The Ritual

My armchair trembles, 
my legs, my torso even  
the book in my hands  
quakes as a newborn bird, 
the small space now is full of vibration 
like the belly of a baby grand; 
she is bathing herself  
with meticulous vigour  
preparing for sleep 
or an urgent conference. 
Every once in a while she stops, 
her mouth open, 
one leg in the air, her ears perked  
almost ready to jump - 
I am sure she has forgotten  
something important - 
the clock strikes an hour to midnight 
she returns to her task, 
all ghosts have been greeted. 
Time walks beside her as it does everyone 
but it’s not heavy, 
all problems begin  
when we are taught how to count: 
one, a thousand, eleven, nineteen-ninety-five; 
she will live forever, I know, 
because she never wonders how much. 
I trace a line between her shoulders 
making my way down her back, 
my body again feeling the ripples  
of muscles under skin, 
I love her, I tell myself  
as she runs her tongue precisely 
where I have just touched her.    







© Copyright - I.Balestri 2021

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Photo by: leandro fregoni

Dust and Dolour

Change. 
The change you don't want. 
The change you want that doesn't come. 
The change you prayed for. 
Unexpected change. 
Change ringing in your pocket, in your ears. 
The change brought by a thunderstorm, light change, temporary change. 
Change to endure. Change to look forward to. 
Polished change, useless change, inevitable change. 
A change of mind, a change of heart. 
Change the record. Change the channel. Change the world. 
Toy change, real change, big change. Your change. My change. Daily change. 
Saying change so many times it doesn't mean the same thing anymore. 
Goodbye change. Hello change, I am still alive.






© I.Balestri 2020

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Photo by:Mick Haupt

Yellow Dissonance

Bundles of nerves our bodies,
vibrations in search of unison,
constantly in and out of tune
like a train passing through seasons.
It is too late now, I want something else,
release of tension, perfect sleep,
snow suspended in the air, I want
to hear what you hide behind your tales.
 
Listen, I will craft you a winter morning
with our curtains and just one cat,
I will climb over the secret gate 
to fill your bed with forbidden flowers,
I can give you a new beginning,
the very first thread of the work
but you must promise not to laugh
until my eyes are closed.
 
The year is empty and full of darkness,
it engulfs the passing of days
like an ocean through the moving window -
we are all waiting for the orchestra 
to fill the room with a single bright note,
I have given up hope to hear anything
but dissonance; the mind cannot invent
a warmth it has never felt .
 
Look, I will build you a palace in the rain,
with a bucket of sand and my capable fingers,
I will play to move away the mountains,
to fill your bed with forbidden light
I can give you perfect nights of sleep,
the silence and the words,
I promise you I know
which string should be pulled tighter.
 
There are as many types of happiness
as nerves in our bodies, all can ache,
all can get stuck between action and bones -
soon enough the fast landscape will cease
its dreadful stealing of months and hours,
the vibrations coming together 
to form a single red note.
It is not too late, all I want is to forget
how my skin and your skin have ever been cold. 







© I.Balestri 2020

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[ This poem will appear in the anthology Poets Against Poverty, a collaborative project created to raise funds for the homeless, if you are interested in purchasing the anthology or learning more about the project you can find more information here ]

 

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Photo by:Ketan Krishnan

Spoon Sweet

Spoiled fruit,
a whole crate of it
half rotting in the sun
skin so soft your fingers
can tear it open.
The juices thick and warm
down my wrists -
this time it's not the end
of  the world.


The magic one can make
with sugar and fire,
undesirable fruit,
the things one can take
out of a spoiled year:
twelve jars of sweet gold,
our smiles over bread
the promise of your hand
in my hand.






© I.Balestri 2020

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Photo by:Nadya Spetnitskaya

[I haven’t been around here for a long time and was greeted by a very different editor! Here’s to the good, and the bad.]

