Poetry By Lidia Chiarelli: italian poetry

Lidia Chiarelli

Broken Images 

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter…
(T.S. Eliot: The Waste Land)
  
Among  ears of wheat now dry
there are no red poppies in the fields
of this long hot summer.
 
The sun rises and sets
on a land of dust
on an endless desert.
And that dazzling light seems to burn
blurred memories and vain hopes.
 
Waiting for the evening shadows and
for a cool breeze that will not come
we can almost feel  how  time
shuffles and rushes
our fears towards the final collapse.
 
In front of us only a heap of broken images:
maybe that’s the last call to save the earth.
 
Lidia Chiarelli, Italy

WHERE DREAMS DWELL
 
So tremulously like a dream …
(“Clown in the moon” - Dylan Thomas)
 
In a separate world
dreams are alive.
Constellations of lights and
interstellar sounds attend their birth.
They creep into our minds
through a meandering trail
when the night is darkest.
Like dancing shadows
tremulous they enter
they play, mutate, dominate
are lost in dissociated sequences.
They plunge into the unfathomable
depths of memory
to emerge again.
And when the first blades of light
pierce the sky
they vanish … crumpled, shattered
toward invisible horizons
in echoing silence
 
Lidia Chiarelli, Italy