Monday, August 22, 2011


word-culling hands

a hand, what is a hand
but a gesture, a hit
an endearment, or a crime?
at first lonely, hidden
in the pocket of my shock, our sin
inert but at full blast
a hand is above all
some open-and-shut kick-around,
about to arise from sleep –
necessary it is to move in on
an important task
from those who leave behind
the clamber of some secret –
and then to cuddle, keep off
store, feel for
or just silence

my hand is today… floating
it is weeping but hopping
as usual groaning but fluting
that I wish you could turn it into
something less secret, less private
such an unbearable flinch
to reach a low, even a low
canary flight

as all many others’ branches
my hand is today… dirty
not dirt of grass, of crap, of sex
not weariness to marvel, or to strain
no sweat, no bitter drop
an impossibility, maybe
to touch something
bigger and wiser or sharper
than this way back in many nights
where you can only hold and lift to your lips
a pure – a transparent – motion of delicacy
or some lie, one another crime
and fasten itself within
just to… stuff like that you always bite

my hand keeps still in its corner
and what to do when you feel torn down
or just absent, maybe étranger
to rise your hand and make it dance? –
as if culling beans, and tossing out the chaff
the scathing kernels, the heavy seeds –
and then it lasts the lead
the echo, the scream …
yes, like hearts or mouths
hands cry out, they parley
by drawing their own particular route
they stroll in days and nights
and they live, they catch
they break down, they breathe
they dance even when silencing
and jump out from obscure
or free-from-cloudiness pages
to make your words, your least or most vivid seed
lure you into this or that risk

my hand endured blue
today it is a bit more chummy
a little lost, cut, disguised –
as if in no-motion to anything
or to be carried away with –
but aware of its non-place

to penetrate deftly the kingdom of words –
where lie rabbits and birds
waiting to be freed from their state of dictionary
paralyzed, alone and dumb
but in no despair, as dwelled on time –
is to accept that a hand is alive
much more than synchronized
to hold its temper and come closer
to a thousand of secret faces
and then – still humid, even saturated with sleep –
to answer the question, “have you brought the key?

my hands, oh! my poor hands
are but a dream inside a no-entrance castle
where I am only impossible myself
not to touch, not to sense
nor to flute, nor even to dream
maybe to dance, or to cull that bean
into a land of crowded streets
a word delicate dance on our sins

her voice, her tone, her tenor, her seditiously seductive writing _ 

she never fails to trek me away, to wake me to the mystics 
of the human heart, the major and the minor chords of  poetry within it_

reading Carol is like drinking after years of thirst, lines have a new taste

a relentlessly distilled truth, an  uncompromising and unceasing might _

the bend sinister of writing for the soul _ 


read more from Carol at

1 comment:

B.B. said...