Immigrant Body

Published in the printed Issue 75 of ‘Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine’,

Immigrant Body

Immigrant Body

In this immigrant body

I rest

treasuring what this city offers

verdant hills, crowded blocks,

and what it takes

every drop of my sweat 

every tick of my clock.

With this immigrant body 

I traipse

through the narrow lanes, the dai pai dongs 

like a migratory bird anxious to leave, return

sometimes flying off-course

a vagrant brought by the weather 

going astray, often lost.

With this immigrant body

I quest

shifting from my seat to yours

not claiming your meal, your home.

I am the soil, the seed

the solo traveller

whose story belongs to all.

For this immigrant body

I write

while dragged by the gales along the road

forgetting about myself

and all desires that drive this world.

I write and whirl—whirl, like a dervish,

as if this body were not mine 

were not immigrant anymore.

If Life Were Cala della Disa

Published on ‘Mediterranean Poetry’, a literary journal dedicated to poetry about the Mediterranean world

If Life Were Cala della Disa

If life were the cove 

the creek I discovered 

along the jagged coast 

of ancient Sicily 

I would call it home

I would lie down 

on blankets of white

fragments of corals and shells,

on rocks munched by the sea

murmuring through their holes

with the voice of crabs, urchins, mussels.

I would 

listen.

My hair flowing loose

dry like Sirocco chiming,  carrying

alchemy of smells: almond, ash, 

figs, ferns, wild fennel. 

I would swim 

in its motherly waters

a crystal ball through which I’d see 

my life, my past unroll

like an undecipherable Chinese scroll.

The sounds of the sea

the waves docking against the walls

of the caves

would keep me awake.

The blue that meets the blue, the emerald,

the lightest hue,

would tell me it’s time to view the world 

in colours.

Tasting the salt on my lips and limbs,

thirst and hunger growing

with my wish to hug the ocean

cross the horizon.

I would dig then

drink from the mouth of a spring

somewhere on the hill ‘lì sopra’, above,

nourished by blobs of berries 

hidden in bramble bushes  

that would burst in my mouth.

My body at last exhausted, satisfied,

would rest  inside the caravanserai 

cast in the clouds

while the swallows as they glide

the seagulls in their flights 

would lure me — teach me

how to dive deeper 

read the currents

ride the waves

adapt to the sea, the tides.

The Meaning of Hong Kong

Published in ‘Apostrophe’, the literary magazine of the Hong Kong Writers’ Circle

The Meaning of Hong Kong

For us,

who have walked along

the Before with joy,

and trod through the After

with angst,

it's desiderium —

It’s a sampan ride

with a boat-dwelling Tanka;

a pipe smoked

with an old Hakka.

It’s the taste of 臭豆腐*

archaic, tempting,

even if it comes

with the stink.

For you,

who are moving your first steps

on the balance beam,

and climb onto bamboo scaffolding

to see the sky,

it's anemoia.

It’s the song

you've never heard;

the candles

no longer lit;

the books burnt

on bonfires.

It's the echo

without the cave.

*cau3 dau6 fu6: fermented bean curd, also known as ‘smelly tofu’.

Tarrying Home - Unfolding

Published in the printed poetry anthology ‘Where Else: An International Hong Kong Poetry Anthology (2023 Verve Press) .

Please read more about this anthology in this article by Vaughan Rapatahana, published on Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, where my poem is also mentioned.

Tarrying  Home - Unfolding

At first it seemed that

                                        Nothing could ever compare to you

­(what made’ you’, was yours only)

                                        or to what you were giving in return.

Not even your typhoons

                                        - Fury, wreckage of brambles and branches-

were like the cyclones

                                        sweeping away roofs, cars, homes

in the Northern hemisphere.

                                         It felt familiar,

Always familiar, was

                                         the chattering of parrokets

the call of the koels

                                         covering the irritating rattling of MTR trains

and the horning of taxi drivers unable to unwind.

                                          The trolleys with cardboard boxes pushed by old ladies

The cage homes, the sub-divided flats

                                           everyone wrote about in their Hong Kong poems

were trademarks of your never-changing evolutions.

