Sunday, 15 October 2017

Oysters

Translucent degrees of whiteness
layered, finely,
interwoven from that delicious tenderness
kings and connoisseurs long for,
to dress with light the interior
of the most miserable and dirty roughness
in the ignorant stare of the world
And when such roughness
dares to seep in, with its crumbles,
there the prodigy happens again,
as nothing but that glooming whiteness
could ever be tolerated
by what is substantial to delice and bliss,
and what's poor becomes the basis
to build the most sought-after treasure
Now, it's up to you, to take this poem
and wrap a pearl around a grain of sand:
is it just an oyster, I'm writing verses about,
or is there something else, to it?
(c) Daniele Bergamini @danbergam

Image source: Pixabay

Wednesday, 11 October 2017

Flu

Oh, the wondrous power of a tiny mindless virus!

Flu, as influence; and see, all the influence you're exercising on me, little monarch which never knew to rule, to whom nothing less than a gargantuan human body was given as a reign to rule, little monarch which never knew [h[h [h [how] w] w]w] to rule, whose tentatives, to find glory to be written in the history of all the David who tamed their own assigned Goliath, only end up slaying the life and bruising the still-life under your command, and all you get are the scorn, the protests, the rebellion of those who were supposed to venerate you like a deity, and a page in the history books so dense of bad deeds that you wish you could put together your bones and resurface from where the warms crawl and implore all of the children going to school to hand you their history textbook and let you rip that unfortunate page and gnaw it to let your stomach juice dilute and smear the infaming words into a wordlessness you can finally digest!

Oh, I have dedications to write! To people I love!
There are armies of fire-coated smiling soldiers, with their flaming chariots all lined in rows, awaiting for my packages of wonders to take flight and deliver smiles on my behalf, is they were my hugging arms, and my caressing hands, and my index and medium fingers pushing up the corners of the mouths of the receivers!

And you, little monarch whose ignorance is the north to the south of your actual power, you, pull and squeeze in your little unexisting hands the synapses of my neural net, bending them and elongaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaating them, and knotting them together, like a seasoned old mariner whose eyes watched the sun too much, whose hands don't even need the eyes to watch, and I'm here with electrical pulses of ideas and inspirations and thoughts making twisted turns around those knots, at times touching each other, but hardly flowing, so often stuck, unresolved... but then, is it really you, the responsible, or rather the intimidating task I feel sweetly weighing on my bioedegradable, bi-sectored flood-governing pump, that to pay adequate hommage to the ones I'll be writing for?

Oh, mindless little emperor of my body whose throne, yours, will soon crumble under your own inconsistency! You might rule my body, and let me kneel with tiredom, and make my sore neck surrender under the weight of a head which seems stuffed of cotton made from rusty iron fiber, but you, with your immense power on the world of my body, you, little arrogant, you will never be able to fine tune and gently pluck the thin strings of my soul to make them play like those stars who are far away and can't touch me (sic!), yet, I can call by their name, and by my name know of me and love me.

Oh, your vicious strength, able to pull back my shaking muscles during my tiring march, as if you were chains and ropes all wrapped around, binding me to rocks and stones and their amasses piled up by people whose names are long forgotten, yet whose dark intent has put root in the ground...
I move so slowly, my reflexes being all flashed, like blinded by the thickest darkness, as if my bones were turned into rubber by the touch of a philosopher's stone gone astray, as if my muscles had been petrified by Medusa, and I don't know any more, in my fogged understanding, among the rusty cotton in my head, across the walls making feel my thoughts so unreachable to myself, whether it's me, the one being slow, or if all the time has been pulled a brake onto, by your twisted command, as if to prevent me from hoping that I might recover my previous hurring step, and let myself drown in your suffocating slowness, and let myself be overwhelmed and crushed and buried by the idea of the piles of ideas, and inspirations, and notes I keep building, towering to the skies, to the last shades of blue, to the sparkling little stars which are actually so enormous that we would be not noticeable at their all-engulfing presence, as if they were to-dos which took a life of their own and were feeding themselves of all the possible tasks one might charge oneself by taking pen and paper and letting one unload on the other, or perhaps the other suck from one...

But now tell me, never-mine usurping king, you self-absorbed virus who dethrones for only to be dethroned, ruler of a body for a week or two whose betrayal my realm itself will punish with your rejection from this world, don't you see how all my enthusiasm, now feeding thoughts whose extension bring me at once in outer abysses I'll never touch and in inner ones I still haven't found the bottom, now fuelling emotions and feelings which burn more than the core of our star, now penned in wild and brave lines, can't be touched, all this out-of-control beauty blossoming from my love for everything, for the existing, for all that's conceiveable and worthy of love?

You cannot touch it, all this, never-mine mindless king.
And while you sit of your throne of my body, thinking you will rule forever, my soul is pushing me through, towards the Day of Freedom.

