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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