                                            I liked to fall asleep listening to your loud lullaby

I liked to stay with you despite the hype, the high price;

                                            I thought it was almost forever-love

despite the smog, the smoke, the snakes, the blaze.

                                            Then, when the trees,

When even the banyans changed shape and turned into bamboos,

                                             when they started bending at the slightest whisper of wind,

that love burned to ashes,

                                              like the joss-paper everyone wrote about

in their Hong Kong poems.

                                              You entered another door,

This time…

                                               Me, following you,

hopeful at first—

                                               circling around like a koi prisoner in the pond,

heart in my hands

                                               looking for the exit in the dark hall

ready to leave you forever.

Haruspicy

Published in the printed anthology ‘Making Space- A collection of Writing and Art’ (2023, Cart Noodle Press -The Chinese University of Hong Kong)

Haruspicy*

Sheep’s livers, entrails:

a delivery to my room

fresh from the market.

I put them on two plates

and asked the haruspex to interpret

Sun God’s answers.

I paid, for two animals, 

the ceremony, 

for a simple ‘yes-or-no’, on Zoom.

There was no other way to fathom out 

what this Government would rule next.

Auspicious, inauspicious.

The haruspex was shrouded in smoke.

After checking the stinky content

on the first plate, 

he shook his head

came closer to the screen

and pointed at the second serving.

He examined it,

with eyes revolving as restless globes.

‘Inauspicious’, was the final verdict.

I steamed the soft tubular innards

on top of the bubbling water kettle, 

adding salt and pepper,

resigned to give up my own space,

and to be subjected to infinite rounds

of quarantine-approved hotels

till time will tell.

*In the religion of ancient Rome, a haruspex was a person trained to practise a form of divination called 'haruspicy' to discover the will of the gods according to the information gathered through reading the animals' entrails. I wrote this poem during a two-week compulsory quarantine locked in a hotel room in Hong Kong, during the Covid-19 crisis. Hong Kong and China were the only places where compulsory quarantine lasted for almost 3 years.

White Over the Lagoon

Published in the printed Issue 72 of ‘Voice and Verse Magazine’

WHITE OVER THE LAGOON

You will be soon 

taking flight over the calm sea:

a bright dot shimmering far,

filling my sky.

I will still check on you as I do now—

shivering at the 'last seen' on my screen,

postponing the pain of the known,

avoiding the chasm of the imminent void.

The white of the hospice walls,

the white of the bedsheets.

If all that white were a page to write on,

were not there to highlight 

the feeble breaths of our lives.

If all that white were a colony 

of gulls, 

vocalising in a flash of wings,

wandering the Venetian lagoon

as you were planning to.

I will take you there, I will,

snuggled up against my heart,

sheltered in my black coat.

I will release you—

warm radiant wave, ready

to be carried away by the salty wind.

Walking on Water

Published in the printed Issue of ‘American Writers Review 2022 - The End or the Beginning?’

Walking on Water

Wouldn’t it be good

 to walk on water 

alone, 

feet grazed by the waves,

tickled by the bites 

of nosy fish.

 To leave behind 

little fires on the beach,

crab carcasses, pebbles, 

plastic bottles, bright buoys.

 You could glide for miles on the 

same sheet of water, 

only its colour changing 

according to the depths of oceans, 

the moods of the sky.

 Passing countries like floating bodies, 

it all looks peaceful from there,

the occasional warship 

in wait.

 You hop islands. It’s not 

where you want to settle. 

You already feel like one. 

Island.

 Nobody kicks you out of its 

territorial waters

for not wearing a mask, 

not filling in forms, 

nor getting tested.

 With reverence, someone 

rolls down a red carpet of neatly knitted 

purple sea-moss, 

enticing you to land.

 And you can reach 

  your family 

shore, 

a lighthouse on a rock, 

                                                         its light off.

You knock at the door 

dressed in barnacles, encrusted mussels. 

Your mojos are a sea urchin, a shark tooth you hang 

to the naked tree.

