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poetry issues #12

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Wednesday, 12 April 2017

This twelfth issue, whose distribution started today, completes the first cycle of Poetry Issues. It has been a full year of poetic expression and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I did. From now on the publication will become bimonthly, in order to dedicate some time to other works.

You can read this issue below:

 

 

April’s Fool

 

It’s a joke, all this rain,

and I’m reminded

only by date that this

is the advent of spring.

And I envy the trees.

They seem to possess

the right time for everything:

Like clockwork they go

through winters and springs

accepting, always in majesty,

each turn of season that I

try, strong-headed and vain,

to manipulate and command.

You refused to hold my hand.




Life Without Temptation

 

I didn’t die nor resurrect

at the age of thirty three.

I’ve lost my chance.

And now I watch myself

mature to death –

an unappealing apple

without an Eve’s hand

to save me from counting

how many meters

before I hit the ground.




Afterwards

 

Pestered as they were by what happens next

they left their sentences undone, hanging

annoying as fruit flies, unsure of their direction

overwhelmed by the vast possibilities ahead.

But once, fueled by a whole night’s drinks

they raced into the pink-gold dawn that painted

all their hopes anew. That’s when they learned

that language is redundant when your soul

is smooth and it’s not only youth that burns with instinct.




Letter

 

I don’t have to tell you

that we are not what we seem.

You know it better than I do.

 

Your chatoyant eyes reflect some

passion you dismiss. I have proof

in the shivers I get when you come

 

to have a coffee under my roof

and rehearse your staged words.

Still, I hear nothing but the truth.

 

It must be an augmented chord,

what tunes us in each other.

Life before you was a chore.

 

I’m a moth heading to the lantern

for what is love but death, dear lover?




In Therapy

 

Most days I don’t remember my dreams.

It’s just that I often wake up with a sigh.

 

I’m quite hard and detest looking back.

Cicadas and lilac skies don’t amuse me.

 

In my youth I grieved imaginary deaths

far as I was from the need of an afterlife.

 

I found purpose in the half-time. I was

meant to be the eye of the universe.

 

 

 

[If you would like to learn more about the Poetry Issues project, read this.]

 
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