Blue Soul. A Poetry E Book by Gabriella Garofalo

 
 
‘The guests from the heavenly vault: stars, moon, sun, comets, feed my words and provide them with a relentless lymph. So do the many spots, and people whom I happen to stumble upon. So do fragments from conversations I happen to have overheard. My irrepressible longing for reshaping all of them in a new different life, so as to give them a fresh soul, is the drive enabling my words to be invaded by that green fuse we might think of as the very life and soul of poetry.’ (Gabriella Garofalo)
 
http://www.argotistonline.co.uk/Blue Soul
 
(P.1)
A bit of advice, blue works best if you need
To creep in on the sly, it’s the latest fad,
Peeking at the stunning shows of some wannabe star,
Nobody cares about oceans or skies –
‘Course you’re right, no bloody reason
To wake up and listen to a breathing night,
Her lips mumbling in fractured whispers
‘Please God, don’t play dirty’,
But mind, you might chance on a runner in the blue,
A soul clad to the nines who scatters across the sky
Some bright twinkling lights,
A warning sign of a blessed hour that atones for naked souls,
Buildings rising up and wild, dark curtains blocking us
From talking to hidden stars who foster no desire
For stony blindness or witty repartees –
Head to him, fear not the ashes,
The glimpse of perfection, the shades of missing time,
For he’ll shape demise into a sunny spot
Where the candles we thought snuffed out
Run back to life in silence –
And no more shades of yellow, mind,
The fire that wound words thrown to the sea –
Can’t you hear those winged voices, the blaze of memory
Inside your time when the clock strikes one
And your night pleads innocent before her looming exile:
Trust me, no help from flesh or pleas,
Teardrops of white quartz and scraps from the sea
Lie on the stones waiting for you, some gifts for you?
Stop that rubbish, girl, they’ll give you only
Infinite rooms, revolving doors, what’s autumn but a witch
Who’s shedding blood and life away?
So, does it work? I mean, the light blue fragrance
Scenting the playful writing of my pen?
Oh so sorry, I dunno and can’t even hope so.
 
 

 
 
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”, “ A Blue Soul”.
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals

Do colours get an elusive soul ? A Poem by Gabriella Garofalo

Do colours get an elusive soul? They do.
But now please turn the light on:
Weekends zeroed in
When she misspelt his Name,
Lackadaisical times –
Is she ready? Not yet, not for his Name –
Oh, cut it out with your freaky babbles –
Where are the skinny pale girls
Who hung around in seedy cafes,
Who dated o so wonderfully poised
Older men –
Beware, your soul hasn’t learnt yet
To fend off the sky,
As ever she smiles, says ‘thanks’,
Lets in a thrusting dark
Along with harshness from flowers,
Yes, from meadows, yes,
And to top it all water’s just her mirror –
Had they said no to the slithering wise
You’d be living like a fixed star
In an undeserved sky –
Spot on, sweetie, but I only give
To the panhandler who longs
For smiles and nods –
I only give to infinite.

 
 
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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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Oh, and what do angels do on such occasions? A Poem by Gabriella Garofalo

Oh, and what do angels do on such occasions?
I’d better not know, thank you very much –
A writer told her ‘trust always pays back’,
A doctor told her ‘better an evil mother
than no mother at all’,
A hotshot told her ‘light always smites eclipses’ –
Boy oh boy, don’t they talk
A bunch of crap sometimes? –
Well, dreams come first and she saw
The prophet being shown
An almond branch –
Yes, God, yes, nice job,
Only it was doomed to wilt, right?
You ask me why, you ask me when?
I dunno, maybe at the midnight hour,
And no, I won’t be there,
She can make it without me,
she knows her stuff, doesn’t she,
That sower of lost harvests –
Do they call lovers ‘friends’ nowadays?
Well, light did –
Whenever I lay deep sixed, of course.

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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”.

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com