Poesia Luciano Cinanni

" Poems dedicated to the enchanting World painted by Liliana Condemi "

THE TIME

Falls in pond a rocky tear.

Punctual waves embrass every moment.

Trace the colours

Avoiding the shadows.

Go across the coats:

From the surface

Radiant with life.

At the bottom

Rest or prison of faded films.

It’s time that a whirl breaks the calm,

bringing oxygen where there is not.

(Published in Poetic Anthologies:”Navigando nelle Parole”, Il Filo Editions, Rome;” Il Tempo” Editor Giulio Perrone, Rome; “La Parola Sensuale” Stampalibri.it, Macerata)

FUNNY

The thoughts quiver excited,

Crowd without any breath,

As ants among sugar cubes.

Prone statues, celebrate Venus,

Resigned to the defeat of a powerless tongue

Lustful and incapable of expressing that burning cluster of feelings and of rhythms.

We need to rejoice

About useless and neuronal opposition

To explosive and funny passion.

(Published in Poetic Anthology: “La Parola Sensuale” Stampalibri.it, Macerata)

MOTHER

In front of a painting of a disarming white,

Repeats itself inborn symbiosis between the artist and the colours.

The colours seem to join with religious admiration

Toward those living, calm, or impetuous shapes

And that white which becomes perfect refuge or fairy accommodation.

No plans, no rules to follow, nor clear-cut ways

At closing of door,

the isolation “in atelier of becoming”,

There finds again the colours to meditate between the World, congenial for her.

Here it is the sea, the clouds, the sun

unique cornerstones of an existence

and sharp and soft figures, visible expression of hidden emotions.

Hot colours of veiled draperies

Set next to the faces of goddesses without time,

But so real

To drive the mind across sweet smells and flavours of love nights.

Paintress of genius in “Danza”,entertains with rebel notes and charming melodies.

The weightlessness, which projects the spectator into the painting,

Would make happy Icarus,

That has not need of cerous wings, suspended

Would cradle himself embrassing figures

And plunging into the colours

To whose the nature has not yet thought about.

PEOPLE

To whose who did never lean out beyond the buble of shallowness

To whose who judge without having any opinion.

To whose who discriminate the people they do not look like them from habit.

To whose who do not worry about their banality,

But about their bright belongings.

To whose who try to dominate their own half,

because are powerless to dominate their own instincts.

To whose who uproot the harvest in a flourishing field,

believing the other people unable or less clever.

To whose who savour the music of shells

swept away from the backwash.

Or religious colours of the mountain

without recording the distances.

To whose who do not live

do not know to smile,

because are afraid that is a weakness.

AT YOUR SALUTATION

Calm Grandfather, just husband and next immature father,

old enough for journeys never planned

toward heard places in far stories,

pompous of proclamations screamed from a shrill radio.

You were unprovided with everything, except your values,

proud to serve not this or that owner,

But an ideal,

No hate, but the convinction in a creed.

Years of blood and prison.

Just now I realize your silent return,

without sharing with your dear family the burden of those years.

You sip the usual tea next to a dusty gramophone,

your ancient distinction and the vocation toward the neighbour

The suffering without ever shading any tear

nor any moan given big disease.

Your wonder of soul

giving us

the serenity of your smile

and that reassuring the depth of your look

“ GREET THE CHILDREN FOR ME”.

Forced by transient time,

so you have summed up your simple, great love.

HIPPOCAMPUS

I run naked among religious firs

holding the branches as imploring arms,

extended, powerless and exhausted

toward a deaf cement.

At dawn I sit in foreshore, intent flight,

with me a seagull challenging the wind.

Shy waves dressed in azure

entertain with blues music.

Notes which go across the body and clear the soul.

At open sea a nice schooner

suspended between the sky and the sea, it scans careful.

I hold it among my fingers, a long sleep.

The breath of Aeolus swells its sails

so that the schooner restarts to sail.

Punctual is the horizon.

by Luciano Cinanni