And that's the story of every tyrant blinded by their own "me", "myself" and "I".
You can put chains, to a body.
But a soul, it's more free than the daydreams of someone sentenced to life imprisonment, floating free along the trajectories of nebulae roaming like in a dance around the blessed Throne of God.

P.S.
Since tonight I've been finding myself in such a state of sense of expressive freedom!
Like if the dams of imagination had been shattered... and I couldn't be happier!
(May it last, and may it first.)
Bless you!

(c) Daniele Bergamini "danbergam"

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Friday, 6 October 2017

Anecdotes

"Conversations, in those circumstances in which I might be asked or invited to join a small crowd of people, somewhere and somewhen, always intimidated me.
I used to conduct a quite retired kind of life, like a hermit, detesting it all the time, yet struggling at finding the motivation to go out and see the world.
I used to live a life in my head, you have to know.
Conversations always intimidated me, I was saying.
Listening to those people tell about their life, their deeds, by means of anecdotes, like doors in a baroque palace opening one after the other, each one leading to a room completely different from any previous other for colours, styles, materials, decors, furniture, was as estranging as hearing the recounts of aliens telling about their civilization and culture, completely diff...

Ah, what am I doing, now?
I'm holding a pen, with my hand, and a sheet of paper has his superficial layers being permanently soaked and embued with blue ink... I am altering, forever, the matter of the universe, leading it to from state to state, starting with that in which the sheet was blank, to the actual one, in which a number of lines rests, crystallised, on the slightly rough surface, and this sequence of states is absolutely irreversible, no matter what I do to the sheet.
Am I supposed to provoke such an impactful change on nothing less than that one universe enclosing all the space, all the time, all the planets and the stars with all the eyes watching them, nose up, and all the hearts dreaming on them, am I even allowed to change all this for a saltless lie said for just my own, miserable convenience?

That's why I could have never joined their club by artfully recounting them one, ten, hundreds, thousands of my never-lived anecdotes... was I supposed to instill in their lives the knowledge of events and circumstances which weren't true? What if they had been affected by those suggestions in a wrong way? And why, then, influencing their knowledge of life, of the universe, with a bunch of illusions?
Admitting that they might even believe me, of course: what if some detail had contradicted another, or what if an uncertainty in my voice had betrayed me and made my disguise fall?

Lies.
Terrible, unforgiving lies.
Opposingly to their stills of life, feeling so real and authentic, so vivid, so truly lived.
It's only partially true, actually, that those anecdotes seemed alien to me.
Oh, how close they sounded, instead!
As if, somehow, if only I had wanted it enough, if only I had dared enough, I could have touched them, and grab them and wear them like those superheroes costumes able to make you believe, for just a second, that you too are powerful, and live them, and call them my own, moments of my life I actually had lived and experienced and felt.

If only I had wanted it enough.
If only I had dared enough.
That's why I used to listen away, or to even leave: in order to choose, just when I could have changed everything, to rather go back home, in my comfortable realm of unavoidable decay and loss, disguised as perpetual stillness, wondering where I could have ever lost it, that wanting, that daring."

(c) Daniele Bergamini @danbergam

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Thursday, 5 October 2017

God is like that mother...

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God,
is like that mother
whose five years old son, one fine day, announced he was grown-up enough to not need her to accompany him at pre-school anymore, so, starting the next day, he would go there all by himself.

And she said - Fine -, with one half of her heart pumping blood with motherly pride for the bright future he would certainly conquer, one day, and the other half bleeding for the reason of her life seemed to push her away, like ashes forgotten.

So, the day after, she handed him his books and his meal, she said - have a good day - to him, holding back her will to kiss his forehead like any other day, and just closing the door behind him, while he was looking back at her, a bit incredulous for he felt lost in that all new situation.

But he just felt he had to prove his statement, he couldn't retire and make a fool of himself, so he started walking to the kindergarten.

As you can guess, his mom soon sneaked out of the door, and managed to follow him at some distance, like an electron its nucleus, sometimes staying behind him, sometimes going ahead, to make sure everything on his way was safe for him.

And she moaned and cringed in pain, any time he looked around, or down to his shoes, not sure about what to do, and how to do it, and where to go, any time he seemed to stretch out his hand, looking for hers without finding it... and countless times she felt like reaching him, and hugging him, hoping to find his smile of relief in seeing her at his side... but she never did it, for she didn't want him to feel like defeated in his brave proposition.

And she bit her lower lip to almost blood, a couple times, and shed copious tears which could have rendered a desert fertile, when he tripped and fell at the dusty side of road.

And she thanked God for how a kind woman, passing by, asked to her boy whether he was fine, and offered him to help him to stand up again.

