FRANCO CARTA

 

 

Stories Of Madness

 

Every day, before going to bed

she tells me stories of madness

caress my wonders

and she wears her poetry pajamas.

A nice pajama

soft black, irreverent,

Everything beautiful

silk poetry.

Help you dream

Our stories

beautiful, well-groomed.

For several nights

she wears poetry pajamas.

I think it's so beautiful

and also normal

feel so much beauty

in her nature.

©Franco Carta

 

Love Poetry

 

You came to my soul when she was uprooted:

the doors torn down,

the chairs smashed,

the curtains frayed,

the unmade bed,

sadness rooted like a full flower vase.

 

With your little hands

you put all things in line:

the gaze in its place,

in its place the rose,

life in its place,

the mat in its place.

 

You washed the walls with a wet rag

in your clear joy, in your fresh sweetness,

you placed the radio in the appropriate place

and cleaned the room of blood and rubbish.

You sorted all the missing books

and you laid out the bed in your enormous gaze,

you lit the poor extinguished lamps for me

and polished the worn wooden floors.

You were suddenly enormous, broad, powerful, strong:

you sweated great effort washing old tools.

 

You learned that in my remaining soul there was death

and you dragged it to the garden with pieces of mirror.

© Franco Carta

 

Looks

 

Now I've opened that drawer

where desire rested

dazed and mad,

never taken seriously

and I met a look.

© Franco Carta

 

I Hear You

 

I hear you

like an arrow

flying in the wind.

Every breath on my face

like a sudden bolt of lightning

that cuts the earth in two

there is no hiding the desire in my face

the naked flesh screams in silence,

and you will not be able to hide where it is

you won't be able to mask the fire

you won't be able to deny why

my ardor lights up

for this love of ours

©️ Franco Carta

 

To Arthur Rimbaud

 

When you wrote the poem

on the unknown sea:

What waters did you think of?

Did salt hurt your eyes?

You heard the waves crash,

in the paintings, hanging on the walls?

Did the heat caress your skin?

Was there sand in your shoes?

Did your heart explode in your chest?

 

From my window, i see a paradise that never existed

and a blue that doesn't exist in the color palette.

The city full of ghosts.

No car engines plague the roads.

And the sky gives us back the color

clearer and more beautiful.

I can barely hear

the neighbors and passers-by, disappeared.

I feel like it's just me,

the infinite up there, the clear air,

And the viruses that hide.

 

When you dive into the waves, it rises and foams:

Which ocean was the most intense?

What did your poetry inhabit?

Or where did you dive?

Did the sun also shine warmly in the poem L'Éternité?

Did the child you were still want to collect seashells?

You laughed and screamed.

Paul watched in amazement at the explosion of joy

in your saddest eyes.

The same sky I see now from my window.

I saw it in the windows, from the screens,

the seas teeming with life in blues and waves.

And in Venice it was translucent.

The life that was no longer in the canals

it resurfaced and increased in every corner.

Empty streets, squares, gondolas,

to remind us that nature does not suffer from viruses.

Every millimeter of space suffers from human invasion.

 

Liquid and ephemeral eternity

what did you see

was it in the path of the sun over the sea at dusk?

Or did it come from the heart of the poem?

Or overflowed from your sad eyes and

Scattered across the ocean surface?

The path of lights with a thousand colors

it transmuted my gaze forever.

The fleeting eternity you glimpsed, Arthur,

now it covers the transparent waters of the planet.

 

Even the elusive time stopped here,

in the blue firmament, in the silence, in the

deep and paused breath.

On the tall trees that sway

on the other side of the road.

Among the leaves, the silver rays

they are like thin silk ribbons,

shine, shine.

Eternal.

©️Franco Carta

 

FRANCO CARTA

 

FRANCO CARTA was born in Sardinia (Italy) where he lives and writes in Sardinian and Italian he is known as the “Hybrid Poet”, he has published three books of poems and a collection of short stories and participated in the publication of many anthologies of poems and stories throughout Italy. He has translated poems from Italian into Sardinian and from Sardinian into Italian by other writers at their request. He is a juror in national and regional poetry competitions.