cage.
In bianco e nero 