 They let you in, hug your scraggy body, 

touch your salt-wrinkled face.

They see themselves reflected 

in your vagrant eyes.

 You’re unsullied, clean, 

  you’re there, for them.

            You’ve stepped off the horizon, 

             you’ve walked miles and miles 

     on water.

Tattoo

Published in the printed Issue 52.1 of ‘Wisconsin Review’

and in my poetry collection Uncharted Waters

Tattoo

 Your kiss buzzed in my head

like a fine needle running up,

down, drawing

dragons, anchors,

lovers’ names and mermaids

on yielding skin.

It hurt and yet I yearned

for its mark, carrying it

on my body

as the first sign of

an indelible

storyline of ink.

Hours, days of pain

made it black and unabashed

—a Polynesian tatau

that snaked around my torso,

neck and limbs,

passing on its powers.

From the dermis,

its pigments leaked

into my veins,

etched

the chambers of my heart. 

Inle Illusion

Published in the ‘Don’t Give Up’ Issue of ‘The Wild Word’

Nominated by ‘The Wild Word’ for ‘Best of the Net 2021’

INLE ILLUSION (for Kyal Sin, aka ‘Angel’ 2002-2021)

I.

Tear gas,

shootings,

your voice shouting

“Are we united?”

People chanting

“United, United”.

EVERY

THING

WILL BE

OK

printed on your T-shirt

soon smeared

by your own blood —its type

written on the card

attached to a lanyard:

you wished to donate your organs

you wished to save some souls.

They exhumed you,

instead,

to double-check

what bullet pierced your head.

II.

Kyal, had you ever been

to the immense Inle Lake?

There’s a small temple

floating on a patch of grass,

alone,

as if fallen from a cloud.

It’s beautiful:

golden spires atop

candid white stupas,

red roofs shaded by the trees.

If you blink, you can see

two temples,

united

only by the Sun.

One temple standing,

and one reflected

in the creased water.

People enter a room,

say their prayers, kneeling,

then step out

and everything looks blurred,

like in a warped mirror.

And when Darkness falls,

the temple dissolves.

All the souls are left drowning.

Out in the World

Published in the printed Issue of ‘Mingled Voices 5’ (Proverse Hong Kong)

Out in the World

For Anthea and Leonardo

I left you both

under tall evergreen trees,

enveloping branches,

and soft blankets of velvety moss

that will keep you warm.

You’ll feed on oxygen,

carbon dioxide,

exciting, intoxicating staples.

You’ll learn from, work for

the world,

believe in Man, regardless, love

this battered Earth abused by all.

I left you in a foreign forest,

but from here to there

it's just other faces, names

languages and manners.

You step on my same underbrush,

sleep under the same black tent

with petals of white glow.

A sunbeam pierces the woods,

darts among us, travelling for

thousands of kilometres

through another time zone,

another slice of the globe,

at an hour that I keep on chasing so that

it ticks with mine,

even when your night rules my day

and sunrise and sunset mingle,

still dyed by the same big star

that will also and above all be yours.

Make it yours. 

Diametrical Growth

Published in the printed Issue 56 of ‘Voice & Verse Magazine’

Diametrical Growth

My garden marked the passing of time 

until I left.

The swaying force of my pine tree led to the season of rebirth.

When it was time to change skin, it shed off its dry needles

into the gutter.

Under the rains, to Mum’s disappointment,

they fell in a prickling shower,

and threaded a soft brown carpet that covered the navy tiles and the grass

in patches of brown.

Ignoring their suffocating power, Mum planted new flowers.

The soil woke up and welcomed the seeds,

eager to find out which colours would blanket its neat beds.

She used to mail me pictures of her artwork, with our black cat

sitting still in the middle, posing like the Egyptian divinity Bastet.

Like her, the last one of a series of many

protectors of home, women’s secrets, fertility and birth.

As an open door to warm breeze or chilly gusts, 

autumn passed quite unnoticed.

It was either the weaker trail of a hot summer,

without the same daring and seducing strength,

or the prelude of winter, with cold spells that surprised Nature

and drove it right into the heart of the coldest season

forcing the landscape to hibernate and shed its lush clothes.

