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.

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

¿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.

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.

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