Lo stupore – di Francesca Diano

Massimiliana Bettiol - Marina - Olio su tela

Massimiliana Bettiol – Marina – Olio su tela


Lava che ribollendo brucia ustiona

Non cauterio salvifico ma piaghe

Salnitro amaro che s’incista

A mezzo dentro il ventre

A scisti a scavare latomie

Tenebrosi cunicoli di rabbia

Rauca cacofonia dall’occhio insonne –

Contemplo la rovina col distacco

Del perdono – che è un bel vincer di guerra

E’ l’aurea regola che nutre

Pianure late immemori orizzonti –

Le pietre gridano nomi dalle tombe

Il suono stride nella coclea

Erode immagini vacilla –

E’ lo stupore il segno che delimita

La corrosione – sanatore munifico –

Sottrae la grevità dissolve zolle

Tettoniche s’infiltra come vento

Tra le lenzuola stese

Cancellando il corrotto fetore dell’assenza

Di anime perdute

E lo metamorfizza in vapori vibratili

Lievi e veloci come sguardo angelico

Come pulviscolo di ali di farfalla –

Benedetto sia tu stupore aereo

Per la tua leggerezza di guerriero

Fedele baluardo alla morte seconda –

(C)2014 by Francesca Diano TUTTI I DIRITTI RISERVATI

Qui letta su youtube da Valter Zanardi

Keeners – a poem by Francesca Diano

Image Detail from Gospel of Luke, Book of Kells

From the Book of Kells



The woman of tears, that cries from distant darkness

Is your lonely companion – and yet she bears no loneliness.

You dug deeply into the bog of souls

Into the misty eyes of subtle whispers

Crowds of whispers – linked together – shape your path –

Like pebbles thrown into the water.

Wide circles trembling over the skin of time

Delicacy – white skin of singing echoes.

Silence thrust into sound – rings of glowing distress –

Hidden amid the stony route – a single sign –

Cobweb-like trace of hidden gods – now only energies.

Dappled green – dappled brown – intertwined in a cloak

Strips of grey hair set loose to reach the wind.

The ancient mothers knew.

They wore their sorrow like a golden lace

Around their throats and spoke so silently

To the ones who had set on the journey

Reaching for distant shores – across the sea of tears

Beyond reach – beyond space – beyond delusion.

They chose you to give voice to, – you to disclose

Once again secret rites – that they be kept

– trapped into the chalice –

A secret token to the dormant ones.



(C) 2006 by Francesca Diano RIPRODUZIONE  RISERVATA

The Old Poet’s Lament by Francesca Diano


Poets’ Corner in Westmintser Abbey

The Old Poet’s Lament


Grey graves grinding the ground

shocking screeches merging into darkness

till death do us depart – oh my bones and flesh!

we will be soon apart – my young laughing

mouth just a wide wide wide

NOTHING in this world – no words

will ever be enough and still too much

to bear my angry VOICE raising

from my tomb while still alive and roaring

like a guardian angel after a thief

robbing the treasure cave.

I am a dead man walking down the streets

piercing the empty eyes of passers-by

with my naked body – stripped of its future.

The world is but  a graveyard where

whispering ghouls suggest

a better way to dig our graves

and hand us spades.

Scratching my head I bid my friends farewell

going to a land where Poetry’s still alive

the land of nowhere – do I know its place?

Why listen to crumbling relics of the past

blabbering empty-eyed their verses

to the gawping crowd? Crows do better.

I was a young poet once – now just old

tired of white lies and black deeds.

My hands are empty of this world

my throat is empty of its words

empty-headed I walk through barren

fields of nothingness.

Let’s find a land where poets still can sing

and cry and dream within a golden sphere.



(C) 2012 by Francesca Diano RIPRODUZIONE RISERVATA