But summer is every year for me the season of discoveries.

The pine tree in my garden has grown suddenly very tall,

like a teenager you leave as a boy and find the year after a man,

shambling off the house in a hoodie, cap on his head.

The rosemary shines in all its splendour and woodsy pungent aroma.

A lavender bush replaces the deceased apricot tree.

The grey foggy sky of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine

is now a permanent blue sheet.

The dark afternoons get back their long and bright nights.

And the vapours of hot minestrone, braised meats and polenta

turn to lunches and dinners outdoors.

I harvest red tomatoes, bite their sweet inviting meat

dripping joyous blood that tickles my naked arms.

The ones not eaten on the spot are paired

with milky buffalo mozzarella and fresh basil leaves

that leave a fragrance of home on my fingertips.

I pack this aroma with crisp mountain air, white pebbles from the beach,

drops of emerald seawater and other Italian comforts

that will travel with me back to the East.

Under the big umbrella that sways like a swing before any summer

storm – all noise, wind, musky smell and little rain – 

we revel in ham and melon, bruschetta, spaghetti alle vongole, salads, peppers,

grilled eggplants, spongy watermelon and heavenly peaches from the South.

It happens, sometimes, that a pine needle drops into our plates

and bursts the summer bubble.

Undeterred,

we spoil ourselves with ice creams from the nearby gelateria,

as if summer would never return.

As if the rings of the pine tree

would stop growing.

Year after year, it’s comforting to notice,

its increased height

but not its enlarged girth.

Pearl and Coral

Published in the printed Issue 56 of ‘Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine’

Pearl and Coral

 i  

For you, Vertical City, I headed East—  

chased dreams of a bustling metropolis  

that turned lead into gold,  

moulding my fantasies  

bigger than blocks flourishing  

through bauhinia leaves, papaya trees.  

I searched for the pearl,  

concealed in your harbour,  

slipped under  

the firm carpet of reclaimed lands,  

the asbestos roofs of shacks,  

or captured by the mouth  

of a golden dragon.  

In a Sham Shui Po shop,  

I was offered mother-of-pearl buttons  

for 5 dollars a pair.  

Their nacre iridescent, gleaming  

not formed layer upon layer  

within a soft body tissue,  

rather—in the inner lining  

of hard shells.  

ii  

For you, Motherland, I dreamed West.  

I collected postcards—  

their stamps, now yellow.  

And then screensavers,  

ritualistic fancies for coffee-breaks:  

illustrious ruins, 

muscular statues of naked gods,  

saints on whitewashed walls,  

Gothic pinnacles and Romanesque arches.    

I could smell pine trees,  

touch dolomite rocks.  

I could swim in turquoise seas  

but didn’t scout the rocky bottom,  

didn’t burrow through caverns and crevices  

300 meters below, to find your coral.  

I skimmed over the water  

wearing goggles.  

In the stalls near St. Mark’s Square,  

I was offered smooth glass beads  

for 5 Euros a string.  

Their lustre polished, in noble red,  

not coming from the calcified branches  of coral polyps,  

rather—mass produced  

in crowded factories.  

iii  

My City,  

my Motherland,  

with you in my heart,  

I feel like a hopeful bride  

wishing  

a pearl ring for engagement  

and coral earrings for the wedding day. 

Uncharted Waters

Published on ‘Curator Magazine’

UNCHARTED WATERS

Words

obscure creatures of the deep sea,

ghostly, translucent, writhing

make my dinghy.

I grip

vowels by their hoops,

or stiff rods

ribbons of gluey algae

sticking to the roof of my mouth

I grab

consonants by their hooks,

multiplying shoots of

Posidonia Oceanica

with its free-floating fruits.

Adjectives are still unknown

in the hundreds,

an abysmal abyss,

the hadal zone.

I hang on to floats:

safe verbs, prepositions

sometimes nouns

couched in modest tones

coiled to craft,

a raft of my own

when the wind abandons

uncharted waters.

