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Inside Mother
To Roberto,
your mum is under the cuts of surgeons operating in the middle of Piazza Pitagora in Crotone there are no traffic lights it just depends what car people are driving and how they look when they pass...i hope they stop to see your mother lying there, and not just her adhesions.
your voice was sad this morning, the shop apparently empty. A cool place in a warm white via of Lipari. and again...over the sea again tribunals....tribulating....caring madly...for wounds are demarcated...healed...and now in the traffic they will open her. I hope they know she's your mother and see not just the adhesions.
...you spoke of trouble...and you were quiet this morning...last week...you sent me caper flowers...drew pictures of abandoned property in joyous bursts of words...spoke of taking Giulia there...told me of sundays sitting dreaming amongst ruins with her...and i sit alone in my bunker in milano and see vulcano sleeping...
now it's a salicious taste of yellow vile flower filled pastures and precipitaing cliffs...a dermic aeolian she sails on....and you asked your sister something quietly...as your mum lies in piazza pitagora alone...as the surgeons take coffee...
and the traffic will sort itself out..it will won't it?
and I hope they will ship back our mothers to us in one piece
when this morning is over.
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Comment by: - 2005-08-08 09:01
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I loved the way this poem spiralled in on itself. I felt I was circling that volcano, my flight describing increasingly diminishing circles before I was drawn into the smoking centre.
You switched from vast canvas to microfilm with the flick of a pen. As Heather has already said (breathlessly by the looks of it) there is so much anguish compressed into this small poem. fitting that it should end in denial.
Thank you for this. I hope you post more soon. Please let me know when you do. |
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Comment by: - 2005-08-04 15:20
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Our insular lives just don't prepare us for this kind of eruption. I loved the way thhe language broke into smaller and smaller fragments as the emotional turmoil built up. And you were so far away.
Poignant. More please.
Thnx4the read : ) |
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| I absolutely love this poem. I cannot tell you if it is the succint imagery of Roberto's mother, at an intersection, with the surgeons and their coffee, or the fact that you're speaking about something so large, too large, and still containing it in a few sentences. The wounds are indeed demarcated and healed, inside Mother. Large enough to be performed in an intersection? How about a football stadium? Many images and quick flashing questions. Love, love, love it. bravo. need more. want more. |
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