Monday, 8 May 2023

Five Poems by Giulio Magrini

 



“Civilization will not attain to its perfection until the last stone from the last church falls on the last priest” -Emile Zola

 



BETTER TO BE BORN AN ANIMAL


This black responsibility 
In Wednesday ashes
 
As our dirty teeth 
Caress the body of Christ

Monks cower
Behind the walls 
Of cathedrals

The Gregorian chant
Tranquilizes our spirits
Quasimodo strains at the ropes
Of Big Marie
And Gabrielle

We are reminded of rodents
In a skinner box
As we scamper
For wafer and comfort

Clouds of incense
Rain blessed waters
On corrupted bodies
Covered in sores of sin

From the ramparts
Below the gorgons
In baritone gravitas and purple vestment
The shepherd counsels the immigrants

Give money to the poor
In St Francis’ behalf
He will intercede Before God

In the night the clergy
Skulk in the shadows
There is a clanking of keys
And furtive locking doors
From inside the churches

If we are very quiet
We can hear Francis
Giggling through the incense
We can smell marijuana
And hear women moan

Perhaps the English are right
True love is abuse




DAISY’S FINAL DIARY ENTRY, THEN LOST

 

A young girl writes in her diary

 

He did everything to me

He did everything to me

 

Her name was Daisy

He told her she had a pretty smile

He stared into her eyes

Whispered

I have found someone to love

Forever

 

Now she is gone

She is gone in every breath

He watched her final gasps

Become slower and shorter

And stop

 

He doodles in her diary

She had a pretty smile

 

And her name was Daisy



DISCOVERING WE ARE EXTINCT 

PUBLIC MARTYR

 

In the remarkable aspect of time

Grotesque merges to familiar

Infiltrates the caress of phantoms

 

Pirouettes of lunacy

Straddle the boulevard

Overlords march in

Shrouds of patrician pink

To goose-step directives and

Pound a tempo of bureaucratic chic

 

I can hear them

Chanting in contentment

While they prey over me

 

I chirp my schedule

To the numbed associated entirety

And appreciate that

Zombies cannot explain my load

Or advise how to discretely carry it

As I continue to converse

With flattened stone

 

At the very brink of deluge

I am promised anesthesia

Temporary abatement

From the beatings and slander

 

A kindred spirit promises

That I am alright

And whispers

I will never be alone

 



DISCOVERING WE ARE EXTINCT

PERSONAL MARTYR


I see my rippled image

In the diluted lakes of your eyes

Where is the cleansing of salt

That intermingled between us?

 

It has occluded inside me

Where it preserves my vitals

Crystalline and dormant

I become the focusing

Through the fog

 

I remember whimpering promises

Before the bruises and bleeding

But my congealed cadaver

Is displayed in disarray

In a land absent of rainbows

 

There is no dispensation 

In a state populated by the dead

Where the only legacy

Is that the obsolete

Cannot be damaged beyond extinction

 

We are the undiscovered fossils

Beneath the steps of the living

Dry bleached and lifeless

The memories of our bones

Loiter under the abiding mess

Obliged that no one examines

The failure of our remains



The Old Man and the Moon in the Mirror

For Barbara

9/11/22


I do not gaze in the mirror like I used to

But lately I see Papa staring back

He seems so tired

The energy used 52 years ago has diminished

From buoyant 1970 love and anticipation

To a drawn and befuddled image

Encircled by disheveled grey corona

 

We have taken steps of conscience

And they are taken together

I remember messy puddles

Occasional unexpected holes

But we find resolution not in glory

But satisfied we are the imperfect answer

Of our togetherness

 

Today as the old man stares back from the mirror

I am comforted because the shadow of the hawk

Still flashes before our eyes

And love without aging thrives

Barbara you are eternity and govern the heavens

Where you master your beloved moon and me

 

We continue to marvel the celestial wonder of us

And gaze at your magnificent construction

As creator of an old man and the moon

Where we continue to live as us

Through the surplus of days



TURNING THE CHANNEL FROM YOUR LOVELY POSE TO THE HATE PICNIC

 

The fatigue of my body

Sighs through my eyes

I am the zealous recidivist

Guilty of every offense

Semi-lucid and bungling

Told that I am born to do this

 

I scrutinize the tenderness

Of your coconut hair

The grit on its shell

And slurp the sour unknown milk

Hidden inside

 

I am consigned to the

Shortened bus of masculinity

I ride in rainy muted silence

Drops on the window fall and roll

As wet curtains

Weaving through my vision

 

The riddle of your company

Pursues me

Through your public definitions

I am the sad parade

Forced to proceed before you

Trudging your penance

Not unlike the tedium of menstruation

You are hammered

To the cross of men

Through me

You are deluged with delight

In the sympathy and compassion

Of your sex

While you take the time

To pose for the birdie

And thank all the little people

Who have made our coupling

An audience for your chosen life choice

 

I scrutinize your performance

Through laugh tracks and screams

We have a winner!

We have a winner!

 

And you turn with benevolent sweetness

In your puppy voice

And preset smile

So coy and delightful

And proclaim that the husband character

Reminds you of me and you

Laugh and laugh and laugh


Turning the Channel From Your Lovely Pose at Our Hate Picnic; Discovering We Are Extinct; and Better to Be Born an Animal appear in my book The Colour of Dirt




Giulio Magrini started writing poetry in the early 1970’s, and takes most of his inspiration from the darker sides of human nature. He has performed at the Three Rivers Arts Festival, and many other venues in Pittsburgh. Giulio has conducted poetry workshops in alternative high schools, prisons, drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers, and hosted a radio show for local poets. His book The Colour of Dirt was published September 2022 by Word Association Press. In the Afterward of his book he states, “We have put our hands in the dirt, and sanctified each other.” Magrini has always preferred the performance of his work over publishing, until now.

 

 


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