No Time for Spoon River

NO TIME FOR SPOON RIVER

Published on ‘From Whispers to Roars’, Quarantine Tales , and on the printed anthology ‘Poems from The Lockdown’, available on Amazon

“Dear grandparents, it is difficult to let you go like this. You have always told us that without each other you could not live. So, one after the other, just two days apart, you are both in Heaven. We are heartened to think that now you are finally together again and can hug each other once more.” (Dante and Angelina’s grandchildren from Clusone, Bergamo, Italy)

‘Suddenly’

He is gone, in peace.

Quietly, ‘suddenly’, 

She has left us.

‘Suddenly’

And nothing else,

For fear of mentioning 

The terrible word.

You died alone,

Your soul passing through ventilators, 

Forced breath.

No hand to hold yours,

No whispers, no hugs.

Now, you’re with the other 156, 

Smiling at us from the obituary photos 

Filling up the eleven pages

Of the local newspaper.

A few printed lines

The only way to say

We loved you.

Did you comb your hair 

Before taking that picture?

Did you wear your favourite lipstick?

Did you use that little square of you

For a new ID or passport,

Or driving licence?

Your coffins line up, 

Along the four walls of the church.

I guess you beckon to each other now,

Sharing memories of grandkids’ first steps,

Children’s graduations, 

Fiancées’ withered flowers or rings.

Frankincense and myrrh flutter in clouds, 

Graze the marble walls,

The stained-glass windows, the cross,

The holy water.

Baptisms, marriages and funerals

Have the same scent here.

Prayers murmured by the priest 

Echo among the forty who departed,

And the few ones 

Still kneeling.

At the cemetery,

Only the mourners’ eyes speak.

Mouths and noses are covered,

For the dark evil rages in disguise.

Sealed corpses queue, 

As if buying 

Groceries from heaven’s store

Rather than minutes, or the flicker 

Of a quick goodbye before burial.

Not far, 

There’s heat going on, fire,

Non-stop burning,

Smoke—

Like on the ghats of Varanasi,

Without the chanting, the ablutions,

Without the river Ganges 

Welcoming you in its arms.

They say we are dust

And to dust shall return.

We, The Social Animals

UNCHARTED WATERS

Published in

‘The Quaranzine: Poetry in the Time of COVID-19 (A Fearsome Critters Zine, p.56)’

We, The Social Animals

It can’t be true,

At first, we thought.

There has to be a mistake.

The numbers are wrong, we tested too many people,

Even those who just sneezed once

While at the Accident & Emergencies

With a broken leg or arm.

It has to be a conspiracy

Plotted by our European neighbours

Jealous because – no doubt – we have the best food,

The best pizza, the biggest number of UNESCO heritage sites,

The second-longest living people in the world,

The Pope, Michelangelo, Leonardo and all

On top of fantastic weather, beautiful seaside,

Islands, mountains, falls.

Not satisfied that Venice is already sinking

And Rome is a mess,

They sent us the virus,

As an invisible ‘patient zero’

Causing unwanted stress.

And in doing so, they killed not only us,

But our very essence,

Our being Italian.

But we, the social animals,

Felt threatened

Just by hearing ‘quarantine’

Even if the word – coined during the Black Death – comes

From the Italian ‘quaranta’ and it means forty,

Now already cut down to fourteen.

We felt trapped

Like panthers at the zoo

Forced to move around in a tiny space

Thinking of how to break free from the cage.

Not to mention we would never wear a face mask,

Not only useless, but absolutely not cool,

Making us look like real fools.

So, as soon as news broke

That the North was going to be in lockdown

Many jammed the train stations

And fled down to the Southern towns.

Some of us said that Italy was not only affected by brain drain,

But now, morons’ drain,

And the South was suffering again.

We, the social animals

Went on sipping our aperitivo undisturbed,

Sitting snugly by the river, or canal

With prosecco flowing

As the number of the ill and dying

Was growing.

They were old, they said, and already ill.

But goodness, 

When you’re 80, in Italy, you still have another 20 to go.

