Gabriella Garofalo

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 these books “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Casa di erba”; “Blue Branches”; “ A Blue Soul”, “After The Blue Rush”.

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To W.

Who’s that, can’t you see it’s only

A matter of time, and seeds everywhere,

A red ochre on rough white rocks,

If she distrusts his smile, look, her sky bites

When handling trees, or limbs-

But words have nothing to do with it,

Words, her stale bread, her damaged goods, yes,

They can’t bite a bastard winter, or dirty sunsets,

So stop showing off, stop shouting for answers,

Stop trees, or limbs, and rush

To brambles, to blades of grass,

The answers you set to tangle her mind,

Just think of her women, the black that shines

If you foul up the trees, the sky, the moon, the grass,

If a tricky light breaks your desire for a lost creation-

And you, Father, please don’t waste your time

Carving comets, or trees, while in her lounge

The grudge springs up, stays on,

Such a lovely bush, whenever you lend

To her dirty time sighs, blades of grass,

Young lovers on the road,

On the trail of runaway stars -

Give it up, she can’t see the music of wombs

They told you again and again,

When desire is just around the corner,

That disgraced blade of grass of no interest

To deaf souls she sees lost in the undergrowth,

Still dreaming of bold moves,

And to your wait for a fall where at long last

You might even bend to light.

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