Poetries-Massimiliano Testa Poesie Aforismi Dipinti



Now I'm an American
and breathe my freedom
I breathe it all
and I don't waste a drop.
Now I'm an American
and I gift to America
my arms,
my words,
my heart.
Now I'm an American,
but I never forget
my home,
my games,
my mother's face.
Now I'm an American
he said to me...

Naked love
I listen the moving dunes
ravish the sad melody
that goes slow,
fading away,
about the latest lights.
On its unchanging smile,
a skull,
reflects notes
of my long horizon;
in its hollow shapes
I query the wind
that mild, untie
and displel me
on its warm sighs.
on these my deformed meats
still vague my naked love
that, dumb,
shape me
in this living desert.

I am
There was no moon
that consoled the night,
there was no wind
that caressed the grass:
no reflex enveloped
the apricot's flowers;
no enjoyment from their candor ...
Assured was the silence, assured the melancholy:
yon of an empty house,
yon of a creation unconceived.
Aftewards, a word like glass, shattered itself.
A gust of wind and His voice
disfigured the absence:
"I am!" He said ...

Souls full of jazz
They get up
from the bitter banks of the Tiber
and from the misty
alleyways of Monmartre
for then vanish
with a syncopate rhythm
in a dirty Coney Island's bar ...
They have flown over the Alps
and crossed the Atlantic on nuanced and black notes....
They are souls,
souls full of jazz.

Grape harvest
The clouds come alive
while the sky is colored gold
orange and azure:
it's dawn!
The blacks bunches,
are fatigue, must and sweat
are the flesh and
the living blood of the earth.
Two papillon
masked by cheerful butterflies
the tired bodies of the old winemakers.
It is in this enchanting October
exploding in the air,
the fragrance of the bread;
of golden oil;
of sanguine tomatoes that
on the lips of exhausted women
impertinent they painting
a conceited and ancient youngness…
It is Italy that I savor,
in its last dances!
Yet saddens itself the soul
to surrender of the last bunch...

Far away sirens
Far away sirens,
shatter the rest
of missing time:
it flows again
to die of this abstract night...
New sunrise
have colored every shade
and to me does not remain,
in this coolness of October,
hear the Moon
and the Universe
one last time...

Fleeting passion
(inspired by Anais Nin, Delta of Venus)
Take our hearts
and throw them into the flames,
wait their incinerating,
collect then the ashes
and fertilize flowers
on the windowsill
of this brothel!

The clowns whith the amber eyes
I flee dreams
and shreds of meat
still panting
that touch me every night the skin:
are the remains of the angels who do not fly;
They are the scraps of a rejected love.
You can see them by the roadside
who survive to their destiny;
abstract creatures;
monstrous clowns whith the amber eyes...
They are camouflaged among the "murals" discolored,
sharp glazing and blacks miasma:
they are trash not conceived but birthed
from the darkness of our consciences.
This one, I tell you, is the only hell
from which you can see, looking up eyes,
a paradise inhabited by only demons.

It's under the old almond tree
that I hear now, wonderful,
your first breath.
Skiming the tall fronds
your fingers are dyed,
sweets, to the supreme arts:
white petals, alive,
are snow too
that ethereal spaces dress ...
And yet there is no levee
to tears
that now
themselves lay down and then they groan
on my face defaced
for my inhuman your waiting.
It's under the old almond tree
that I hear now, wonderful,
your first breath
oh my loved spring!

The robin
Are light lines,
in the absence, the thoughts.
Every tear
in the afflicted shade of linden trees
revives the florid summers.
Light like the soul,
there approaching the robin:
it caresses the boulevard's ice;
hovers safely
so like an hoped caress.
And yet, devoid of love,
these days
will not have home...