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Poetry |
Stolen Moments
Andrea Antognini 1998 © All rights reserved
Introduction
Enveloped by the silence of the immense solitude that grew within me over the years, writing has become the link between reality and the dreams... and often, I can no longer distinguish between the two. And the more I have refused the daily routine, the more I have discovered the marvellous world which I managed to perceive in every moment with my new found senses. In dreams emanating from the soul, the smallest things surprisingly become the biggest, the most important... and the force of the wind is no more, only a sigh. No longer tears, but rain... Trails of thoughts flowing ever onwards over the blank walls of a notebook, cause ripples in that sea of unwritten pages, to be explored... and I, with the oar in my hands, stay to fill the vacuum, that silence inside me, the words taking me away beyond my escaping thoughts.
I have known both youth and old age, to smile and to cry, perhaps it all happened too soon, leaving a feeling of indifference within me... This has closed my heart to such an extent, so all that remains there is a glimmer of light which enables me to observe life and myself, and the entry of a few faint moon beams. Then, one day, I realized that other waves reached my dreams and I discovered I was no longer alone... creatures which spoke the same language, that could see the same things, that were in harmony with me and heard the same melodies... I could sense their bodily warmth and gradually, I became aware that our souls came close together, attracted by that profound mystery which makes us so alike and silent... so alone amongst many.
We shout happily, in that silence, words caught on the wind... shout which were life itself... and whilst we waited for the echo's caress, we held hands, fearful that our souls could have made too much noise...
Our hand often tremble as do our thoughts...
We become poetry ourselves, just like life and love, like the colour of beautiful things... and it is in this fragile existence that our breath also becomes a paradox... from the soul. And we go on loving beyond love itself, we learn to cry more than just tears, we manage to see beyond the horizon. It is both a felicitous and cruel destiny... from which there is no escape, or perhaps we do not want to escape. Therefore, we begin to exist only to talk about ourselves, emitting calls which will be heard only by a few... but we will be content all the same.
All life which we breathe, now slight, now breathless, is poetry. That is ourselves, deep down.
Stolen moments
To not lose a part of their life
in sleep...
A child cries his fears
to sleep.
A man wrestles with his thoughts
in the dark.
The old man seldom closes his eyes.
Kites
Wind.
Sweetly caressing my face.
A thousand coloured kite flies out of me...
Rejoicing with that high flying thrill,
tie to the soul by a precious thread.
Wind.
Caress my face one more time
like a mother would.
Hard
Hard
is life sometimes.
Rude teachings,
no gentleness.
The past is always there
but, often
careless...
it misses our smiles.
The Sky
I watch the sky.
In the sound
of the first snowflake...
... all the hush of my solitude.
From that fireplace
From that fireplace
blackened throught time,
a smoke thread
escapes from the fire
in order to become sky.
Fog-like
The night is cool
... and down the stone steps
my thoughts creep,
stopping where the light is no more.
I am not afraid of the dark
but that sense of nothing which envelops.
Deceits
Deceived is the child
when the wave washes
his sand castles away.
Deceived is the man
when the wave comes
too close to his life.
Deceived no more
the old man becomes one
with the wave...
One day at time
Of little scattered pieces is infinity
of small words wise man,
and life...
it's one day at a time.
And nothing else
Of every Winter gone by,
with its every tear,
I...
like the snow that melts in the sea...
... remember the cold touch
and nothing else.
Watery moments
Until yesterday
a single raindrop
lit up my dreams.
Today,
not even the sea
carries me through to the evening.
Chiaroscuros
Chiaroscuros...
brush strokes mixed in with the soul
faint, wise.
Give a real sense of the idea of life,
of my life...
of Our lives
given back in one istant.
Chiaroscuros,
of ordinary peolpe
tomorrow... not even a memory.
Underneath the Peach Trees
Petals
all a flutter from the branches.
Of enchantment...
the season of fresh love
of dream-like reality
of solitary teardrops lost,
and disenchantment.
This moment
In a drop
this moment
streams down my cheeks.
Going down
more deeply.
They run after one another
along your wrinkles
down to mouth
to become words.
I will listen to your tears
I will listen to mine,
this my moment.
Getting Old
Senility
Empty nests
The birds have flown away.
Scents
The evening
comes down in threads.
Then, quickly, the night.
Sweet shelter, discreet,
of the truth of the days.
An old man remains
sitting to watch the way.
The Man and the Dog
Where is the man going
with his dog ?
And thoughts...
for them both.
The dog scampered away
leaving the man all alone.
A stray man,
and dog....
searching for each other.
The House
Rain-lashed rooftops
and above
thick mist.
A scattering of chimneys
spew forth a white soul.
The street is desert
leading to the house.
A deserted house
that awaits us.
Far from the Fire
During that last embrace,
of foamy sea
... and the sky
I take to the wind,
a free seagull
to stave off hunger
... the desire for sea breeze.
Out of time
Where has my time gone ?
Stolen by anxiety of living...
the muffled sound of time ticking away.
Out of time...
no more seasons now...
almost without me.
Autumn Stains
Autumn stains...
dotted here and there
amongst one thought and another
between two waves breaking upon the shore.
Grey and then green...
fading... and then blue,
and foamy crests to bring them back to us.
And inside they spread even bigger...
autumn stains.
Dance
Dance... with the dreams,
...with the sound of the wind
...with silence !
Do not wait for the musicians...
Start dancing for yourself !
... And nothing remains
The days run so fast
and at the end
of each one
it strikes me
that nothing is left
of them,
of me...
The nest of an angel
And she...
who still flies,
always,
in front of your eyes
...diving to pick up your thoughts
and escaping far away to intertwine them
in the nest.
A wrinkle
In the silence
of calm water
which runs
a slight wrinkle
in the mind
trickles towards the bottom
of our sky.
With Love
It's something
that you cannot quite catch...
... and so
it becomes opaque
and big
filling every thought...
just because of this.
The Sea, the Sky
Today,
in this night,
we and the sand
seem to finish
on the shore,
only a few small white waves
make us believe
that the sea and the sky
still exist.
The Shell of Fools
Sat amongst the ruins
of this old house
I look down at my side
and mere empty shells crammed with thoughts
remain to keep me company.
In the water which rushes between the stones
our memories
become untouchable faces.
And mirrored in the tears
that fool still searching for his image.
But what is left of myself, my thoughts ?
only an empty shell
sat amongst the ruins
of this long solitude.
Hands reaching out
The same incredulous look...
In the child who discovers a dream,
and the old man dreaming of nothing.
Their hands reach out
from afar,
until barely sensing each other,
touching one other,
in the human being within.
Waves towards the shore,
waves towards the open sea.
The beginning, the end
Two moments so very distant
and yet at the same time so close.
Two moments so very different
and yet at the same time so similar.
Two moments so similar and so great
only for the fear they invoke in us.
Mystic
Night of enchantment...
disenchantment...
mystic stars,
and the night
lie sparkling upon the celestial page.
Long intervals...
mystic silence,
and the night
crowds around the horizon of our thoughts.
Just a little
Few things,
few lines,
too much...
or too little...
of me.
This Collection had been published on the June edition of Ygdrasil (1998)