There have been times in the past when I’ve written a lot, beginning very young, and these texts have been ordered into eight collections.
I’ve always written in a direct, spontaneous way, without thinking poetry as a form of independent research, but instead as a material to be used for other works. I see poetry not as a text to be published and to be read on a page, but rather as something to be contaminated with other languages and media, letting words become vision, body, voice.
Here below a selection of LIUBA poems from various past collections.
The original poems are in italian. To read them please go here
This boisterous stormy wandering port
vibrates every now and then
in the robe of souls.
Madness is to let madness continue.
Folly any choice you are forced to do.
Like a candle threatened by wind is the heart who does not know
wounded torn in the deep
soaked in crazy love
and longing from freedom,
desire to be there
and not to be there.
You could slowly sink …
perhaps of the existence essence:
two shortcomings, two opposites,
but you wouldn’t do without either of them.
The birds are singing
it’s 4.30 in the morning on this first day of Spring
breaking the silence looming this night almost Restlessness and loss
I do not recognize it: identity passes as calyx of the flower: what’s inside? what’s left?
The relativity of the possibilities and the conscious openness
acted to the point of dropping to empty indifference
Who else knows the secret of the Holy Graal? And who does not know what it does?
Who was beaten or robbed or looted, while he was innocent?
Glimmers in the night
so much love
perhaps a little coffee
and the usual
turns into colorful more than ever.
Browse daisy goblets
and find colored perfumes
feverish dancing in the rhythm of the veins.
I do not know what it is.
It’s like magic after diluted suffering
in paths of choice
magic of transparency
magic of metamorphosis
and everything is in its place.
Nothing special but a profound freedom
that flies like a bird in the sky hovering sounds of wonders
of the multifaceted country of the sparkling arc.
Everything is in place – Because it starts from the inside
Mature love of an incredible flavor browsed everywhere
and maybe surprised and perhaps incredulous
I let myself slipping on the warm leaves on the body sea
I look at things shining
and I dance full of nothing.
The Buoy and the Sea
Sometimes I wish that everything is decided by someone else
so that there were no more doubts, choices, research, outbursts.
Obey to someone or something …
Strange, this is a word that I have never touched
and from which I flee shocked if not to obey to ourselves.
And yet sometimes it would be so refreshimg to obey to someone or something from outside
Rules to follow, if they were how to get where you want to go.
But where I want to go
is the bottom of the rulesless abyss
where chaos is the invited prince.
But luckily there is an order of the chaos
and only from the chaos
we get order.
But the chaos is not only frightening, it is also exhausting.
You swim and swim and swim
but you do not know when – and if –
you will reach the shore.
Certainly easier is to sit attacked to a BUOY
without seeing any land but but not so weary.
The world revolves around the buoys
and the human network is itself a buoy.
Some dive to scout the sea, others not
others have fallen and panicked
swim toward the buoy
the only lifeline available.
And just a few
swim towards the shore
wherever it may be.
In the city
Do we remember sometimes
Which is the color of the leaves,
which scent gives off the grass,
How’s the roar of the sea
that shapes the sand as the wind when it messes up the hairs.
We live in a plastic world.
Pure feelings are made of plastic.
And the fight gets tough.
A lot of imagination is necessary.
Like a monstrous octopus
the social adaptation sucks
the wild flowers which we don’t ever remember to have.
Like a relentlessly clock
commitments cut dreams
that many have forgotten to do.
Like a cap of wax
purchases bundle heart
preventing it from what it wants.
But I SCREAM that I’m not.
Yell to live in
Wonderful colorful worlds
where life is blowing impetuous
where passions caress chills
of sparkling enthusiasm.
I SCREAM that I’m not there.
And I say this in the face this faceless octopus
it does not exist.
Where are you going
poor souls, locked up
in the hospitals of yours ordered god shelves a
built in a row and from where you can not exit if not
by the unique senses previously scheduled?
Where are you going
from an alley to the other
of the plastic web stuck to your brain?
Hope you’ll get an earthquake,
That’ll destroy your papery safety
for then maybe