Note to the firs edition of Free Birds

In the universe of words, there live those birds of fortune: poems. Nobody who seeks trough the silence of the night will deny the presence of these winged beings fluttering around the blank page. Their plumage changes according to the season and geography, but the same destiny shakes them in the sky, their wings. These free birds do not obey the voice of any land; they do not know the rough borders of men and never have dreamt about placing boundary stones in the air. Free in the ups and downs of flight, they spin in circles trough ages and languages, in the deepest skies hang nests of exquisite engineering and give to the air the inscrutable names of things. The birds which have settled in this three with no land, they can fly at any moment; keep it deeply in your eyes.

Note to the second edition of Free Birds

Most of these poems are 10 years; its writing taught me that the bitter happiness of the poet is watching his work unfinished and even sacked by the dreadful threads of the merciful hours. I step back to the reading of these my first verses and I discover in them not the person I was but the dream of the person I should be; I my heart myself and start the journey:

From the other edge of what I say
lays a bridge to get to my word,
each time I mention my name
my name comes back to me, unformed
each time I say water, the water turns to wind
the wind turns to fire, the fire turns to my exact name
but much more full and more unknown

I throw words, names, verses to the edge each time,
and each time they announce new intensities
of what I don’t know

I should throw on this bridge
what I don’t say, my silence
so that some time
it becomes a poem

Brooklin Bridge, New York City, October 1997


SUMMERY HETEROMANCIA

Aves quasdam rerum
Augurandarum causa
Natas esse putamos.
Cicero, De naturata deorum, II, 64

To W.C.W

In the flight of a bird the night becomes endless.
Fruits recognize their flavor in themselves.
Like orchards we live extensively the sun.

OISSEAUX

Seven birds fly after the summer
three birds think that the summer is in the South
two of them think that the South is a region in the Sky
the third bird follows them
three more wait on a mountain for the Seventh Sun
somebody says that the Seventh Sun is a bird from the South
the Seventh Sun goes sowing summers in its flight
the last bird knows the story too


THE UNNAMED

It was a night
and a piece of intimate moon

we never met each other
and we made love
like from a distance

You kissed my face
since the other sidewalk

It was you and yours
never me
and was the best

It was a great pain
to live it alone


THE UNNAMED ONE MORE TIME

I could tell you
that you have never crown a verse
that you started to give yourself to me
like the moon does
waxing moon of thigh
waning moon of breast
but it would be the other, the diverse,
the uncertain

I gave you hardly a poem
a smile

I never knew your names


THE UNNAMED RIDES HORSEBACK AGAIN

The street incubating my farewell on the corner
The night keeps quiet and the whip can be listened
I don’t know your name but your laughter keeps me awake