Emotion Sinks
More Than The Sword
In the blood
boiling more than must
and less raw
than the blood of life.
But if you
caress me like a daisy,
petal by petal,
investigating,
reaching the
yellow ochre of his heart,
if you stare at
me in the purple tattoo of the violet,
I untie my
shadow dress again.
Come to me, do
not disappoint the wait
My Pain Lies Between
Systole And Diastole
Only the song of
a long night remains
among curls of
waves on the pillow
and on the
fingers, crushed, edges of heart.
A flash of life
contracts in the blood,
shorten the time
the flounce of a
skirt.
A vertigo in the
rattle of time
the snow was
melting above the chin,
the uncertainty
was hell in the bones.
We were the
Orient in a room
under a hump of
an advancing moon
beheading the
word on the altar.
The silence
burned more than the fire,
you distributed
the anxiety diagonally,
you shuffled the
rhythms like cards,
fever you
returned with a blood without a body.
You loosened my
shadow hair
uncertain as the
sun among the clouds,
your love in my
chest calmed down.
Life was walking
with death
and at every
stumble the blood encrusted
chained to the
form of horror,
gangrene inside
a bride's heart.
In the quarrel
of a rhyme, it was revealed
the word more in
love than fire.
Stars rained
down in the night's furrow
and a moon gem
hurt me.
Your fabric is
an armed net
and yet I
resist, living word,
in the clotted
blood of this vein,
the oblivion of
time sets the scene.
Spread out on a
sheet of papyrus,
unseen or heard,
I was neither
dead nor rusty –
like a leaf on
the ground and without a destination
in the embrace
of dawn
I felt the blood
sprouting from the stone.
Once the door
was closed, I opened my heart wide,
shoveled snow
under branches of gall
in the frozen
blue inside the river.
I was walking
through paths of words
with a sleeping
bag and a rock for a pillow.
In the crater of
the water a song swam,
the thunder
ignited the quarrel
and you
displayed a spoil of wounds.
A fossil
appeared tomorrow,
where the evil
began to re-grow:
teach me how to
die!
Among imaginary
rooms you are the moon,
I, a tear
hanging from a pin.
The present is
the past of tomorrow,
humanity breaks
like a diphthong.
The specter of
silence is your absence,
but there is no
crying that can clear the conscience.
The magic of
that night elevates us to God:
the skin grooves
on the hands,
the wax melting
between your fingers.
A candle flame
was stunned
it cancelled the
blindness of the heart.
If you were
death I would have followed you.
A blade of grass
appears from the crevasse,
the rhyme still
rests in the notebook,
in the flowerbed
the nail of winter emerges.
The branches
were screaming, they seemed like creatures
anchored to a
darkness of light,
the evening was
eager for prayers.
Everything was
lost against time.
Death silently
offered his milk.
MARIA TERESA LIUZZO
MARIA TERESA LIUZZO was born in
Saline di Montebello Jonico and lives in Reggio di Calabria (Italy). President
of the Lyric-Dramatic Association "P. Benintende" - Journalist -
Publisher - Director of the literary magazine "LE MUSE" - Essayist -
Lyricist - Literary and Art Critic - Public Relations Director - Translator -
Opinionist - Writer - Philosopher - Editorialist - Assistant Director - Talent
Scout - Socio-cultural Operator - Foreign Correspondent - Editor of Italian and
foreign newspapers and magazines - Editor of poetry and fiction series - Doctor
of Psychology (Leibniz University Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA) - Professor of
Philosophy and Modern Literature (USA) - Executive Member of SIRIUS MEDIA (Bonn
- Germany); Member of the World Writers' Organization WOW (Russia); Important
Member of the Academic Senate of Leibniz University (USA). Maria T. Liuzzo is a
foreign correspondent, editor, and contributor to hundreds of Italian and
foreign magazines and newspapers, websites, and blogs. She has published 35
books, including five "coming-of-age" novels. She has translated
authors from five continents into Italian. Her work has been translated into 32
languages.
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