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Best Poems Written by Franco Cilli

Below are the all-time best Franco Cilli poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Franco Cilli Poem

Wrath

We read concupiscently
of little women and little men
of entertainment,
great singers
of our littleness
and of the greatness of their pools  
and of their ty flirtations.
We read of their anxieties, their dark periods,
of the cuckold subtly bent
to a discount psychology,
of how they mess with it with their accountants.
Who cares about the slime
and the jubilation of these unpunished demigods,
of their plastic haloes,
of the navigated sons of es,
of the tinkling glamour
and the vermilion colours of their lips,
that hide smiles
winking at the queue on the red carpet.
 off
Then big people
from the small glow of bodies
but from the great glitter of placid mirages
and lovely, die.
Little old world friends die,
that you read on Facebook,
and yes, you grasp the meaning of things
you get dizzy, caught up in the futile whiteness
of the infinite number of universes
with infinite stories, wavering
but proudly resist to the anonymous
sepulchral,
to the slow fading,
like tears in a toxic rain
and dirty with mud
and oil.
This is my world,
theirs is a mirage I hope does not come true,
even if it tempts me.
Here the closing there is not,
Here the closing is the world that will come,
if it will come

Details | Franco Cilli Poem

Short Century

Moving from the short century to the dead century,
dead of passions and hopes,
of nerve-wracking expectations for a future of fiery suns
and of well-being, a palpable sign of progress.
A sign of history traversing obligatory passages
trampling over defenceless bodies and arousing pride
and faith in heroes, who unique in the world
ignore selfishness and contempt for truth.
They are great men whose mission is
the brightening of the gloomy horizon
and the support of curved backs
and the calloused, greasy hands of the workers.
They gather in smoky rooms,
with the air impregnated with carnal passions
distracting from the black soot
of factories and neighbourhoods.
A mission without a messiah,
of faith close to the soul purified
of every animal instinct. A warm embrace
of comrades, friends, queens with bare breasts
and weapons hidden under their skirts, ready for battle.

Is God dead and the heroes dead with them?
Narrative, storytelling, are the soul of the world.
They are mazes of thoughts
and feelings that create the outer world.
Narrative dictates meaning,
the heartfelt feeling of others' pain
and human stories.
Without narration there is neither pity nor illusion,
only an empty chase of banality
and self-pity.
Would this be the meaning of human evolution?
Raw life without a prism of light to deceive perception
and give meaning to the woody slag,
to the concrete shores,
and the dreams of those who dream of the future?

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Sense Hedges

Seeking a shred of purpose
to pass the remaining time
or play with dark spots
and flashes of thunder
and dreams of vespers?
Tenderly rummaging through memories of bones
and promises of fragile enchantments.

Who awaits us in the elder's shadow?
Who awaits us, winged spirits with swollen faces
after we have consumed the last refuge
of weary scribblers?
Once upon a time there was a wise seeker of sincere glances,
who eavesdropped on the wind, trail of voices of
sleepless bankers and spied the metal-coloured auroras,
to unearth the treasures of the caravans
of eager young people, never attentive
to the fate of the objects of memory.
He found no joy, but fell asleep
on the bankers' doorstep
with the complicit gaze of the young

Details | Franco Cilli Poem

El Buen Retiro

We don't know how long we have left to live
and meanwhile I have filled up with petrol
and wait for the electric car.
Drawing-room oracles descend imberbi
on the sandy shore
soiled with supposed truths.
We witness the comedy:
"the pension system must be saved"
and for this our dæmons are expelled from the chorus.
All right, all this becomes a mockery
of the sacredness of an advent that never happens.
I prefer to read the Greek classics,
since I have little time left
rather than the good Chomsky,
ashen prophet of a world I shall not see.
I still try to understand economic cycles
and try to decipher between the lines
Schumpeter's thinking.
Then I say to myself what do these people know about infinity?
What do they know of the crumpled intimacy
of those who have lost hope
and sees bare life and that's all
without the laurel wreaths of thinkers
of good bourgeois education.
Science for the living who do not realise they are already dead.
I look for the phrases suitable for the buen retiro from life,
when the time comes.
Maybe I will take up smoking again.
Cigarettes cost money,
but life preserved by triglycerides
and bronchitis by health-conscious people
armed with flaming scales,
with each passing day
loses its value

Details | Franco Cilli Poem

One Would Like

One would like to grasp what is eternal
in hearts, in May surprises
and in the crazy rambling.
One would like to heal the lost,
with scents of incense
and recommendations on the infinite and beyond.
One would like to run the eternal on the pages of Marx
and in the faces of the lost,
in the empty words of Foucalut
and in the salubrious practice
of medicines of the soul,
last refuge of repentant mad hatters
and greedy.
One would like to seek again the narrative of the vanquished
and win, as in the sweet advent
sated by rivers of vodka and industrious building
worlds populated with grateful ghosts.
One would like to grasp what is eternal,
but in the end what is more eternal than the single man
and of his wagers,
than his dreaming of infinity in the glances
disenchanted, in the white moons
and in one-night stands.
In the evenings with friends and in the crazy gestures
to snatch a smile and chase away the smell
of chrysanthemum,
a flower that Italians associate with death,
imagining it as a putrid and frightening skull
covering its head with flowers.
We would like to grasp what is eternal about
in waking up from the sleep of reason
and discover that today is cup game day.
We would like to, but of infinity there remains
only the eternal repetition

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Poetry

Poetry expression,
of fragile anorexic bodies in search
of affable systems
and psychotherapists
from beyond the garden.
Crepuscular foggy mangrove frames
that dilute the mournful search
for the end of time
and the rhetorical horror
of the "I believe that, but the question is complex"
Imagism of saying the pain,
limpid and clear
and selling it off
on a canvas of bleeding flies,
l'art pour l'art,
among the notes of croaking ukulelis.
Poetry like newsprint
to wrap withered skulls and
remnants of good intentions,
glares of masses,
desperate sisterhoods,
maternal pity for cheating biology.
Poetry, turns the inert dastardly
and banal
one heals wounds with puns

Details | Franco Cilli Poem

There Is No Personalism

Definitive,
a dry phrase, dripping with meaning,
which dissolves
the pallour of revolution.
Incitement,
barking message,
cuts through discontent
with rotating blades,
it awards morals and sense
of living, watching
the sun of the ancestors.
Do not use personalism,
not because the self does not exist
with the fronds of dishonour,
it exists, but it is pathetic.
Not I, one wants to be impersonal
peering into the dark,
intuition of dried herbs
and served cold.
Mothers swearing
the latest jacquerie of troublesome children.
Fathers sipping wine
whitened by the many waits for dialogue.
Sons savouring cold metal,
without regard or understanding
for hunched shoulders,
heroes for a day, piecework fools.
There is no personalism,
only clumsy attempts