Target practice
Sharper arrows rusting
beneath the page
that no string shall ever release
fast and square
against the tangled knot
clutching and checking
those same fingers
that should unearth
and ply the inexorable points.
Meanwhile
would the flexing and twanging
of an empty bow
avoid its growing lax
and our losing aim?
—Riccardo Duranti
____
from Poems in lieu of an essay on poems
The ambush
The light is waiting
flexible and jagged
at the end of the passage.
This elastic ink
is getting there again
slowly, unaware.
It becomes crisp and alive
for a moment:
a clear-cut tree
a hillful of trees
olive trees against a tramontana sky.
Then the ambush snaps.
Rippled and sucked
by a greedy south
ink and wind
are swallowed, whole.
Through the very gate, over the threshold
thoughts and branches
words and leaves
bones and pebbles
flesh and soil
melt together in a silent sigh:
they acknowledge with a chill
the power
that deals them such a light death
and then delivers their ghosts
into a black & white flat heaven. . .
—Riccardo Duranti
____
from Poems in lieu of an essay on poems
Inside the hum
After the impact
words come hurtling down
a black-red funnel
and smash against shuttered eyes
the circuit closes:
inside once more they organize
until
like a charm
some white paper
delivers them pulsating
to a curious still life
abroad.
—Riccardo Duranti
____
from Poems in lieu of an essay on poems
A Map to the Muse
Nine steps northwest of zero
across a littered wasteland
of daily chores and nightly deserts
lies the rustproof treasure
of her bright soul revealed
only to few, unbribed eyes.
Lose sight of her shining light
at your own risk and peril…
—Riccardo Duranti
____
from Poems in lieu of an essay on poems