.
« What is Poetry? »
Heavens no! Don’t ask me;
I don’t know the answer.
« Try one —Any answer;
Just to give me a clue »
Maybe
Poetry is just a starry night looking down at us..
Or it is the whole of
The underground rivers of our daily tears and moans,
Of happiness and grief, sadness and gratitude..
It is, maybe, the sight of
An emaciated body got lost in dusty fields..
A dazzling, unaware smile of a newborn baby..
A sound (Ocean’s voice?) from the very heart of a seashell..
An old soul in its (Her / His) final anguish..
A lover’s secret silence lit by the fading light of sunset..
A ripple in the brackish fluid of Consciousness..
Anyway: an endless moment in anyone’s life,
Maybe.
« Moments of Life. Is Life the clue? »
It might, if only I knew what Life is.
What I’ve realized, intertwining poetry and life, is that
We have to add Darkness when we try to appreciate what
Life is.
Darkness.. —A bit, at least. At its heart.
(2014)
[published in ‘THE CHINESE GARDENS – English Poems’, by Fabrizio Frosini,2015]
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