Poesie in lingua straniera


Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
The Soul has Bandaged moments -
When too appalled to stir -
She feels some ghastly Fright come up
And stop to look at her -
Salute her, with long fingers -
Caress her freezing hair -
Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
The Lover - hovered - o'er -
Unworthy, that a thought so mean
Accost a Theme - so - fair -

The soul has moments of Escape -
When bursting all the doors -
She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
And swings upon the Hours,

As do the Bee - delirious borne -
Long Dungeoned from his Rose -
Touch Liberty - then know no more,
But Noon, and Paradise -

The Soul's retaken moments -
When, Felon led along,
With shackles on the plumed feet,
And staples, in the Song,

The Horror welcomes her, again,
These, are not brayed of Tongue.
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    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
    in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
    If you were coming in the Fall,
    I'd brush the Summer by
    With half a smile, and half a spurn,
    As Housewives do, a Fly.
    If I could see you in a year,
    I'd wind the months in balls -
    And put them each in separate Drawers,
    For fear the numbers fuse -

    If only Centuries, delayed,
    I'd count them on my Hand,
    Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
    Into Van Dieman's Land.

    If certain, when this life was out -
    That your's and mine, should be -
    I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,
    And take Eternity -

    But, now, uncertain of the length
    Of this, that is between,
    It goads me, like the Goblin Bee -
    That will not state - it's sting.
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      Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
      in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
      It was not Death, for I stood up,
      And all the Dead, lie down -
      It was not Night, for all the Bells
      Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
      It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
      I felt Siroccos - crawl -
      Nor Fire - for just my Marble feet
      Could keep a Chancel, cool -

      And yet, it tasted, like them all,
      The Figures I have seen
      Set orderly, for Burial,
      Reminded me, of mine -

      As if my life were shaven,
      And fitted to a frame,
      And could not breathe without a key,
      And 'twas like Midnight, some -

      When everything that ticked - has stopped -
      And Space stares all around -
      Or Grisly frosts - first Autumn morns,
      Repeal the Beating Ground -

      But, most, like Chaos - Stopless - cool -
      Without a Chance, or Spar -
      Or even a Report of Land -
      To justify - Despair.
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        Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
        in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
        If Anybody's friend be dead
        It's sharpest of the theme
        The thinking how they walked alive -
        At such and such a time -
        Their costume, of a Sunday,
        Some manner of the Hair -
        A prank nobody knew but them
        Lost, in the Sepulchre -

        How warm, they were, on such a day,
        You almost feel the date -
        So short way off it seems -
        And now - they're Centuries from that -

        How pleased they were, at what you said!
        You try to touch the smile
        And dip your fingers in the frost -
        When was it - Can you tell -

        You asked the Company to tea -
        Acquaintance - just a few -
        And chatted close with this Grand Thing
        That dont remember you -

        Past Bows, and Invitations -
        Past Interview, and Vow -
        Past what Ourself can estimate -
        That - makes the Quick of Woe.
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          Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
          in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
          I'm ceded - I've stopped being Their's -
          The name They dropped upon my face
          With water, in the country church
          Is finished using, now,
          And They can put it with my Dolls,
          My childhood, and the string of spools,
          I've finished threading - too -
          Baptized, before, without the choice,
          But this time, consciously, of Grace -
          Unto supremest name -
          Called to my Full - The Crescent dropped -
          Existence's whole Arc, filled up,
          With one - small Diadem -

          My second Rank - too small the first -
          Crowned - whimpering - on my Father's breast -
          A too unconscious Queen -
          But this time - Adequate - Erect,
          With power to choose,
          Or to reject,
          And I choose, just a Crown.
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            Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
            in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
            She sights a Bird - she chuckles -
            She flattens - then she crawls -
            She runs without the look of feet -
            Her eyes increase to Balls -
            Her Mouth stirs - longing - hungry -
            Her Teeth can hardly stand -
            She leaps, but Robin leaped the first -
            Ah, Pussy, of the Sand,

            The Hopes so juicy ripening -
            You almost bathed your Tongue -
            When Bliss disclosed a hundred Wings -
            And fled with every one.
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              Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
              in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
              He touched me, so I live to know
              That such a day, Accepted so -
              I dwelt - upon his breast -
              It was a boundless place to me
              And silenced, as the awful Sea
              Puts minor streams to rest.

              And now, I'm different from before,
              As if I breathed superior air -
              Or brushed a Royal Gown -
              My feet, too, that had wandered so -
              My Gypsy face - transfigured now -
              To tenderer Renown -

              Into this Port, if I might come,
              Rebecca, to Jerusalem,
              Would not so ravished turn -
              Nor Persian, baffled at her shrine
              Lift such a Crucifixal sign
              To her imperial Sun.
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                Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
                in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
                He touched me, so I live to know
                That such a day, Accepted so -
                I dwelt - upon his breast -
                It was a boundless place to me
                And silenced, as the awful Sea
                Puts minor streams to rest.

                And now, I'm different from before,
                As if I breathed superior air -
                Or brushed a Royal Gown -
                My feet, too, that had wandered so -
                My Gypsy face - transfigured now -
                To tenderer Renown -

                Into this Port, if I might come.
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                  Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
                  in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
                  Would not paint - a picture -
                  I'd rather be the One
                  It's bright impossibility
                  To dwell - delicious - on -
                  And wonder how the fingers feel
                  Whose rare - celestial - stir -
                  Evokes so sweet a Torment -
                  Such sumptuous - Despair -
                  I would not talk, like Cornets -
                  I'd rather be the One
                  Raised softly to Horizons -
                  And out, and easy on -
                  Through Villages of Ether -
                  Myself upborne Balloon
                  By but a lip of Metal -
                  The pier to my Pontoon -

                  Nor would I be a Poet -
                  It's finer - own the Ear -
                  Enamored - impotent - content -
                  The License to revere,
                  A privilege so awful
                  What would the Dower be,
                  Had I the Art to stun myself
                  With Bolts - of Melody.
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                    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
                    in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
                    Within my Garden, rides a Bird
                    Upon a single Wheel -
                    Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
                    As 'twere a travelling Mill -
                    He never stops, but slackens
                    Above the Ripest Rose -
                    Partakes without alighting
                    And praises as he goes,

                    Till every spice is tasted -
                    And then his Fairy Gig
                    Reels in remoter atmospheres -
                    And I rejoin my Dog,

                    And He and I, perplex us
                    If positive, 'twere we -
                    Or bore the Garden in the Brain
                    This Curiosity -

                    But He, the best Logician,
                    Refers my clumsy eye -
                    To just vibrating Blossoms!
                    An Exquisite Reply!
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