Flaminia CRUCIANI (ITALY)

Flaminia CRUCIANI

Born in Rome, she graduated in “Archeology and History of Ancient Near East Art”, at “Sapienza University of Rome” and then received her Ph.D. in “Oriental Archeology” For many years she participated in the annual excavation campaigns at Ebla in Syria, as a member of the “Italian archaeological mission at Ebla”. She then obtained a second degree in “History of Art”. She is also specialized in Analogical Disciplines. In 2008 she published “Sorso di notte potabile”, ed. LietoColle, and “Dentro”, ed. Pulcinoelefante. In 2013 she published “Frammenti”, ed. Pulcinoelefante. “Lapidarium” was published in 2015 with Puntoacapo. She published in 2016 “Semiotica del male”, Campanotto, while in 2017 Piano di evacuazione, Samuele Editore. In 2018 she published “Chora”, a book written with Ilaria Caffio, with the preface by Carlo Pasi, Spagine publisher, Fondo Verri. An anthology of her poetic texts is being prepared “We were quiet in the same language”, with a preface by Marco Sonzogni, to be published by Gradiva Publications, New York. In 2017 Carlo Pasi wrote a monograph on the book “Semiotica del male”: “Lo scavo dell’origine, Note critico poetiche su “Semiotica del male” di Flaminia Cruciani “, Petrarte Edizioni. Her poetic texts have been translated into English, French, Spanish, Bulgarian, Korean, Mandarin, Arabic, Romanian. She is a member of the Académie Européenne Des Sciences, Des Arts Et Des Lettres of Paris. She is one of the founders and creators of the cultural movement “Poetry and Discovery”. She participated in International Poetry Festivals in different countries. Next July she will take part in the 28th Medellin International Poetry Festival.

 

***

Hark ye
who fall in love with cruel pacts
I was overflowing with the truths I learned to withhold.
Hark ye whoever wants your tympanums
and takes away your acrobatics wants a gift
of the planets of your madness, you go back
comb time and make short work of dying.
I‘ll give birth to a new mother
my mother and she’ll be just a voice
a single voice like a password
without a mouth she will tell
about the cardiac nails
the Guelph roots where
summer unfroze the holy water.
And the great mother’s wrinkles will be mine
her conspicuous disease will be mine
and her muddiness will be my perfection.
And I’ll love her, we will love each other as one does in sleep
and I’ll take her place in the coffin
to let her live
without effort we will be a monad
and plural love will age us our hands.

 

WHEN THE LIVING INHABITED ME

When the living inhabited me
in God’s labor pains
and a chorus of seeds in the mineral cradle
spun my timelight skin
when herds of trees ran inside me
and the standard bearer saddled the unbroken fire
of my measureless kingdom,
in my body’s furrows
a Saint was taking the beast home
smiling in my mouth.
By what angels’ quarrel
is my polished voice spoken?
What tightrope walker balances
on my umbilical cord?
Who is on a pilgrimage in my footsteps?
An army fires wild ghost visions in the hippocampus
and a castaway on the shores of my absence
is dreaming my life now.
We meet sometimes, I and the guardian of my vineyard
when he ploughs more joy than I can contain,
while a centaur with his marble bow
does target practice with my heart.
At times my hands are paws that
claw at the infinites and
one of the hundred breathes my hour glass
and writes the litanies of water,
widowed hands inside me dig out faces and bury idols
for as long as the whole laws shall envelop
memory’s conifers
and all my creatures in single combat
precipitate into one only, peeling the darkness.
In a single likeness will I disarm fate
I’ll be stripped, rib of the word,
saliva’s vertebra, wind muscle.
Eternity will not suffice for me to grasp who,
assassins or sirens, pirates or the blessed,
sang, lived, danced and
loved in my place,
in my capital breast,
when they pronounced me alive
while I kept on dying.

 

THE BUTTERFLY’S CANTICLE

I sleep with you
in the wakeful wing-beat of
petals that got the wrong flowers
and I dream you blowing out the candles
of my first birthday
over my head
and you forget our shared name
the painted birds singing
on the highlands of my back
thunderclaps like psalms in my hair
while you recite by heart
my crown of fire
the ash ring caught just in time
with eyes flooded by lightning
turning into ruins.

 

***

When I walk inside you
I know your alleyways
the crooked bell towers of your squares
the rusty locks
of your unspeakable thoughts.

 

METAPOEM

This evening the sun can’t go down
it’s like a noose of wheat hanging from the eyes
I touch your back and you arch
like a petal into the sea wind
eyes trample the infinite in front of us.
I speak to you like telling a secret
of my breath flame wherein I seek the poem
hidden in its crypt of veils
of my work-weary hands
brave and brimful of rebellious words
with which to daily draw out the fire
of thoughts that crucify and look upwards.
You look at me and your eyes change their voice
while we cover up with our coats, you’d like to comfort me.
I tell you about the orphaned emotions
when they want to stay in verse-form
like stubborn offerings to the temple
of temptations that give neither soul nor respite
that take you to hell and
aren’t cyphers, or children, or homes.
I tell you about dreams mixed with the floods
I would secure and anchor,
about words when they don’t open yet
and are dark alleys, one-way journeys,
and at times ultimate beauty pacts
open codes for new resurrections
when they exhibit galaxies and rivers
and time the raptor moves on
with kneeling footsteps in the bell without handrails
where the bread loaves turn back to my April-filled mouth
that kisses your outline in the sun
we, suspended on the wing with which I daily try
to rise beyond the angels’ helmets
as in the sky so on earth.

 

***

You don’t know
the brawls in my plundered hearts
the circumcised thoughts that
claim primogeniture.
You don’t know my taverns
full of tables with broken legs
where you get drunk on abstraction
on my body which nature unsheathes
on the very different chasms I fight with
every day and invent
love’s rewarded times.
You don’t know about
my leper’s reverse shot which irony disintegrates
about my Spartan sword forged with fire
the mystical silence of my olive groves
my folded paws.

You don’t know
even though we share food and bed sheets.

 

***

A man gave birth to me
out of the pain in his ear
amid the mirth of a leftover of eternity
scraped from the bottom of fire
by hands where a god had concealed himself.
We, it’s true, share the same magnetic blood
you want to punish me because I look like him
because you only cradled my relics
because i was born posthumously
and you seek you in me, but don’t find yourself
because I’m only a shroud
a rosary of flames praying to the sky.

 

***

Light enters the water colour jail
Jesus kneels, praying toward the window
but he’s water colour, still as a painting.
I feel guilty inside
it’s my fault if he is in jail
I confined him there.
But he isn’t angry with me
he’s in jail because when he was here
I thought him unimportant
I didn’t recognize him.

 

***

Reason strove
devoured by the unrecognizable Flaminias
in the spectral descent of the disguised icon
you ploughed your hair and passed off your mouth as broom
on your rivals’ black blood
my breathless distracted genitals
handed down in battle
for a bitter sacrament.
Drink the warm erection you use to beat
the women crowding in my body
in my bed crowned by fire.

Sit down beside me, now –
make me a wheaten sign on the cross
I recite the blasphemous breviary of perdition.
I am condemned for life.

 

***

I am the artillery and the peace
the convent of feathers
the gaiety of terracotta
where the crucifix keeps its fast

I am the angel drunk with god
the bread that starves the specters
the target blindfolded with light

I am the bell of air
that rings the silence
the back on which the bed rests

I am the prayer that washes water
the vineyard of ink
where light is harvested
I am the map for going astray

I am the sheer altar
where the all-powerful sits
when he repents.

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