*** 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…
*** 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…
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…
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.…
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…
*** 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…
*** 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…
*** 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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