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lavoro pubblicato lunedì 1 febbraio 2010
ultima lettura mercoledì 21 ottobre 2020

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Some poems of Italy

di Anderson5. Letto 1210 volte. Dallo scaffale Poesia

I often wonder if I am qualified to be a poet and also why my poems are not complex. The answer is probably that I am a poet as I write poetry or I would say I am blessed with being given the gifts of  poems wherever they may come from...........

This is, in my opinion, the best Poem I have ever written and it may be unwise to start with it and I shall anyway. I wrote it having been up all night drinking local Italian red wine in a farmhouse in Umbria where I had been staying for quite a while. As the sun rose on another glorious and scorching day this poem came to me gently and effortlessly, and so we begin with

Summer In Umbria

Light is breaking across this vale
Where Olive trees and vines make trail
Where farmers water crops and sleep
Through sunshine’s deadly countenance

In forest there are snakes and boars
In lake there’s giant fish and prawns
There’s treasure deep beneath the earth
A moist and hunted luxury

At night the owls and bats give verse
To all that is the moon’s recourse
And satellites and shooting stars
Gaze down upon this beating heart

Till light it breaks across this vale
Where Olive trees and vines make trail
Where farmers water crops and sleep
Through sunshine’s deadly countenance.

Lake Trasimeno inspired and sun soaked, the Umbrian summer seemed to follow a rhythm and pace which I feel the poem resembles. Here is a poem I wrote whilst living at the top of the highest mountain in the Tuscan national park, the national park of forest Casentinesi, upon the first day of autumn 2007. This poem is a true story of my encounter with a stag. It is aptly called

The Great of Stag

Oh wandering was I
In sacred wood on mountain high
And feeling good I was, most loved by my Mother earth
And looking up I was, connected to my Father Sky
When suddenly and silently upon the path before me, rich in autumns glory and the colour of the fallen leaves and proud and still between the trees stood a great creature
Not young I would admire
Youthful but in manhood
The Horned god of desire
I nodded and he nodded and he did remain
And I stood fixed in motionless
“Be proud” he said “Release your shame”
And then as if at my request he simply trotted off and left
I saw the power in his stride
I saw his head lift up with pride
And to my cabin he did trot and we did one more moment share
Then off he went and disappeared
My heart though still was filled with glad, the first of autumns reign
My meeting with the great of stag
Farewell. We meet again.

I will never forget my meeting with that amazing creature and how I felt quite exactly he had come into my presence to show me of true and healthy pride.
The next poem in this short collection I wrote whilst walking along the Ligurian coast on the North West Coast of Italy. This poem is aptly entitled

How I love the sea

Sometimes it’s almost idle
Sometimes it talks to me
It’s all across my rivals
My friend I call the sea
It’s sacred, wonderful, scenes of flows and waves
Are indescribable as influence on my days
Our Mothers know It’s worth
Our Father’s died in trees
It’s still all feeling earth
My friend I call the sea
I could talk of how it whispered but who would believe if I said it had a soothing voice that talked to me in dreams
I loved it in my childhood, I loved it in my teens
It’s all across my rivals
My friend I call the sea.

During one part of my journey I walked a whole day and just as dusk was beginning I reached the outskirts of a town called Rapallo, which is on the Ligurian coast. I found myself a bench high up on the top of a cliff which had a beautiful view of the harbour and town and I recall how the hillsides began to light up in the emerging darkness. And so this poem I call


This mountain of gold is sparkling, still
Green pines are free, weeping sap to the earth
And this old man sits up on the hill
Tired and aching yet fresh as the sea
Oh my Father sing a song for me
Sing me a lullaby, sing as I sleep
I wander the earth with mermaids and fairies
And I’m always longing to see you again
Far in the distance a giant brigade
Climbs up upon the back of a whale
Whilst there is a great ship slowly sailing to port
Where It’s weary sailors drink rum and make mirth
Oh my Father sing a song to me
Sing me a lullaby, sing as I sleep
I wander the earth with mermaids and fairies
And I’m always longing to see you again.

The joy of travelling is never more so for me than spending a nights rest in an orchard. Orchards are the most magical of places. This poem once again comes from an orchard along the Ligurian coast and is entitled

Somewhere in the Orchard

As the sun reclines
Birds make songs of dusk
As cool winds pass by
The symmetry in arrangement
Stands in earth, ploughed, moist
Remains of last year’s harvest
Decorate the soil
Thistles and alike
Wild and green belong
To this gentle place
And it’s present song
This is a dream
We wander whilst we sleep
Though we live far away
This is where we meet
Somewhere in the orchard
Is another realm
Magical and mythical
With stories old to tell
As we make our progress
In imagined years
The orchards are our shepherds
And all the trees our seers
The evening is leaning
Soon to rest of day
Tomorrow we will all belong to the words we say
Beautiful old orchard
Tends my thoughts to love
Magical old orchard
Below, within, above.

All poems copyright a5 2010


pubblicato il 01/02/2010 4.34.09
thepoetanderson5, ha scritto: A message from Anderson5 to all the readers of these poems. I would just like to say thankyou very much for taking the time to read these poems. I would love to hear your views and feelings about these works and it seems to do so registration on the site is required. I wish you all, on this very happy day for me, a very happy Imbolc. Imbolc is a celtic festival, celebrated upon 1st February and celebrating the return of light and Saint Bridgid, she is amongst other things the Patron Saint of Poetry. Thank you again. Anderson5.
pubblicato il 01/02/2010 4.44.02
thepoetanderson5, ha scritto: An addition to my previous post - Saint Bridgid is actually Patron Saint of Poets rather than Poetry.
pubblicato il 01/02/2010 6.07.07
thepoetanderson5, ha scritto: My apologies, Bridgid is spelt Brigid. Happy Saint Brigid's day.

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