Tag Archives: seasons

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 16 – April suburb

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Flowerbeds around
where you chased footballs:
and now in the rubble
soiled flowers bloom to the dry breath
of springtime walls.
But in your eyes and in your voice
there is water,
coolness in your depths, rooted
beyond clods and seasons, in what
remains on the tops
damp snow:
and so you rush through every vein
and tell
that remote road still
and the wind
light over gigantic
blue chasms.

[Original Italian by Antonia Pozzi (1912-1938), ‘Periferia in aprile’.]

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 1 – What a Joke

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April can be the cruellest month
though it has showers sweet
and does sometimes pierce March’s drought

but

I really fucking hate February
with its bitter cold
days and evenings and nights.

And I know it’s not it
it’s me
unable to appreciate the apricity
a favourite word for a small bit
of warmth on a freezing day.

Fucking February.
Sitting there as if winter
were almost over,
bearing the cups of Carnival
and despondent gods
as a fucking child enraptured
by the fucking skies.

Pouring over poorly worded
sentences and claims,
delirious and feverish
declarations of love to the pound
to the ounce to the dozen
and cheaper if you wait.

February.
Thank fuck it’s a short one.

NaPoWriMo Day 9 – Baol

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Snowflake on your left hand
not unique, not special,
not of snow, not a flake,
but of ink, and blood.

Snowflake on your left hand
not melting, not of ice,
not erasable, not cold,
but beautiful, and sad.

Snowflake on your left hand
not of winter, not of spring,
not appropriate, not in place,
but invisible, and gone.

Snowflake on your left hand
never falling, never fallen,
not of white, not of simple,
but irregular, and blue.

NaPoWriMo Day 8 – Falling

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September,
and the clocks strike autumn.

She stands, alone
as the evening lingers
for a little while longer
before submitting, fully, to dark.
The snailing pavements
of streets around her
remain quiet
in the dimming light.

She walks, alone.
Whenever she would visit
time simply stopped.
And yet, this once,
she watches the walls peel
in dregs and flakes of
leftover summer days.
The majesty of stone
of a faith now crumbling.

She stops, alone,
to look at the creatures,
still on their towers,
watching upon the city
below them, a rhapsody
sounding through their wings
as the wind blows through.

She smiles, alone,
at the memories of past
seasons, lost and regained
with another closed circle.
Different feelings,
tastes and smells,
from different places.

And this is where she stays.
As the ageless faces
of clocks remain silent,
as the austere backs
of walls light up,
as the grave wings
of stone rest,
we leave her here
alone.