No Glory in His Death

When one dies,

Nothing will get them back,

Their words are used

Abused

Displaced

Distorted

Their memory fades away with time,

Washes their ashes with rain,

Leaving a shallow pain,

Got forgotten

As soon as gone,

‘coz people cry for their own loss,

Not losing them,

Fear that same cold place,

That cold corpse,

That cold place,

Fear the unknown,

Shutting their sight

In a long cold night.

Born to die,

Though slowly,

Tear by tear,

Drop by drop,

Tear by tear,

That is your lone fear,

Too stifling silence to bear.

But he who made that void,

Lived for vanity,

Lived shamelessly

Arrogantly

Sought eternity

Betrayed paternity.

I sought your hand on my head,

I saw you in every dad,

I forced you in all men,

I loved you in them now and then,

I was the easy to offend,

The Fatherless one,

The worthless child,

Never enough by myself,

Until one day,

I opened my mental door

And cast you for good away.

But then, he made his silent exit,

More useless

A futile exit, without words,

From both sides.

I want to shout:

Creep with no dignity

You were dead in life,

Today double-dead.

The Fatherless One
No one could fill that void
Fatherless Featherless

The Oak Tree and the Priest

O modern priest,

J. C and your Oak tree,

For a pilgrim, as a tourist,

Just once upon a life

Can approach and see

Your “venerated” marvellous tree,

Only the priest preaches a rock, a cave, a temple or a tree.

Your “Eden” anima your ancient giant,

Lodging its earthly image

Eight centuries ago

“On the edge of a wood”.

Terra mater,

Testimonium of man and history,

The mighty tree celebrates

A prior wood of her blood,

Stands there, a cornerstone,

Extending its branches into

Enough arms to its pilgrims,

A sublime for its beholder.

You fused into the ancient adorner

The tree of the trees

Behold it and surrender

Like a newborn to his lifegiver.

You crossed the desolate life

You found consolation

you found amusement

Unlike the others,

But in solitude, like a priest,

Fleeing the scorching crowd

You heard the solemn words of

Madre natura in her ritual

Telling of human tales

In a tree tongue,

Out of the multitude,

its betrayal, its despair,

A giant Oak tree and its lover,

Dwell in papers

Of veneration, supplication and surrender,

To the queen of the wood,

J. C. , looks with a revelation in his eyes,

his sacred tree lingering inside of him,

Renders the bewildering tongue

Of the tree, his ancestor,

Into what we can read and admire,

The tree is a true treasure,

for him who seeks refuge

From the crowded roads and the evil of the crowd.

In it is contentment,

It is life, voice,

Adagnitio and all you seek.

Be part of Me

Be part of the oak tree.

To James
Queen of the wood
Poet Tree
Be part of Thee/Be part of the tree (where a wiseman hid during the War ad infinitum)

A Quercus/Quercia where a wiseman hid during the War ad infinitum

A composer and a Psi

I spent all my life

Composing my aloofness

A self in solitude

Partly I am different

Partly they said I am different

I tried to be with them

I bored them

With an intense feeler

With a composed speaker

With my being seer

Ask a man in the desert

Or a mountain

Or an iceland,

A shepherd is a prophet,

A cave priest is a worshipper of the cave pictures,

A witch is a master of nature

Who speaks the sounds before languages

And treats plants with plants

And woes with plants,

So does the rider of the sea,

What they feel when meeting a human

They would feel you

Your look in the eyes,

Your deep voice,

Your fears and dare,

That self fused with woods

Mingled with the tiger, bear and elephant,

Expanded over wilderness,

Composed a self in solitude,

People for them are energies

One is word

One is a world

Deep and extended

A four D with the unknown soul

With mind

With alchemy.

So did I with my books of words

I went beyond a self

To the composed self

Dwelling in aloofness

A triumphant solitude.

No way Mr Psi,

Meeting bunches shakes me,

Mingling with masses dreads me,

I see beyond the scene

I have lifelong composed words

For miniatures

For a wink

For a link

For a drink.

The Psi gave no sign and cannot see

For normal people never had to be

Dear Psi I feel your agony.

Desert Solitude
Cave Guardian
Wilderness
A witch in the woods
Sea rider
Think me

A man on Seven Horses

1707, Rosalind lived in a mountain giant foot

The northern suburbs of an extension of a sheltering forest

She hated berries but only berries she had to eat

Such a small and pulpy wild fruit

Rounded and brightly coloured,

Sweet, sour in straw-blue-black

Likely red, for her tastes bad

Mum sang “Blueberries raw or baked in a pie;

Blueberry cobbler, muffins or juice;

It matters not the form I enjoy;

Blueberries keep me from being blue.”

At 17, never saw a man nor a horse

Before she first sang,

“When Love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my Gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the Grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye,
The Gods that wanton in the Air,
Know no such Liberty.”

Cavalier verses inflames her virtues

When a Horseman rode and stood

To adorn her strawberry lips with his sweet song

That bronze young man on a stallion

Three powers in one,

Youth, arch and a horse

a song from the heart

that keeps the oath for more than one life.

2017, Charlotte eats a Mac,

Dates on a machine

Utters erotic syllables for 7 men,

Kisses all of them, only for the 7th day

Loves the man who comes to her on 7 horses.

Berry Forest, cradle of Love
A Man on 7 Horses

Il Marciume

A 16 anni

Sognavo con Anna, Enza e Manel

Un ragazzo snello

Forte con i capelli

Lievemente lunghi

Ma neri

Gli occhi marroni miele

Parla inglese

Canta rock

Teneri labra

Risate rimbalzando dal cuore

Pulito chiaro

Che sogno

Bello e attraente

Luca o Leo

Ma tu sei chiama to il “marciume”

E io sono testarda

Ti amo più

Di Leo, Luca e Aldo

Selvaggio orgoglioso

Forte e gentile

E per te sono il mondo

Soldi non tieni

Promesse mute

E amori senza sillabe

Fatti

Emozioni

Passione

Vita

Ivano

Washed away

Swells wash away

Soul’s agony

Waves blow

Cuddly

Fleecy

A feathered beach

Shelters and soothes

Bewilderment

Time waned

As I froze

All that bemused me

Was either to shut my sight

And enhance its hissing

Kissing say

Or lose no sound no sketch

A sweet bemusement

Shining bright Brighton

On my grey canvas

Painted off a British sky.

Real picture
Bewilderment and Peace

300

300 likes and me

Can make the difference

300 Spartans defeated Persia

Persia came on elephants

Upskilled rhinoceros

Bold black horses

Bronze knights

Gilded armature

Heavily pierced Xerxes

Mythical creatures

On a grey and black canvas

Men in red

300 mighty kings and

Lusty Leonidas together

Erect a peerless wall

Built up in patient

passionate composure

Colours clashed

Les rouges against les noirs

Clung and bunged at odds

Colossal equestrians

Stupendous fiery fighters

Beauty unmatched.

300 of comrades in verse

Similar though diverse

Utter words as swords

Link up in likes

Tacit makers.

300 thanks
Sword guardian
Words sharp as swords

My book

Two Questers in Twentieth-century North Africa: Paul Bowles and Ibrahim Alkoni breaks new ground in its comparative exploration of the work of American expatriate author Paul Bowles and exiled Libyan author Ibrahim Alkoni: it is, to my knowledge, the first full-length comparative treatment of these two authors. The book makes a powerful rebuttal of Western […]

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