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Today I said twenty-three words
Today I said twenty-three words
Some people would say “a good twenty-three words”
others “ only twenty-three”
I have no wish to engage in judgement.
Plans seem to have made plans of their own
They have fled home
while the spring light
moves around the room, inhabits the edges of the furniture
and then leaves, like an ill-timed guest.
Classical music does not wed watered-down American coffee
Carver stories aren’t performing their duties
They continue to flow in your veins like pieces of glass
even after the words “The End”.
Just when you thought you had fenced in your restlessness
they creep out next to the foot of the cupboard.
Light dances around some more in the house and then returns where it came from.
while I sit here wondering whether I should have noted down
the twenty-three words i said
or the silence
that pops out, even after the words “The End”
like a little piece of glass
when you thought you had managed to fence in your regrets.
Chaotic Wars
We hung the CDs on the balcony, three rows of three,
in daytime they are meant to keep pigeons away
with all their brightness
At night time they play dead songs
During the day they bother the neighbors, I think
their glimmer keeps life away.
Once euphoria is digested, there is a great hunger for sounds
No longer bothered by the net, you hurl your gaze
hungrily beyond the street
to the sidewalks,
there, down there in the seminary’s deserted garden
construction has grown silent
The CDs continue to glimmer
The trees, resignedly hide the magpies
Dialogues slither apathetically
and stop on bitten fingernails
They make references
change their clothes, turn into sighs
They self-digest
and then expel- arguments- like foreign bodies
on a stage designed to be a celebration
While the CDs
three rows of three
under the indifferent sun
keep pigeons away with their shine
one more day
The streetlights are lit, one more night
Stars laugh at our impatience
our farsighted myopia.
When wordless reality lands
pain loses its romanticism.
Sounds wither away on the street
Like inconclusive endings of movies we shall not remember
The skies darken with flocks of birds that have forgotten to migrate,
Rooms are smothered in gestures
that have forgotten to live,
carnivorous plants sprout on the walls
-We, the hydrophobic, find no source in which to drown.
Dawns follow one another, the soul of the world
hurts me right here, on the tip of my fingers
It grows silent dragging itself lazily
while the pigeons snicker on the sly
The CDs hanging on the balcony, three by three
glimmer away
withholding
dead songs.
I Have No Time to Waste on the Future
I have no time to waste on the future
In these days abundant with time
In these days of imaginary escapes and real pain,
in which to be loved is not enough
it is useful to be told “you deserve it!”
These are days of forecasts
premonitions
intentions
Days in which thinking of the future
seems to be the only way to prove we are still breathing.
I have no time to waste on the future!
Trees are trees today
and so are debts
Loneliness is loneliness today
and so are the derelicts
Anger is anger today
and so madness.
I have no time to waste on the future!
I have no time to waste on poems about the future
As far as I know
this may be the last one I write
The last one you read.
Panic attacks are attacks today
Tomorrow they may become
resentments
poems
or simply scars
And scars are fascinating
only when they become the past
I have no time to waste on the future
now that thinking about it seems the only way
to prove to ourselves that we are breathing
when instead we are mutating
into old storage spaces chock full of junk
under seizure by imaginary tomorrows
that have forever disregarded any expectation
Letting trees turn into deserts
Debts into slavery
Loneliness into habit
Derelicts into ghosts
Shards into wounds
Anger into detention
And madness into shame.
I have no time to waste on the future!
Cosmos Atrosanguineus
Until a jar of pickled vegetables
a half photoshopped profile
a cat wrapped in a blanket
and a worn-out witticism
will be more attractive than a poem
I shall nurture my misanthropy
like it were a cosmos atrosanguineus*.
We have bestowed our blessings on dead branches
of life-giving trees
by placing them next to liquid crystal screens,
We have meditated interconnected with the world
sprawled out on our couches
while our failings kicked
inside the toothed coil of our hippocampus
We have smiled,
as we scraped the bottom of our ragout jars,
at the promises of hippy love,
uncurtailed curiosity,
dilating fictions
and virtual arms.
Until a lie with the right punctuation
or nonsense typed in the right font
will be more attractive than a poem
let me nurture my misanthropy
like it were a cosmos atrosanguineus.
Forced solitude doesn’t change the substratum,
by sweeping away the crust, we are delivered back to ourselves
“like we were before
more than like we were before”
(I am quoting a 1960’s Italian pop song, albeit without authorization)
*Go Google it yourselves, I am not paid to do remote teaching).
𝘖𝘨𝘨𝘪 𝘩𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘰 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘳é 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘦
𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘶𝘯𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘯 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘳é
𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘳𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘰 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘳é;
𝘪𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘰 𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪 𝘥𝘪 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢 𝘥𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘦.
𝘐 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘳𝘪 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪
𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰 𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘢
𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘢 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘪
𝘴𝘪 𝘮𝘶𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘻𝘢, 𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘢 𝘪𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘰
𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘪 𝘴𝘦 𝘯𝘦 𝘷𝘢, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘯 𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘰.