Yet, we felt invincible and protected,

In our own private microcosm,

Not at all affected.

Suddenly, when we came to the realization,

When lockdown meant that we had nowhere to go

And anyway, nobody wanted us anymore,

It was – as all things Italian – too late.

The sirens of ambulances passing by our homes,

The IUC departments overflown,

Hospitals on the brink of collapse

Retired doctors and nurses called back to work

Around the clock.

The fear that not only we had not enough resources

But that we were all mortal.

Regardless of age,

We could not ignore

We had to fight another war.

Now we, the social animals,

Lock ourselves into four walls,

Sit on the sofa dealing with family bore,

Cultivating our own garden from the third floor,

Smart-working and remote-learning indoors.

So, forgive me if tonight I’m not craning my neck

To reach you cheeks, to stamp my kiss

Or extend my arms for a hug

Or shake your hand

As if you caught for sure a bug.

Excuse me if – like my government has ruled –

The one-square-meter distance between us

Is the only cure.

I wonder what lesson we’ll draw from this

When it’s all over, when we’ll manage to recover.

Would we look back and say

That we, the social animals, managed to get our lives back

Not because we’re unruly

And can’t live without kisses, hugs, wine and dine,

But because finally we realized that

It was not as selfish individuals, and not alone

That we could win this war?

Ahmed's Chimera

MY INTERPRETATION OF THE THEME OF ‘DISTANCE’ PUBLISHED ON ‘CHA, AN ASIA LITERARY JOURNAL’

‘Ahmed’, Mum told me as I left her behind,

‘No distance really matters. You must go.’

Two months’ ordeal.

My body transported from one soil to another.

Crossing the desert on a truck

Thirty of us, soon a half.

My stomach growling,

Lamenting pains of starvation

The brain refused to acknowledge.

Heading North,

Surviving jail and torture,

Compulsory passports to our first destination.

Money buys all.

Even a passage to hell.

The sea, finally. That blue amplitude:

A liquid field shortening the distance between desperation

And hope.

Not treacherous,

Not an enemy to fight

Who spills blood on our faces and limbs,

Gunning down families, dismembering us,

left homeless and rootless.

The Mediterranean Sea.

A treasure cove of ancient amphorae,

Their encrusted handles

Loops of passage for curious fish.

Remains of old vessels condemned to seawater,

Home to marine life and forgotten past,

Hideaways for predators and preys.

In a flash, like unmerciful hands grabbing the side of the

Crammed dinghy,

Waves rose and rocked

Thirsty men, hopeful women, crying children.

A traitor’s push

Delivered them to their destiny.

Troublemakers – they told us – do not deserve to stay aboard.

Their bodies floated

With unnoticed commotion:

Patches of colour on the monotonous black.

Awaiting to sink, depart.

Engulfed, swallowed up by the abyss.

Our bodies, shaking, pressed into others’,

Eyes as dry as our glued lips and thirsty throats.

Voices fell as silent as the frigid night.

A coward, mute by fear

I only muttered prayers to my God. And cried with no tears.

Unawares, the tiny dot, fogged, trembling under the heat of the

Unfriendly sun

Grew bigger, enlivening spirits

If any left.

The boat was lighter, devoid of painful weights,

Driven by a disgruntled Charon carrying his last ghosts.

Lampedusa. A white beach, an island. No longer so far but still distant.

Hoping to be soon wrapped in blinding, metallic space blankets,

Dreams resuscitated and gave way to a fleeting chimera:

To proudly look at the sea –

Not lying flat, the swash and backwash of waves

Wetting a grey motionless face and a tiny body that could be

My brother’s, washed ashore on Turkish land.

But standing, toes in the sand, like a reborn man.

Whatever Love it's Love

Published in 'New Asia Writing'

Whatever love it’s love.

It’s a bonfire

An auto-da-fé

Unrequited,

Untamed it burns.

Filial, familiar.

Like an earthquake

It shakes the house

Tears down buildings

Hides in the closet

Or under the bed.

Doors shut.

