~ of 3 sisters ~ # comments
of 3 sisters
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A day full of much small ecstacy. The in and out of living in the self, a simple activity we've made so difficult. All it takes is to stop, pull the attention back inward and lean back into it.
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Once, I found myself surrounded by windowless people.
There must be light inside, right? So I start to throw rocks, bricks, anything
to break a window into the dreariness cast. We are all
so dependent on this light. Do you understand the task?
Why do I wonder then, how cruel am I...
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Anthony Goicolea Website: Very multi expressive: Fairytale Series. Drawings : Underwater:: Belga Series.
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Since I started this blog in September, I get awesome private notes. The blog on a beauty mark brought wonderful comments. I wanted to post this one ... it came with a wonderful poem about hands. I love hands. I asked permission to post it publicly because (its always right to ask) and some literary journals won't accept a poem once published, even on a blog (small as mine). Here it is:
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Dear Mansuetude, I have read about you because I could never have thought someone would write something about my rather ranting latest blog that was basically indignation after the fall of our government in Italy...
I have read about your "reflections" on genetic "marks", I too have two marks, brown spots on my body on the same, exact place my father had them... I have written a very particular poem on this, not so happy--my relation with my father was rather difficult--but representing as much as possible the truth of what I feel about the matter, I enclose it here below, I hope you enjoy it a little.
LEGACY
My hands on my knees
while I am being idle sitting on the train
waiting, with little patience, to arrive.
The way my fingers lie on my knees
or grasp them for a moment, long,
bony, thin fingers, easily cold,
easily pale, with wrinkled tips.
Shrivelled souls, lost in themselves.
The way the thumbs want to disappear
into the fists, the way the fists
are tightened, tense, looking for warmth,
enclosing the anxiety of refugees
who know they have landed on their last beach.
My hands on my knees, their backs,
the film of dry, thin skin,
the veils of brown spots
like the prints of tiny leaves.
I stretch my fingers, the palms of my hands,
I try to feel them anonymous, aloof.
No way, if you look at them
you know at once where they come from.
You know their nerves and in them
the grasp of the gaze.
By this sea that waits
and lets us wade
in our reflection’s chains.
Best wishes and thank you
Davide Trame
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Peace