𝘓𝘢 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘪 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘧𝘧è 𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰
𝘪 𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪 𝘥𝘪 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰 𝘪𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘰 𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦
𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘰 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘻𝘻𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘪 𝘥𝘪 𝘷𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘪,
𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘱𝘰 𝘭𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦
𝘴𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘰𝘳𝘪 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘻𝘢
𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘪 𝘥’𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘭’𝘪𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘦.
𝘓𝘢 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘢 𝘶𝘯’𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘳𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘻𝘢 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘢 𝘦 𝘴𝘦 𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘢 𝘥𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘦 è 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘢
𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘶𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘦
𝘭𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘳é 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦
𝘰 𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘻𝘪𝘰
𝘤𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘰𝘳𝘪 , 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘱𝘰 𝘭𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦,
𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘻𝘻𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘰 𝘥𝘪 𝘷𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘰
𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘪 𝘥’𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘪 𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪.
LE GUERRE CONFUSE
Abbiamo appeso dei cd in balcone, tre file da tre
dovrebbero tenere lontani i piccioni
col loro brilluccichio
di giorno
di notte suonano canzoni morte
di giorno disturbano i vicini, credo
col loro brilluccichio pare tengano lontana la vita.
Digerita l’euforia, c’è una gran fame di suoni
lo sguardo, non più infastidito dalla rete,
si getta famelico oltre la strada
ai marciapiedi,
là, laggiù nel giardino deserto del seminario
i lavori tacciono
i cd continuano a sbrilluccicare
gli alberi rassegnati nascondono le gazze
i dialoghi strisciano apatici
si bloccano sulle dita smangiucchiate
rimandano
si cambiano d’abito, si convertono in sospiri
si auto digeriscono
poi si espellono –tesi– come corpi estranei
su un palcoscenico allestito a festa
mentre i cd
tre file da tre
sotto un sole indifferente
tengono lontani i piccioni col loro brilluccichio
ancora un giorno in più
i lampioni si accendono , un’altra notte in più
le stelle deridono la nostra impazienza
la nostra lungimirante miopia.
Quando la muta realtà atterra
la sofferenza perde il suo romanticismo.
In strada i suoni si esauriscono
come finali inconcludenti di film che non ricorderemo,
i cieli s’oscurano
di stormi d’uccelli che hanno dimenticato di migrare,
le stanze soffocano in gesti
che hanno dimenticato di vivere,
alle pareti germogliano piante carnivore
- noi, idrofobi, non troviamo fonti in cui affogare.
Le albe si susseguono, l’anima del mondo
mi fa male qui, sulla punta dei polpastrelli
s’ammutolisce e si trascina pigra
mentre i piccioni ridacchiano di nascosto
i cd appesi in balcone, tre file da tre
sbrilluccicano
tacendo
canzoni morte.
COSMOS ATROSANGUINEUS
Finché un barattolo di sottaceti,
un mezzo profilo photoshoppato,
un gatto avvolto in una coperta
e una battuta dall’ironia logora
attireranno più d’una poesia
io, curerò la mia misantropia
come fosse una cosmos atrosanguineus*.
Abbiamo benedetto rami secchi
d’alberi vivificanti
avvicinandoli a schermi dai cristalli liquidi,
abbiamo meditato interconnessi col mondo
spaparanzati sui nostri pouf
mentre i nostri fallimenti scalciavano
dentro il giro dentato dell’ippocampo°,
abbiamo sorriso
dando fondo ai barattoli di ragù,
alle promesse d’amore hippy,
alla curiosità smodata,
dilatando finzioni
e braccia virtuali.
Finché una bugia dalla giusta punteggiatura
e uno sproloquio dal font adeguato
attireranno più d’una poesia
lasciatemi curare la mia misantropia
come fosse una cosmos atrosanguineus.
La solitudine forzata non cambia il substrato,
spazzando via la crosta, ci riconsegna a noi stessi
come prima
più di prima
(non t’amerò- citazione non autorizzata)
.
(* ° Andatevelo a cercare, non mi pagano per la didattica online)
Rina Xhihani was born in Albania, 33 years ago. As a child she moved to Italy with her family, fell in love with Rimbaud at an early age, and since then the list goes on ad infinitum.
She studied law and often roamed around Europe to then come back to Reggio Emilia (Italy) wher eshe is currently living and practices law as an attorney. In the meantime she never stopped writing.
She has a predilection for poetry , but secretely and assiduously writes prose as well.
He publications include: “Cuore d’amore” and “Sono”, two poetry collections written in Albanian at avery young age, in 2001 and 2002, published by the Albanian press Egnatia.
Then, in 2008, she followed with a publication in Italian “Fotogrammi” with Aletti Editore
In 2015 she published the poetry collection “Questo non è un attentato” (This is not a terrorist attack), self-published with the MiX brand.
In 2017 she published “Hineni”, her latest poetry collection , in collaboration with artist and illustrator Angelo Massaro.
