Facebook
Google+
Twitter
LinkedIn

New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poetry by Lucia Salvato

Born in Italy, living in Dublin (Ireland) for 10 years, I enjoy writing poems about the greatly unknown universe of the mind.

I am a mature student of Mathematics and Physics at the OU, mother of one boy, I love travelling to let myself be surprised by the beauty of nature and by the different cultures humanity has produced.

 

 

 

 

 

.

.

.


.

.

The flexible trail of my breathing

.Slow,up tothe limitfor supporting

life.

 

Quick,

as my thoughts are quickly

galloping harnessed by the reins of my

Emotions.

 

Imperceptible,

like an idea

not yet embraced

by my awareness.

 

Deep,

more and more in depth,

from the dimensions of

comprehending, of remembering

to my dreamless sleep.

And in the middle,

the heavy loads of all my

never breathed breaths

float weighting my conscious

and yet distorted mind.

 

Apneas,

– the longest and the shortest ones – during which

the story of my life is written on

these no more blank pages of my mind;

 

My breath, a precious and flexible

trail of all the jobs of my unknown mind.

 

And what I use to call

“Emotions, Reasoning,

Memory, Dreams

Consciousness,  …”

could be just

brief or longer,

weak or stronger,

alterations

of the dance of my breath with

what I use to call

“Me”.

.

.

The city has no more tears to cry

.Windows
look at me,
so blindEyes caged
in iron grates
– expressionless –
They stare at my eyesCarved
into the concrete
they have the
breath of the wind
and the tears of the skyTheir eyes
so dark
probably
strive for lightImpotent
I listen to
their deaf cries

Behind
the wet glass
of my window
I wipe my eyes
– they are dry

.

.

Snapshot of the birth of an Emotion

.On the lunar landscape
of my brain
the microscopic fuse
of my thought
fires emotions
in slow motion.
The time dilates
to the extreme,
the past rises,
a memory revives.
An emotion
again is born,
intact.The brain becomes mind...

The puppet of my dreams

.The dark spaces behind my eyes
– closed by the heaviness of the sleep –
are full of life; the time-line of my memories
is broken, fragmented in pieces; it is
recomposing with no care about what present,
future, past or possible, impossible mean.My will betrays me and – at the same time –
it breaks me free. An emotion is bouncing
all over my senses; the echoes of my mind
attract me until I find myself at the centre
of my dream, moving, talking, living as a
living puppet moved by another piece of me.There is that puppet, surrounded by my memories
and thoughts; a passive viewer who takes in
the front part of the scene of my dream at a glance;
some directors who dictate the incomprehensible
rules: I am them all, and it seems to me that
I can anytime choose who of them to be.I am that living puppet now in my dream, and in the
appearance of it, I discover a kind of freedom I never
thought I could have. As soon as I start to believe
that everything is real in my dream – even me –
a silent voice – like a silent thought in a place made
of thoughts – whispers to me “it is just a dream”.And like fingers touching a soap bubble,
my awareness touches my dream and makes it
disappear. Narrow spaces now are in front of my
wide-open eyes; my memory – divested of my dreams –
is full of life. The beautiful colours and shapes of the
world shape my senses and overturned my mind:

What previously was the living puppet of my dream,
now it is my consciousness and will; and what
previously was the background of that puppet of me,
– included the passive viewer of my dreams –
now – as my body – a new puppet it is, gracefully
moved by different and opposite strings.

.

.

What is the mind made of?

.What is the mind made of?Of silent musics and voiceless speechesof liquid words and plastic dreamsof cut off reasonings and unbreathed breathskeeping together the tiniest bits of me.

 

What is the mind made of?

Of trails of codes

curled up as spirals of love

quiet forests of trees of thoughts

shaken by warm breezes and big storm of

air, tears and blood.

 

What is the mind made of?

Of space-times permanently or reversibly deformed

– An immeasurable Alter-Universe inside a cranial box –

Mind, son of the Universe, which is in turn your son

And here I am, like an hologram sprung from

the temporary embrace of all the natural laws.

.

.

.


 

You might also like

Stephen House

Stephen House: has had many plays commissioned and produced. He’s won two Awgie Awards (Australian Writers Guild), The Rhonda Jancovic Poetry Award for Social Justice,

Read More »

And The Winners Are-

Spring Summer Chapbook Contest Winners. Our guest judge, Southlight editor, Vivien Jones announces her winners in CBC III as well as talking about the quality

Read More »

Share this post with your friends

You may also enjoy
Geraldine O’Kane is a poet, creative writing facilitator, arts administrator…