For 21.06.2025 When you walk through an abandoned meadow In the early morning in summertime, You may be lucky to encounter blue lava-like flow Of radiant wild chicories. Almost as…
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*** As the hot buckwheat-and-black-rye loaf Runs the gauntlet from forno to table, The bakerqueen is translating the music of dough To the movement of floating grain flavour. All of…
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*** In the isn’tness of her Persian blue eyes - central stage on her olive face, Something in me that responds To the primitive rhythm of an eyelid. The rest…
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23/12/2024 *** Only they, who truly listen, Can be obedient. “Ob” is “thoroughly”, “Audire” is “hear”. To hear thoroughly - Only the ear that seeks the song, Perceives it. End…
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There were grey wharves made of rotten logs, From where we, children, dove into the lake, There were the drowned pontoons on which we danced, gazing into the ochre waters.…
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Poetry *** To describe how you believe is difficult: When I hear church bells on Sunday morning in Italy, I want to stand up, Look at the wrinkles, landscapes, mimics…
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Publishing news The poem "The Zephyr Blows Through Porta Nigra", accompanied by Sara Maino’s painting "Studio Plutoniano" (olive tree charcoal, fat pastel on A3 recycled paper, 30x42cm), is published in…
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*** A still sky after hours of storm: You see the trees standing silent As there is no wind anymore. Slowly, as if invisible Van Gogh, Rublev, or Shostakovich, Crusading…
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*** Painting icons in the postmodern kitchen, Under the scrutiny of stoves and vegetables, At the cooking crossroad of air and fire, water and earth, A pilgrimage through the memory…
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*** I can’t remember a more arctic spring, I conclude work and sit alone in the tower, With blinds up, with eyes down, Trying to attract summer. This is one…
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