And she felt her heart stop, as if on the slippery border of a devouring black hole, when he stated, - no, thank you, I can do it myself... only mom can help me. -
And her heart was cut in half by a blade, again, when the woman asked where his mom was and he replied that - I don't need her, to go to school. I'm grown up enough, - with that low tone which sounded too much like that of an adult too full of pride.

The second time he tripped, he went back a little and asked to a woman approaching to go to help him, imploring her not to tell him it was by her request.

Eventually, he reached the kindergarten, a bit ruffled, very tried, but safe.
And she cried again, for, no matter how unrealistic and illogical it felt, he really seemed to not need her anymore.
And she smiled and giggled, at once, so proud of him, for he had been so brave!

But he had talked about going, all by himself.
Not about going back home.
And by the time of returning, a thick darkness would have already veiled the world.
That's why, hoping not to hurt him... hoping not to be hurt, on a side thought... she dared to reach the kindergarten, when he should have left.

Walking home, she asked him how it went.
- All fine, - he said.
- But I missed you, - he added.

God is like that mother.
And we are like that boy, I think.

(c) Daniele Bergamini

Wednesday, 4 October 2017

Of life and its ages (or "back to blogging", or "it's always been about words")

Buy my poetry book "Chants for Love"!

Well, hello, and welcome.

If you check the date of the last post in this blog, you'll see that we go back to September 25th, 2012.
No less than five years ago.

How much can happen, in the life of a human being, in the space of five long years?

Ah, as we all know, it takes a moment, actually, to radically and definitely change someone's life.
Just a fleeting, yet well defined moment, a moment you could identify on a specific position on a dial of the impassible march of two hands (if the clock is analogic, of course) and say "they were there and there and there, those clock hands, when that life-changing moment happened".

Imagine, then, the potential enclosed in whole five years!

I don't know whether I'm made the way I am for it's just my nature, or whether my passion for prehistory, and the consequential habit to reason about it in terms of ages (the age of dinosaurs, the age of man, and such), might have influenced it... but, when I look back at my life, I definitely seem to find... ages.
Phases.

5 years ago... for me, that age used to be definitely marked by my activity on YouTube... and by origami.
I remember I opened the blog because YouTube had started to change their algorithm, and to just post good videos wasn't enough...
The CEO aspect, that became (and still is) so crucial...

But, back in those days, my passion for origami, whose tutorials had rendered me quite popular in YouTube, had started fading... and that's how, at some point, the publishing of tutorials ended... okay, let's that it ended in a hiatus...
And the same happened to my blogs, because it was focused on that... and only that.

I tried to make a series of humouristic videos about origami, but... it didn't work much.

And after that?

For example, I wrote a novel... a 1400-1600 monster novel about a mermaid.
I need to review it, edit it and publish it!

Well, online-wise, in 2015, I landed in Instagram for to advertise a series of apparel I designed, on Zazzle.
Yes, another phase.
In Zazzle search "danbergam" and you'll see.
And in Instagram, please, do the same!

Well, in Instagram I ended up finding a beautiful community of wordsmiths, writers and poet(esse)s... and there I rediscovered my passion for writing.
And I discovered to be a poet! Ah!
And I discovered to be able to inspire and to save lives, with my words!!!
Can you believe it? Well, it's awesomely true.

Then, recently, Instagram changed its algorithm... you know how it ends, right? ^_^;;

One phase after the other.
Should I say that writing is just another phase?
No, if we look closely... was it even only for my long emails and messages I've always been sending, in my online life.
I'm made to communicate, I think, and writing is a beautiful tool, for that!
Oh, I so love, to communicate!

Oh, you should know this!
This Summer!
I published my first ever book! "Chants for Love", a collection of love poetry!
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B073FPHJ6H
Oh, my goodness, I've been dreaming to publish for decades!
And thanks to the feedback of many on Instagram, I finally found the courage!
Oh, you so should get this book! ;-)

Oh, these five years!
Many friends I found.
Much love I gave and received.
So much, I understood of me.
And I might have saved some lives... but for sure, I was helped a lot, in my personal journey.

Back to here and now, and to the quaking change of algorithm on Instagram.
Even thanks to the suggestions of a few dear friends of mine (all befriended on Instagram)... here I am, back at blogging.
Why?
Because I love to dig within and find words.
Because I love to share them.
Because here, hopefully, there won't be an algorithm penalizing me by hiding my posts to my followers. (Notice that very hopeful, yet shaded of prudence, "hopefully".)
Because I won't be here writing for myself, in first place, as I always do.
Trust me, I won't lack words!
It's not just a phase disjointed from others.
Perhaps I have words, flowing in my veins with blood.
And, well, isn't that of DNA a language? Look at yourself in the mirror, and see which wonders does, with just four letters!

Are you in, ready for the ride?! I hope so.

Blessings,
Daniele