CLAUDIA PICCINNO

CLAUDIA PICCINNO

SHE WAS THE SUMMER

She was the summer

Lithe she came

dispensing beads of sweat

on young cheeks.

Barefoot she was running

on beaches and fields,

she filled the wineskins

with water and the yards with voices.

The bustling glowworms

she gave to the night

to adorn the hedges

with joyful clips.

She was the summer!

Wings of ink

Glossy pages

they wink by the shop windows,

wrinkled pages

smile at

the lonely hearts,

illustrated pages

promise

adventures and knowledge.

Wings of ink

trace

routes of knowledge,

rewrite

flight routes,

that with tender touch

cradle a dream.

I devoured

kilometers of lines

without taking a step.

Here I am.

I landed!

The time of an airport change

and I'll leave for new runways,

I will do the check in

to my astonishment

I will recognize

others  flights addicted

and I will never be sated!

AT A MEETING OF FAIRY GODMOTHERS

At a meeting of fairy godmothers

Saucy and unshy

are the daisies

with which

my mischievous pupil pays homage to me…

Imposing was the sunflower

that I picked up as a diurnal lighthouse,

to turn on the gaze

of a sad little girl.

I brought immaculate lilies

on the grave of my grandmother

and colorful gerberas

I received the day of my wedding promise.

Red roses

had sent me an admirer.

red anthuriums

gave joy to my degree.

The cuttings of geranium

taught me the strength

and I learned humility

from the “beautiful of night”.

They ran here hydrangeas

gentians, azaleas and lilies

in fraternal communion

the day that a flower

blossomed in a cradle.

They ran here as if they were coming

at a meeting of fairy godmothers

bestowing good wishes

in order that he could grow

florid and strong...

I put compost of encounters

to his hedge,

I escorted his stem

with silent prayers

so that he could be hidden

to the shears of bad luck.

A FALSE THEOREM

A false theorem

They are concentric circles

the true friends;

let's call "bread the bread"

and not sell for friendship

the metastasis of something else.

You were not parallel lines,

they can reflect

each other

and they are able to tend to infinity

for the dormant meeting.

You were maybe two  squared catheters

that give as result the hypotenuse

and its shadow.

And she thought

about perpendicular lines...

about honest crosses

to share with you for years.

And she tried

to see you again

in the chaste embraces

of right angles,

in the IP greek

of a circle.

What remains to her

of a false theorem?

Broken diagonals,

acute angles of suffering,

obtuse angles of dementia.

THIS IS NOT A FAREWELL

This is not a farewell

One day wings sprouted upon you

and you cautiously flew over mountains and valleys.

Now you have a little light on the front

to illuminate dark caves and gorges.

Soon you will have a transparent touch

To heat to your loved ones’ heart and mind.

This is not a farewell

You ‘ll come back.

You ‘ll be the leaf that becomes humus

to feed the roots.

You ‘ll be the drop that becomes steam

and condenses elsewhere.

You ‘ll be the nightingale

that will brighten other people’s old age.

You ‘ll be a run step in the infinite,

the compass of courage for the meeting agreed.

AT THE BIRO

At the biro

Ode to you

eaten biro,

ode to you

voice of the timid

and mizzen of love.

Ode to you

forerunner of cartridges and toner.

Ode to you

that put away from the window

the nib and the inkwell.

Ode to your colored transparencies

metallic moods.

Ode to you

catharsis of lost souls!

Ode to you

that bleed gall

if a betrayed woman

writes for you.

I will praise you forever

oh flowing ink

because obstinately

you shy away

the ticking

of the keyboard.

CLAUDIA PICCINNO