TO THE SMALL PRESS PUBLISHERS
Let
the heavens tumble garlands upon them
They
are the virtuosity instigators
Of
splendor and enchantment
They
perpetuate repositories of dreams
A
smattering of schemes
And
imaginings of illusionists
Kindly
and maternal
We
are embraced in their arms
When
submissions are accepted
And
we shoulder their quiet reprimands
Upon
rejection
During
our moments of sensorial consternation
When
our souls scream in agony and trembling
Through
private offerings in grace to the universe
Received
by nurturing publishers
Withholding
a teat for correction
Unsuitable
and damaged creations
In
fourth dimension errors
A
repetition of the rules of submission follows
Which
poets recognize as pebbles
Under
the soles of their fabrications
The
pitch of a publisher’s sobs
May
be heard by wolves
Who
lurk in the woods of active voice
Small
presses with nonsensical names
Clank
in the hills and twaddle
Because
after all we are under the umbrella of writing
Everything
is understood comprehensible permitted
If
not here Where?
And
the annoying sobbing of poets
Emanates
from poignant skies
Such
a sweet release…
Heard
in a higher less accessible register
By
everyone within range of provocation
Readily
visible on social media
Liking
others to like themselves
The
improbability of gerrymandered verse
Of
poets partnered by publishers
Who
we all know are doing what they do
For
the ethereal and shared love of the word
We
live with the distillate of gentle writers
Offering
their prayers in verse that art is the answer
A
stride to the light of understanding
Will
our declarations soar in the heavens
Or
hurtle to the ground in conquered ashes?
Together
with these collaborators
They
challenge the compelling onslaught of the universe
And
the anerobic world of currency
Not
gently but as warriors
To
place our beating hearts
In
this merger of art to stand together
Against futility in our dynamic against the darkness
THE REVELATION OF HER EMBRACE
I played in the Sharpsburg mud
I decided it would be a good idea
To kiss my mother
She was doing the wash
By hand
In the back yard
I pulled at her dress
She picked me up
And kissed me
She did not mind
My muddy hands
Over her clean white dress
Today my heart beats
In remembrance of those days
And the memory and wonder
Lifts me still
To a never-ending resurrection
Her love conquers the mud of
eternity
In these years she has never let me
go
All I need to do is remember
And I am safe in her arms
We
elude the pirouettes of dead patricians
Waltz
through shopping aisles
Of
corporate supermarket aristocracy
To
meet the dewy eyes of the
Scheming
incarcerated crew
As
they replenish their supply of truffles and wagyu
They
grin and beckon somberly
To
my inquiring phalanges
“Do
not squeeze the startling militaristic
Symmetry
of linear fruit”
The
realization of no loftier desire
Beyond
organized frisée
Seductive
and discreet sausages
Arranged
with care and last imagined
In
the adult toy area
In
another section of town
Where
these patrons would not be found
Without
the benefit of shadow
Our
whimsy fades from this opulent grindhouse
And
pans to the softness of privilege
No
recrimination breathes in these aisles
The
assurance of organic freedom
And
the thankfulness of being rational abides
We
are baptized from the womb
Through
the cervix of checkout
We
are the elite newborns
Sucking
on the upmarket teat of the Amazon provider
We
aspire not for the best potato or pristine hamburger
But
the assurance that our patronage is wholesome and morally sanctioned
Not
unlike the Lebensborn from the good old days
And
without the original sin we recollect
From
the pipedreams of coddled religion
And
in our restless saffron somnambulation
We
are the ravenous and greedy
Pigsty
reality
Unmindful
of grunts squeals and profit margins
Deafening
our present and turning continuously in hallucination
As
the manipulators continue our enthusiastic aspiration
For
the best pork chop made from the loins of ancestors
THIS IS FOR THE IMAGES YOU SEE IN THE FACES OF FAMILY
THEY WILL LIVE FOREVER IN US, IN OUR TUSCAN FIELDS
Papá
Dino’s reemergence from death
My sneeze
a gesture a turn of the lips
He escapes
with my sound of a resurrected gasp
Living in
my skin as before
But not
the façade alone
As my
aging experiment continues
Wondering
at his ongoing discomfort through me
I
nightmare through darkness
The
lurking fiend of senior living
Examines
my restless sleep
Bouquets
of urine get stronger
Partial
and faulty memories
Bash in
chaos without mercy
Papá
Dino’s customs
And manner
of expression
Carry our
lives both in death
And in my
withering body
His
simultaneous sound through me
Still
alive and annoyed at today’s weak offerings of time
My
plodding expressions are clinging survival
And these
memories trapped in my person
Are the
entrenched person of Papá Dino
His puzzle
of death surviving through me
As I most
certainly degrade to his status
Slipping
to a union with his love
Who will I
transfer my lifeblood
My smile
my gestures to?
The answer
is what
Bequeathed
wisteria gardens of Firenze
Poppies of
Castiglione della Pescaia
I will
join Papá
And
converse with our tall Cyprus friends
To examine
our intimacies forever
We will
realize what we become eternally
Near
Montalcino discussing the wines that year
Our mortal
bonds released
To the
sentinel eyes of bougainvillea
Observing
the tourists
As they
weave delight amongst us
My
sunflowers in fields of wonder
Gather
their amber storm of waves
To shine
love on progressing others
And we
shall rest on the tender couplet
Papá Dino
e suo figlio Giulio
Vivanno
per sempre in noi, nei nostri campi Toscani
Papá Dino
and his son Giulio
They live
forever in us, in our Tuscan fields.
Giulio Magrini started writing poetry in the early 1970’s. 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. The anthology of his poetry and flash fiction over the last fifty years, The Color of Dirt was published in September 2022 by Word Association Press. As Giulio Magrini tells us, “We have put our hands in the dirt and sanctified each other.”
These poems are heart wrenching and great. Congratulations 🎊, Giulio.
ReplyDeleteThank-you. I am overwhelmed with the honor of my work appearing in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, with so many other talented writers, all made possible by the continuing work of Strider Marcus Jones. Lothlorien Poetry Journal is a river sharing creative nutrients to all.
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