Fantasy Over a Minor Key

 
In another life
I am a veterinarian,
a pilot, an astronaut
a surgeon, a good husband,
an invisible organist,
the rocket and the abandoned church,
I know exactly what's wrong.
In another life
I choose to ask,
and the question somehow
changes everything:
so in another life
you are still plucking words
from the Oxford dictionary,
you are looking through the window
at the dark forest, the gloaming sky -
your mind is lost at secrets,
your tea has gone cold,
your pen still roams in a daydream  
of winged wolves.

In another life
April didn't happen,
May left like jokes and too much wine:
a stomach ache, a good memory,
scorching echoes in my head -
Summer was a Monet painting
all the way through December.
In another life
I got lost and came back
to the lakeside where we kissed
for the first time,
we brought home a stray 
named it after something weird
raised it for 5 decades,
in another life I didn't make up
any of this.

In another life
the shape of a conch shell
doesn't remind me of anything 
I love.

So in another life
the color of your tears
tells me exactly what's wrong,
In another life my days
work like a game of dominoes,
something beautiful 
at the end of each apparent disaster.
In another life
I play the organ at your wedding,
I am not sad
I leave the church on my rocketship
I save the cat.
This is easy:
I forgot the pineapple out of the fridge 
it's gone bad, it smells like warm fruit punch 
and looks like an old bruise.
No. Easier still:
the pineapple stayed up until dawn
came home drunk 
now it is blue and puffy and has a headache;
nothing an espresso can’t cure.
In another life
I plant a fork in the garden,
we wake up to a cutlery tree -
you find that really funny,
I hear your laugh paint the horizon 
with all the brightness of your being. 

In another life
we had more time,
there is so much better luck,
and this is easy. 
    





© I.Balestri 2020

Photo by – Mika Tapani

Love in the Time of Coronavirus

We sit on the couch
one full meter apart,
we drink wine, red as blood
from plastic cups,
we eat takeaway 
left on our doorstep
by a masked stranger.

Looking at your face,
I choke for a brief moment,
on my own feelings
and -yes- the rice; 
then your eyes wide and burning,
your question fast, unexpected
like a Summer storm:

“Why are you coughing?” 







© I.B.2020

[Please do forgive me, I just really need to find the funny side of things right now. ❤ ]

Photo by:Michael Lee

After John Kenney: Love Poems for Married People

This is a writing experiment, or better, a writing exercise. I came across a rather well known article on The New Yorker and – as it’s often the case with good writing – felt inspired by the apparent lack of love in these humorous poems. Here I had a lot of fun paraphrasing and twisting them to match my expectations as a, perhaps idealistic, romantic at heart.
I hope you’ll have as much fun reading as I did writing.
Of course I do not mean any disrespect nor copyrights infringement with this. Credit goes to the author John Kenney, you can find the original poems by clicking on the link above.

Kindle Fire


They say love is like light.
Should I believe 
the man on the radio,
his trained voice,
his rehearsed poise.

The point is that your face is lit up right now.
Because you are laughing at something
on the screen of your tablet
and I wish I was made of wires and circuits 
right now, just to stare back at you
like that.

I need to sleep,
it’s been a long day
I sigh the sigh I sigh when I want your attention.
I have to be up early tomorrow
yet I am counting the freckles on your nose
as if I had forgotten your features, like a goldfish,
as if I haven’t seen them a million times before,
and you have no idea,
because you have earbuds on
and you are laughing at your screen,
bless your screen.

Maybe love is like light
in that it fills every space.
Seriously. I might head to the bathroom for a cold shower.

Orgy


Late autumn morning.
Overcast and cold.
In the air a promise of rain.
Dead leaves on the ground.

We decided to go out back
to clean up the yard.

You said, in your sexy voice,
“We’re out of garbage bags.”
And in your shrugging you brushed against me
just right,

the next thing I know
you’re pinned to the brick wall,
my no longer gloved hands
making a delicious path underneath
your fleece sweatshirt,
your work shirt,
and your T-shirt.

“We better go in”, you breathed.
later we heated up left over pasta
and ate it on the couch
trying to figure out how Jason Bourne’s knees still work. 
Did I say orgy?
Sorry, in my defence
I thought the neighbours were watching.