Regrettable, forgettable

wrinkled bed sheets

bra on the floor.

A soulless creature

left hanging around

in the nightly fear.

It cries to the world

anger and delusions.

Nobody cares.

Whatever love it’s love.

Crammed into your stomach

Cramps

Ache

Spreading like a disease up to your heart.

If wise

It will bore you

To death,

Shut your mouth

Hold your breath.

If passionate

It won’t last

forever

It will turn sour

Yogurt

Creamy cool feeling

Soothing

But deceiving.

Whatever love it’s love.

It takes you by surprise

Be surprised

Take your chances

Give, receive

Dump, be dumped

Lower your expectations

Believe in hallucinations

Rejoice

Cry for the pain

But don’t complain

No shame

Nobody to blame.

You chased it.

It chose you.

When the Rainbow Graced the Sky

I

(An earlier version of this poem has been published in the anthology ‘

Desde Hong Kong: Poets in conversation with Octavio Paz’,)

Written in response to Octavio Paz' poem 'As one listens to the rain'.

The rain abandons its sheet of glaze

taking with it the mist, drizzle, steam—-

and you.

The sky boasts now a waterfall of hues,

a palette of warm feelings.

I look at the trees as they await the approaching darkness.

It was there, where I perceived the gentle step 

of a flower.

The storm had moved from the clouds above

to rest within myself 

after you crossed that road,

walked into my life.

Time and sorrow evaporated, 

droplets of joy heated my heart,

the steam of pleasure possessed my body

in a carousel of give and take.

The window, scared by the banging panels,

suddenly shuddered,

as you stopped talking and listening 

to the raindrops,

as you left from the main door.

Your hair abandoned my pillow.

Your body printed a mark on the bed sheets.

Years, months and days

muttered words of ice.

The cascading colours still flash their beauty 

to the dying day.

And the empty terrace cradles my soul.

Your beauty is frozen in time,

and whispers words of rain.

Arboreal Witness

Published in the printed issue of ‘Mingled Voices 4’ (Proverse Hong Kong)

Arboreal Witness  

“One Day, One Yard, Bagan Won’t Move.”  —Burmese Proverb  

Your long arms—  

reassuring, maternal,  

draped in the white scales of time,  

welcome me again  

as the sky blushes  

and covers the idle Irrawaddy with a pink film. 

A boat spits out loud crackles  

and marks  

the end of daily tasks.  

The banks are thirsty.  

You, immutable and prosperous— 

silent sentinel of an eternal valley,  

where spare red bricks crumbled  

with the grumbling of the earth’s belly. 

Pinnacles fell from the temples’ roofs 

like Buddhas’ heads severed and stolen— 

or past heroes betrayed by men in uniform, 

who sat down quietly to eat lahpet 

under your weeping canopy.  

Every now and then,  

a bride appears.  

Her eyes, like mine, turn to you,  

wishing to free the memories  

tangled in your branches.  

The train of her white dress bears  

a new fragrance,  

and gently receives  

the dead leaves that you dropped  

while blessing her footsteps. 

The Illusory Army

Published in the anthology ‘Quixote, Poems East of La Mancha’

The Illusory Army

From a distance, I caught sight

Of an army of fierce soldiers.

They wore yellow ribbons and were ready

To take over our precious, scarce

Land and our unassailable city.

‘Let’s fight the enemy!’ I told amigo Sancho.

I hoped to get some tanks,

But those were to be found 

Only across the border

And Rocinante was too tired

To gallop that far.

I climbed up the roof of the HSBC headquarters

To take possession of the two cannons

Pointing at the Bank of China.

But once up there,

It turned out that they were

Useless cranes.

Sancho told me

That what I had seen

Was not an army,

Of brutal soldiers.

Those were only

Innocuous umbrellas

Opened by young women and men

As symbol of defiance and resistance.

We should not fend them off, he said.

They represented a concrete possibility

Of a future with more freedom

Of choice.

But the army was blocking the traffic,

And it was fast spreading like plague,

Suffocating people under its menacing canopies

That brought the city to a halt.

