London poems. Stefano Guglielmin


London poems

 

Sad is his face like the face of a poet

a poet without a song 

Virginia Woolf

 

°

 

The foxes are howling in the yard

while the barbarian shreds the tablecloth;

Mrs Dalloway finds her voice and says:

“Doesn’t life seem incredible?”

 

 

°°

 

There is no song, I know. But the body

sometimes talks on its own, likes mud

more than light and wiping out traces

makes it sick…

 

 

 

°°°

 

Poetry means, here, stand still on the carousel,

bring yourself peace as your ship goes down.

 

 

 

°°°°

 

She asks if I like laughing

if dying young is worse.

 

She repeats the sentences twice

so laughing and dying

become just verbs for me to learn

 

 

 

°°°°°

 

She says so many things in English;

sticking out her tongue, unraveling it:

her sex wouldn’t do any better.

 

 

 

°°°°°°

 

She lays down something that sounds

like the breathing of a sick heart;

she seems happy to have followers

in this enterprise.

 

 

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