Baking Night


Where is the...
What?
...salt. I need some more...
Sorry. Here.
You know I never put enough...
Yes. Wait. I didn't turn on the oven...
I did. 
Oh, O.K. You know me too well...
Almost done. So, what are you...
The chicken! Fuck.
Chicken?
What?
Isn't it frozen?
Yes. I forgot to take it out.
Laugh. Did you?
There's time.
Damn I can't focus on baking.
Am I distracting you?
There's flour on your cheek.
Yes.
This counter looks comfy.
What?
Nothing, I love you.

Always the Right Time


Standing at the door
ready to go,
the cat glaring at me
(We are about to leave for my sister’s surprise party.)
I turn and see you
in the kitchen
like an engineer on a space mission
fumbling with a theodolite.

Only it’s not a theodolite.
It’s a clementine.
And you are trying to peel it with your too short fingernails
over the sink.
You look up, and hold the clementine up towards me
you say “Want some?” I understand.
It would be impossible for me to say no,
I close the door. We’ll be late. 

Are You in the Mood?


I am.
Let’s leave the kids with your sister.
Have a late dinner.
Bathe together.
Maybe share a bottle of red wine.
And do that thing I can only do with you.
Blast 80’s power ballads and dance barefoot until 5 in the morning. 





© I.B.2020 / © John Kenney 2018

Photo by: Lucas Gallone

First Spring

I think of you and the world is over,
my fretful heart caught in the light -
time has no rules for a child or a lover. 

Nothing is left in the mind but a fluster
like a clear souvenir with sleep inside, 
when I think of you the world is over.

Seasons begin to die all gold and thunder
as we toss bright hours into the violet night,
but time has no rules for a child or a lover.

In place of death now grows a flower,
dust and delight dancing side by side -
I thought of you and the world was over.

Warm winds through the sand will write a prayer,
my mouth on your skin takes it out of sight,
time has no rules for a child or a lover.

Guide my fingers where feelings surrender,
where fire cannot burn and the cold doesn’t bite.
I think of you and the world is over -
if only time had no rules for a child or a lover.





©  Copyright I.B. 2019/2020

Photo by: Annie Nyle

[Little warm-up Villanelle. Yes I did break the rules, and yes I enjoyed every single piece of them.]

Fake Pockets

Every horror movie, 
like every childhood,
is about company:
you can always count 
on a ghost, a monster 
a killer, or a box of crayons 
when you are alone - 
you can throw magic balls
at the face of your home,
they will return,
but nobody ever tells you
what to do with absence. 

In the dark we made up
our own mythology,
what if God was a mechanic,
what if both heaven 
and hell sat inside
a clockmaker’s workshop,
many walls aquake 
with ticking hearts -
I watch her light a candle
then change her mind  
a moment after -
if the world were to end
imagine the silence.

I am missing an attic
right between the soul
and the eyes,
a crawlspace like 
those cursed ones 
in every horror movie,
or childhood - 
she hugs herself in her sleep,
asks for five more minutes 
as if God were a clockmaker -
how exhausting it is 
to be born with fake pockets
when nothing ever returns;
somebody needs to tell me
what to do with my hands. 




©  Copyright I.B. 2018

Photo by: Johny vino

[Hello, it’s been a while.]

Gravity

If words had any real weight 
this poem would be a pink elephant
asleep on the rim of your dress,
a fat blue cat making biscuits 
on your favourite shirt;
it would be my heart 
beating clumsily 
because it doesn’t know 
how to miss you with elegance,
it doesn’t know how to say:
you occupy so much space 
in my thoughts 
I might as well call you home
only, your name is sweeter.

If words had any real weight 
this poem would break your window 
like a pebble thrown by an idiot,
like a lost black bird
spit by a tornado 
on the other side of the world:
you could nurse it back to health 
or put it in a shoebox
and bury it in your backyard 
either way it would be grateful,
either way its bones 
would remember your fingertips.

My dictionary tells me 
words weight five-thousand grams -
and that’s one language -
but if it were even a little bit true 
every time my mind talks about you
I wouldn’t be able to move at all. 




©  Copyright I.B. 2018 

Photo by: Simon Matzinger