I had to tear them apart,

With my lance.

And leave them defeated,

Like deflated balloons,

Popping and dropping

On reconquered soil.

Sancho refused to follow me.

He said he was jaded now, blasé

About my every whims and fancy.

I had been chasing deceptive chimeras,

Shadows of reality never meant to come true,

Misleading hopes for a city

That only obeyed superior orders.

Still, I was determined to attack,

Alone,

The yellow swarm of youngsters

Hidden behind dummy parachutes

That would not save them if they fell.

Just when I was ready to charge,

Sitting tall on Rocinante

With a lance in my hand,

Some young soldiers

Came closer

And invited me under their umbrellas.

Many welcoming umbrellas –

I finally reckoned.

Even the gloomy sky looked different

Under their shade.

The friendly army,

In need of knights

And determined to stand up for their ideals,

Asked me to stay.

The soldiers knew that we crave for

Illusions

To get to the truth,

Dreams

To construct a better reality.

I did not tell them

That I was born to live dying,

Victim of the power of imagination

And succumbing to misfortunes,

Because

There’s always hope in life,

And it was no use

Scaring them.

The Italian Culinary Prospect for Prosperity

An earlier version of this poem was published in Issue 41 of ‘Voice & Verse Magazine’

The Italian Culinary Prospect for Prosperity

Of lentils

On New Year’s Eve I ate plenty:

They bring money and prosperity.

I did not eat any meat,

I had made a vow.

And vegetarian-vegan is the in-thing now.

Abundance and material progress,

The pig represents.

Dirty but good,

Like all the best things in life.

And pork can be cooked without too much fuss,

But nonetheless, I gave it a pass.

Still, to my lentils

Of which there were plenty,

I added rice, ‘riso’ ,

Which also means ‘laugh’

For good luck and joyfulness. 

And no other usefulness.

At times, I turn the rice into a risotto,

Adding succulent grains of pomegranate,

Symbol of lavishness and richness.

Yes, I do care of those. I’m shameless.

As a side dish,

I picked cabbage and chard,

Parsley and dill, 

Green like dollar bills.

More money gives me the chills.

Later came raisins and dry figs

For good fate,

Followed by hazelnuts, walnuts and almonds.

Their hard shells hide a soft core

That – as they say – would open my mind

To introspection and mysticism,

Healing any spiritual pain, any sore.

To complete my meal,

I indulged in grapes

For abundance and cheerfulness,

And mandarins – full of infinite promises.

Since you never know where you’ll end up next,

They represent good fortune in both East and West.

Money, health, happiness and prosperity.

Thoughtfulness and longevity.

I was so proud and satisfied

I had the perfect meal.

Without undue violence, without any meat,

I secured a year of unlimited treats.

What else could I ask for?

Oh wait, there’s something more…

Those long, red and phallic chilly peppers

Symbol of fertility

Should protect me from misfortune and solitude

Ward me off from infidelity

And help me procreate.

They MUST be on my plate.

I’ll get a kilo of those,

Immediately swallow one,

Hope for the best

And store the rest

For the years to come.

The Terrarium

Published in the printed issue of ‘Mingled Voices 3’ (Proverse Hong Kong) 

The Terrarium  

It rained, and rained again

Inside.

Droplets of mist,

Pings of breath,

Connected.

The water melted,

Evaporated

In the warmth of a perpetual summer.

It left a void,

A possessive adjective hanging there.

Our

Vacuum

Bubble

Ecosystem

Where

The beauty of

A carpet of grass

A garden of blossoms

A collection of miniature plants:

Fern, ivy, creeping fig, African violet

Finally disclosed to me that

Even inside the green illusion

of a sealed glass jar,

Even within the circularity

of the self-sufficient and regenerating environment,

Even in the perfect prelapsarian microcosm

of butterflies and bees

And you and me…

Even despite the affection

The brain chemistry

The elective affinities

And whatever else it was

When your words

Pierced the proudly independent,

Luxuriantly flourishing ecosystem, 

The crystal-clear transparency of the cracked glass

Revealed a perfect stranger.