Gabriella Garofalo’s ‘Haphazardly, her blue’


Listen, if you keep going in all hell blazing
She might get mad, the moon slowly ambling
Through the sky, so, my soul, hide fast in the attic,
Safe from stares and lust,
Pretend you are colour- blind, don’t look
At the light hitting trees, and branches,
Even if white, and cold are goading
Words, pencils, markers to stand up to light,
Even if no one looks at the lonely white
On the branches, everything else gone lost,
Even snow, our winter relentless lender,
When the night was pleading for more light
Sick and tired as she was of her time-
And you, Nature, get lost,
Stop throwing limbs to the souls who grab them
As they have been starving for too long,
Sure, don’t tell me, such a tricky matter,
What roads to walk along, maybe the climax
Born from a slant vertical light that’s striking your eyes,
And tying up thoughts, and creatures in the dead of night-
More power to her, if she warps a crippled first womb,
Where water or stone beds are never enough-
But why are you giving ammo
To a moon already armed with words,
Who moves from fear to fear
All the while hounding you with questions, or doubts,
The rivals going to crumble you, my light,
Too craven to fight life, or grass-
And no, no woods for you where to hurl
Your words to the wolves,
Just books, and a green sour smell
That stays with you all night long-
Is that all? Yes, and her wish
Of some icy blue sideways-
Just for a starter.

Her mother, of course in a white petticoat,
And all of them, those tall, bearded men running on skates
While you are playing with fire,
Blissfully blind to his greed,
And wondering why they flare up,
Those cobalt blue lighters looking so harmless,
Look, can’t you see they’ve got the same blue as the sky,
Can’t you see the sky is ablaze?
The last sparks dispersing all over there
Sneaked up on you, but no blame to them,
As she’s always been so hot for the glows,
Mainly because they hide their game-
See, that’s what happens when you ask him in,
Sometimes he dances fast while you welcome
A bright flash and a blackout, maybe a rejection?
And it’s so funny when winter days hide your light
If you dream of creatures and friends,
And your dream shows quivering shots,
If a wild light is coming, see she’s here,
Yet you can’t see her, nor can you see
Old ladies who chose to mourn the dead
While burying those winter days,
And yes, they still keep smiling
If teens ambushed by surprise end up there,
Much easier for small creatures,
As they dissolve in your gaze and no fuss,
Just hunt down those smiles so your meadow
Will rise up into the sky-
But careful, only if you don’t discard God’s silence,
Those faraway meadows at the mercy of your hands,
Maybe of your soul.

Light at the start, are you joking?
The sky’s great at hiding things,
Your cathartic pleasure all of a sudden,
Elusive lovers, maybe an unrequited love
Your lot in a word-
Luckily the wild force from clouds and waves
Morphs into words sometimes,
When poetry starts breathing in her mind
Frail like paper flowers, and no green,
So you are shouting at him
‘Got fresh limbs or meteors?
In case the averse sky looked askance,
But it’s just a bloody waste of time,
Much better to rush, and give lakes and oceans
A deeper blue, and mind the meadows,
As they might set limbs and green ablaze-
Don’t worry, dear soul, he hasn’t the foggiest
As to your final getaway, maybe the water,
The sky, or meadows, even a tent in the desert
Where you’ll find shelter,
Or break down, where demise might untangle
Hidden seeds, so who cares if she looks so frail,
As he’s stolen away from books, green, prophets,
Now it’s your turn, my soul,
To dig up light, or drop out when demise
Keep stalking women, too bad you trusted her,
And the many times when she skipped to mention
She was the other woman in a tricksy threesome,
And was shaking any time your stares hit
The grass in love on a Saturday morning,
God sitting next to her, deeply engrossed
In dark thoughts, and the grim feeling
That ‘if’ is such a lovely word, like a trickster
It can conjure up a prophet and some renegades,
Who feel soul stays alive only if you keep her inside-
Bit by bit, and in a deepest silence-
You done yet, God? See, grass might die.

Oh, to breathe words, that scent of freshly mown grass-
Yet sometimes you lose them, you even beg
For births, and names, if God shuns life,
And sparks keep dancing, stroking them with light-
Who has betrayed you, prophets, or nature?
Please, God, never lose track of them,
Her bolshie teens, her books green like meadows,
When arcades, mansions, and the many streams
All gather in your dreams, and a cold light
Freaks you out, as you can’t see why the moon
Is acting Tantalus, drip feeding you light,
While a blue from dispersed words is going berserk,
Too much music, and too many kiddos frisking on the beach-
Waves are sighing, and a starving voice thinks
Withered branches still look green-
But fear not, my sky, even trees and life can cope
With your first season, that weird taste of voices
As your death hits grass, meadows,
Don’t be upset if a tensive headache
Revolts, and shouts at silence, she knows
She’ll get no light, just a percussive groove
All over temples, and forehead-
Don’t feel guilt tripped, not your fault
If they threw you, haphazardly, life-
So, who’s guilty, then, for those still books,
For a white furniture that wounds your eyes,
And a moon whose skin turns white?
Maybe you, my soul, as ever you get all wrong,
Shirk your desire, and stash away your deep blue
From easy scares, or comets ablaze with fear
If stumbling on light you beg
For your mind to keep close,
Yet only time is everywhere,
Time, and the merry minstrels playing haunting tunes
While kings, queens, and CEOs are fading
In the background, so far from the bad crops
Of light running upwind against a bright coincidence,
Maybe your prayers.


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’.

Image by Pezibear on Pixabay