Sex on the beach

 

 

Our lost lips first made landing
on a beach of brown branches
sailing towards that sea in the sky.

Each stroke then spoke of
salt and sand, eyes like the blue sea
that followed my hands

as they slowly began to set
like the sun, while a breeze blew by
blowing like thermals of breath

those brown sailing branches
as we too swayed from side to side
trying alike to touch that blue sky.

 

 

© Giuseppe Bartoli, 2016

Poetry as a suitcase

 

 

I carry clippings of The Scotsman
in my carrier bag, to remind me
what my home away from home
looks like, when I am far from it.

I carry a copy of a bus ticket
in my back pocket, to remind me
the last time I saw my father’s face
filled with tears, each time I see it.

I carry an image of the Virgin Mary
in my leather wallet, to remind me
the beliefs I was brought up with
each Sunday morning, when I flip it open.

I carry many memories in my mind
of people and places, to remind me
how sometimes my poems are all
that remains of a past, exceeding its allowance.

 

 

© Giuseppe Bartoli, 2016.

The litany of life

 

 

I am the voice of all things lost
come here to reveal the hidden locations
of all those things you thought were forever gone.

I am the car keys you couldn’t unearth,
the gym sock you never found,
and the one pound note that turned out not to be so lucky.

I am also that imaginary friend you never kept in touch with
and that juice you never drank from your lunch box,
but told your mother you did every Monday—

These are the things that may have seemed serious at the time,
but in the end turned out to be trivial,
though had you vacuumed under the couch,

looked behind the washing machine, bought a wallet,
ignored your friends and listened to your mom
it could have been easily avoided—

I happen to be the best compliment you never gave,
the best idea you never had
and the job you always wanted.

I can be the good advice you never took,
that kid who sat in the corner but was ignored
and the old man nobody visits.

And somehow I am the best love you lost,
the time you never spent doing something
and all those regrets you carry inside—

These are the things that may have seemed unimportant at the time,
but turned out to define who you were
come here to tell you that somehow it will be all right

after you pick up the kids from school,
carefully separate the whites from the wash and buy
some of those biscuits you hate, but somehow, she likes.

 

 

 

© Giuseppe Bartoli, 2016.

Line 12

 

 

Je suis retourné à l’île de Cythère.

 

 

I used to carry three Métro tickets in my wallet:
one for you one for me and one for the possibility
that turned out not to be you.

Finding myself in Paris with someone else
the day I lost the last one
at the Solférino Métro Station.

© Giuseppe E. Bartoli, 2016.

 

 

© Giuseppe Bartoli, 2016.

The Swedish Pachamama

The greenness enters the body and becomes my retina. My eye colour was born between the sea and the marsh. I don't need to die to return to the land because I am already mud. Tend my fields to feel my everlasting love and I'll sow yours in the time it takes to reach Malmö from Copenhagen by train. We are there landscape of a higher being. We are naturally green. Let's go green and against each other's grain. Let's heal the word with the green thumb of love and only exit when we are happy this world we live in. Let every instant be a petit mort. The eye constantly orgasms like the land incessantly quakes. Feel my love for living. Never, ever stop believing.

Giuseppe E. Bartoli, 2016.

Let-go

If the building blocks of life were Lego, I'd live on the Copenhagen Waterfront were I would take walks as long as the summer sun, trying to piece the puzzle of my life back together. Each ray of warm hope soothing my soul with the serenity of knowing there is a home for us all. Sometimes you must travel the world to find your place, which is inside of each of us; however, the first step should be us because the wisdom of the last leads us there. We become the water to be drunk by future generations. Are eyes, intoxicated with the lust of wanting to live it up for all its worth should remember our body is just a hotel room we rent for a night. Bring love to the world and you'll discover the everlasting life now. One piece at s time my love. One piece for peace.

© Giuseppe E. Bartoli, 2016.

Tasación

 

 

Caminando por Pigalle una tarde de Domingo
tú sabes la clase de cosas que suelen hacer los novios
nos detuvimos frente a una tienda China de abarrotes
comprando dos tazas idénticas de té ¿o fueron de café?
las cuales se convirtieron en una manifestación física
de nuestro amor cuidando que al usarse
no se rompiesen pero un imprevisto desliz
trocó en mil pedazos una de las tazas.

Consolaste mi torpeza con un beso
tratando de convencerme que ¡era sólo una taza!
pero después de aquella mañana nunca nos volvimos a ver.

El resultado fue más severo de lo imaginado:
como con un solo movimiento accidental
se despedazaron nuestros dos corazones.

 

 

© Giuseppe Bartoli, 2016

Prayer

 

 

Like a question of faith

I wake by her side

believing in God

 

created man in his image

because when I wake by her side

I am glad to see both.

 

 

© Giuseppe Bartoli, 2016.

Her Visit to Scotland

 

 

our lost lips first made landing
on a beach of brown branches
sailing towards that sea in the sky.

each stroke then spoke of
salt and sand, eyes like the blue sea
that followed my hands

as they slowly began to set
like the sun, while a breeze blew by
blowing like thermals of breath

those brown sailing branches
as we too swayed from side to side
trying alike to touch that blue sky.

 

 

© Giuseppe Bartoli, 2016.

¿Después de cuántos días se debe de llamar?

 

 

“El amor perfecto echa fuera el temor”
1 Juan 4:18

 

 

Estás en mis pensamientos, pero no en mi presencia;
estás en mis poemas, pero no en mi presencia;
estás en mis plegarias, pero no en mi presencia;
pero siempre estarás presente en mi corazón.

 

 

Giuseppe Bartoli. Los Usos Indebidos del Amor. Lima: Editorial Apogeo, 2016. 17. Print.

Petit mort

 

Somos unas urnas de piel
con cenizas en forma de células vivas:
materia multidimensional
para ser enardecida y consumida
por la llamas de esta vida, y la próxima
a través del tacto del tiempo.

Quémame en el horno de tu boca
y entierra
mi pan blanco de cada día⎯
semilla⎯ que se dispersará dentro y
fuera de tu eterno cuerpo celestial
porque polvo somos y al polvo volveremos
y en la resurrección de la carne
vida eterna tendremos.

© Giuseppe E. Bartoli, 2016

Half of all is nothing​

  Half way to heaven
Half to hell
Half hearted
Half truths
Half baked
Half is not enough
Half is nothing
Without the other half
You only have half the story

Giuseppe E. Bartoli, 2016.

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