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Antonio De Lisa- A Second Horizon

By Antonio DeLisa on 7 Maggio 2019 • ( 0 )

Antonio De LisaA Second Horizon(English)

I’ll call you Poetry
lover
and finally married.
A treatise on metaphysics
in fourteen lines.
A journey into the infinite
one-way,
no return.
After millennia
fresh as a daisy.

First Movement

ONE YEAR AFTER THE OTHER

Mindless fun

The mindless fun
of the droplets that punctuate
the breath of rain on the asphalt
providing a hidden music
to the silence of the living around.
Rares, wary, hooded.
There is only it as protagonist.

Between sound and silence

It starts like this,
sounding unwilling.

The greyness of the world
not presuade
to overcome the threshold.

Sounds are lost
in dumbfounded silence.

The infertile static
melody
freezes
in a desolate swamp,
flooding with breaks
the sounds,
with frowning glances
looks
and the frustrated desires.

It sounds more alive
the thunder
out there in the sky.
And this is the spark
that vibrates the rehearsal room
and shakes
with fertile traction
rhythms happily meshed.

We are imitating the thunder
which took,
no one knows why,
a particular configuration:
that of our state of mind;
first lazy and mumbling,
then elated and foreboding
of heavy and vital rain.

Like life,
beyond all death.

A gift

I received a laughable
and valuable gift
by unexpected hands,
fragile like a secret,
suggestive of a gift
ever given.

I spend all day
gazing it,
every crease a memory,
every minute all the past.

The unlace is slow
as a ritual,
spoiled
by an abysmal gesture
often signed
but never fully
ventured.

Sometimes it is better
to stop himself in time,
to taste, then,
after a time
that seems endless
and is a flash,
that is more beautiful
the concealed
secret of dream.A silenceOnly at one point I realized
with some amazement that
I was spending the day in silence.Without sounds, words, with feelings
muffled, even the sounds were sparse,
able to not hurt and wary. Educated.

Thoughts unusually discrete
have renounced the temptation
to invade this world in darkness,

with that I’m in love now,
also available and ready now
to give up what remains.

And then I got into my own
dream and I lingered
and I wandered a long time, around

in the Hades of my past,
slowly, looking incredulous
faces and eyes forgotten for years.

Even my mistakes were exposed
in plain view, each
a letter of the alphabet.

This coded language of symbols
will have meant something
or is it just a well-ordered world.

Then they say that the private universe
of its own mistakes is a subjective
world. Biggest mistake ever.

Even some forgot hope
it was there,
in the silence of no-return.

Night on night

Today the night entered
on the day in depth,
prolonging the dawn
until early afternoon,
leaving behind
a breath of dreams.

The day has given
outrage of the night,
not without indifference,
but resigned and hostile.

Today the day
had nothing to say.

And night is rejoining
night
to divert every breath,
any urgency.

Dyadic vision

According to a dyadic
vision of sign
my signifier
pronounces words
of that I should be
meaning.
But it does not match.Second Movement
ELSEWHERE

Dublin

I have to bring you in the
nightmare necropolis of R’lyeh
-Sophie was in agreement
that enchanted evening –
is there that lie
the great Cthulhu and his hordes.
We had been kidnapped from Dublin,
sadness, depression,
the composure of the people
(except in the pub, but that’s okay).
On the evening of our arrival,
after three Temple Bar glasses,
fatigue has been
(or maybe the fact that they were not three)
-it was bitterly cold,
but not felt-
we saw the nightmare necropolis of R’lyeh.

A Terrible Beauty

“A Terrible Beauty”
an exhibition of Francis Bacon
at the Dublin City Gallery.
A Terrible Beauty
is that of Sophie.
Giddy like a drug.

Deadly kiss

In the “Dublin Writers Museum”
there is a first edition
of “Dracula” by Bram Stoker,
that obviously was born in Dublin.
Nowhere else could be born
the author of a book like that.
But who, among us,
will give the kiss of death?

That night in Dublin

In Dublin, the first night
has marked the path,
The other were sisters
mischievous and disturbing.

But that first night
-and when we recall
Sophie and I are we doing
great plant, as kids-

That first night was the dawn
of a world, but he was born that was over,
adorned by beautiful ice crystals
but already shaded from the vein

of regret that he would then
over the scene.
Dublin accomplice and spectral
diaphanous as a vestal.

Along the Royal Mile

Sophie detests the crowd
and it is not easy with her
cross the Edinburgh Royal Mile.
Besides the usual pallor
she exhibits a cold
defiant and proud.

Even when I talk to
of the three Scottish
great writers, Robert Burns,
Walter Scott and above
Robert Louis Stevenson
I can shake it
his temper.

But down the steps of Lady Stair’s Close,
in front of the Writers’ Museum
I feel a bit ‘melts
and she makes me a question,
but with sideways glances
as a capricious girl,
immediately contradicting
on the true meaning of Mr. Hyde.

Usually when I talk I fade
feelings, but this time
is different. I feel her scent,
mixed with a certain smell of cold,
coming from another universe.

Wind on the Walkway

The wind crept
light along
the Water of Leith Walkway
but altered the vital spirits
shaking at times
the words of the young lovers
creeping into the pile
and flirting with the incipient night .

But that icy hiss
seemed to appease
the looming anxiety
of Sophie, away from the crowd.

And that was enough.

In this Celtic madness
swimming plan
my Latin spirit,
bewildered, fascinated,
perhaps provided
softly to dialogue
with Gothic spectra,
of kind word
but sharp like blades.

But it was not easy
Sophie back on earth
and I was flying
when she was there.

Whitehorse Close

I’m giving at a glance
at the ornamental steps gables
of Whitehorse Close, with skylights
and projecting upper floors
and external stairs
when Sophie seems to mean
something. She has a deathly
pallor, like that of a priestess
of an ancestral religion.

She deviates the I Pod headset
from the ear. It ‘s a strange color
that shines on his lips,
but of a miraculous beauty.

I do not expect much,
I just look at her.
She does not say a word,
nor I want to hear it. Maybe.

She limits herself to lick my little finger
with its, a gesture sweeter than honey,
more harsh and bitter than absinthe.
A prayer to a distant totemic god.

It is not scratched her pain,
caressed by my mild sadness.

We’re like two drifts
that cut through the ice
that comes from the North Sea
in the sounding hour
of silence and sunset. We sink,
ignoring the time; but I would
not be anywhere else,
with any other person.
In memory of no other.
With any person stop time.
Say goodbye to the story.