Poetry Break: ‘Blue Songs’ by Gabriella Garofalo

‘Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people.’

~Adrian Mitchell~


 

Blue Songs by  Gabriella Garofalo

 

I’ll be honest, I’m feeling guilty,

Take for instance my darling friend Persephone,

So close to my heart:

Well, I can’t help being green-eyed,

Free as she is to dive and hide into the abyss

Anytime she fancies to, the gutsy girl!

See, I always leave the door of my bedroom ajar,

Just a tiny glimmer of light, as the dark spooks me

Despite my lust for waves,

And yet we are great pals, aren’t we,

We chat about his wanderings, my still life,

Funny indeed he left full of blast

Dying to get a kick out of battles and wild sea,

Funny indeed he left with a crew and twelve ships,

Yet came back alone, only to find his flat

Rife with scroungers, an obsessive wife, a dying dog –

And no, don’t get me started with his many gfs,

A lady of mature age who wolfed down the crumbs from his table,

A conjurer who saw men as they are and played along,

A naive young girl so sweet on him –

Was she head over heels in love with him?

O dear inconsistency, such is life –

I know, the warriors who struggle with the sea

Entice us women, how can we resist?

I for one find his sweet talk so charming

As to ask him for lunch twice a week –

Know what, once an ancient light tore my soul to shreds

So I can’t, I just can chase no sky,

Luckily my friend shelters me in his eyes,

If not his heart,

O dear inconsistency, such is life –

I’m a compliant castaway in a shaky truce

The silent hideaway where we hang out,

No waves for me, no shipwreck, no ‘coming home baby’,

Just the words the stars whisper to me sometimes,

Not that I understand them right –

Maybe their fault, maybe I’m tone-deaf –

But mark my words, one day I’ll get the guts

To blame the trees:

They act rude, particularly those twisted

From the very day of their birth –

Takes one to know one, right?

I know, my ambivalent knowledge

Can’t set my days straight, meantime

Draggy balloons are plodding through a steely sky –

Shame blizzards failed to blow in and rupture at last

Balloons, clouds and time.

****

Nonsense, this ghastly understatement

Is the offspring of a pharisaic mind  –

Life is unfair, they say, nope,

She is the meanest cat in town,

And I know what I’m talking about –

Take me, for instance, any time the snakes

Lie around nearby I hide, apples I don’t like,

Yet I’m doomed outside a garden

Where soft-spoken guys speak with a glass-cut accent,

Lucky dogs!

I’m doomed to a place where men drink, play snap or whist,

While women clean up, gossip Or curse the day they met dearest hubbies  –

May you too be cursed, white walls, white shelves,

The snow, the firebox where a god  forges his weapons
To better crimp my mind, that dirt where

Bluebells grow from distressed roots
And mantises get food for stronger mates  –
No way, no need for blue if you hurled

Your words to the wolves
And yet you worry where they’ve hidden,

And shout no one of them stays here –

By the way, where did they get

The days depression blazed?
Dunno? Great! And now you listen to me,

You greedy bitch, my soul, you, God, so gung ho on your infinite:

It’s true, once I asked To cross the threshold of all myths,

I did it, I, my only rewards blackouts,

Fluky loves, plastic smiles galore.

In short, the sop I’ve been stalking from day one,

A lizard who creeps into the cracks of shadows

To hide from Sauroktonos and his needles –

Just a slice of light, some crumbs of strength,

That’s what I asked for –

Maybe a consolation prize when chopped heads
Get placed on the spikes and the ravens patiently wait

For their food-

Foul meat, you think? Maybe, but every bit helps –

Or so they say.                                                 

****

 Acting shallow is a most convenient way

When you want to avert your eyes

From slightly unpleasant thingies:

For one, people say to my mind

‘Oh, you are such a gadder,

Why do you leap from parks to libraries,

From churches to art shows?’ –

Can’t they realise my mind is a jobless dosser

Anxiously looking for a homeless shelter,

A bench or a cardboard box –

At nightfall, yes, but she’s never tipsy, mind –

Can’t they realise some glares in the mirror

Act much nastier than they look –

The jerks, the jerks!

Yes, but slow down now, dead children are playing  nearby –

And my deadline is looming large,

Shall I breath silence or smash it up?

Too bad it’s errand time, must dash off,

Market stalls and trinkets waiting for me,

I’d better put doubts and queries off  –

‘Cept I can’t, my rapture listens to no reason,

So I stand still, dazzled blind:

A swarm of schoolboys is flooding the street with light,

They look like comets, don’t they, but are doomed,

Doomed to be sucked down in lightless rooms  –

And I, too, was born a comet from a sky

Where silence the enemy, wisdom the outsider –

See what you’ve done my past?

Now I’ve lost sight of those scantily clad comets,

Oh well, whatever.

Right round the corner

A gypsy lady’s barren eyes are daring men and life,

Nothing to do with those dumpling-faced women

Parroting each other at the cafes  –

Some hope at last, maybe green,

Sure fleeting like a soul in the afterlife world –

Sadly, the point is fatsos happen to reach

An advanced age, see?

Their flab always so ready to snuff me and comets,

Children and cafes out.


Author’s Bio:

gab

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”.


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S.W. Biddulph

Scott Biddulph is a published writer, author, and poet from North Georgia. He began writing as a youngster and followed his lifelong dream of reaching people through the written word when he returned to The University of North Georgia in 2013 to finish earning his BA/English with a concentration on publication and creative writing. His publications include the following: an eBook, Apples of Gold: A collection of inspirational short stories and poems (Smashwords, 2010) and a paperback, Voices from the Heart, (Createspace, 2012). His poetry is published in Papers and Publications Undergraduate Research Journal. Vol 3 (2014) and the award-winning Chestatee Review (Spring, 2015), among other places (Check his LinkedIn profile for a full list of his publications). He is currently working on publishing poetry, creative non-fiction, academic essays, and his memoir. ******** Scott has also worked as an intern editor for the University of North Georgia Press. As a freelance editor, he has done the layout and design of several books and magazines. He is currently working with several authors on various publication projects in which he is either ghostwriting, editing manuscripts, or doing the layout and design of their books. ******** Finally, and most importantly, he is a father, grandfather, husband, and dedicated Harley Davidson rider. He and his family enjoy the beauty of the North Georgia Mountains where they live—especially their screened in back porch where they love to bird watch. ******** ~ "I love realism. I love writing about the raw, down-to-Earth, heartfelt realities of life. I love to write in a way that reaches into the human soul—to take the greatest pains and struggles in life, and make them a blessing to others. Fantasy is a wonderful, interesting thing—but real-life situations, feelings, fears, and dreams are an unexplored ocean of stories that need to be told." ~ ~Scott Biddulph~

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