Poetry: Maria Cinanni

Sunday Coffee

I nod, say buongiorno, (you and I,
stranger, are dangling on a cliff
of self-awakenings). We are heroes,

brave, non-conventional, you know,
life isn’t really heroic, it’s quite tragic,
(tell you the truth), but yes,
today the sun shines.

I went to the Vatican with my mother
many years ago, couldn’t pray.
We missed our bus.

On the wall, a poetically-drawn
lakeshore on canvas with a bright
yellow background, reds and pinks.

(Sunsets illuminate my eyes).
I look for words in a glance.
The music box is the sun,

the moon, all of the sky.
I’ve heard about Sardinian
shepherds reciting Latin poetry

from memory. Inside the radio
a man says: artists fear
face-to-face communication.

So, if you express
emotions too dramatically,
are you crazy?

If you don’t, maybe you can at least
squeeze the cold from your heart
like toothpaste.

Or count the drops of coffee
spilled on a white tablecloth.
The men sitting in the cafe
start playing cards.

Haiku Letter

The infinity of the sky
is a gaze. The world
has gone mad; and I
have finally found you.
That is me in the picture.
Maybe you won’t recognize
the gaze in my eyes,
maybe you will.
On the back of the picture
is a haiku poem I wrote for you—

words that are found
and then lost simultaneously
like sky behind clouds:
a poetic illusion.

I feel like a poetic illusion,
a clown galloping
on a wild horse—
through green fields,
flowers and life, playing,
whistling, yet somewhat more
enlightened each day.
Maybe we have all gone mad.

What do children know?
We played hopscotch for hours.
We rode the magic horse.

Sunset over lake

I cut the hedges,
stand towards evening.
There is time to stop
for a little.

You have adopted my smile;
I will build you a pergola.

When morning glitters
through the shades
I remember your quietness.

The sound of waves

It’s not really a nightmare
nor an obsession, maybe an inferiority complex
made of silences and questions. I can’t think

of the word. Something similar to having
a bad cold and sneezing all over secrets.
How about a new star in a poetic sky,

floating in my own blood, the wind?
I mean here I am, a perfect adult let’s say,
a blazer and elegant slacks,

trying to find the right word at the right moment
while I imagine my eyes move
in and out of a bubble about to burst.

The self breaks into selves; we survive,
live somewhere. Some days we have tea
with our genie friend on a green tablecloth

on the floor. We rock backwards and forward,
slow motion. I was born in an old house
on a bed with seablue sheets of stars.