The Green Suitcase I have a green suitcase, where I keep all of my dreams and fancies. And who doesn’t have his own green suitcase? There I keep several love letters, and also those letters I never sent; pictures, newspaper clips, messages, poetry, life projects . . . Everything that’s kept inside a great big heart. It’s always with emotion that I open my old suitcase, and read again all that is inside, for they are my most secret life experiences. I’ve embarked on dreams, and disembarked from dreams, without ever knowing the course of my destiny. Once they tried to destroy my suitcase full of hopes, and I almost perished in grief . . . I’m always searching for a ticket to an uncoming train, or to a train that didn’t come, or one that’s just left. And there I stand in the train station of life, sometimes disheartened, but soon I seem to catch a glimpse of a train like a blue cloud coming in the distance, and joy fills my heart . . . Some other times the train stops at the station, but they don’t let me in, because I don’t have a ticket. At other times I arrive too late, and the train is come and gone, towards the golden horizon of a sunset . . . And on nights of full moon, I sit on the old and ragged green suitcase, telling the stars all about my hurts, hoping they’ll understand . . . Then I see a falling star as if in a miracle, and my friends the birds lend me their wings, and I fly towards the moon, holding onto my suitcase of dreams, and we drift through a never even imagined ftalo-blue sky. We pass by shiny constellations full of stars, and I realize there’s a magical train there, whose engineer I know, and he sweetly smiles at me, from his heart stretching me his hand . . . For the very first time nobody asks me for a ticket to the train of illusions, and my face shines in a big huge smile like a joyful sunflower of light, and my heart plays Joy’s harmony in key major, the Joy of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony -- to the sounds of Seraphims' voices . . . © Translation by Dalva Agne Lynch

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Joy of Living Don’t offer me rosess In my times of joy. Roses are beautiful, frail, and sad… I prefer the chrysanthemums Yellow, joyful, exuberant, With huge wide-open laughter (like mine.) No perfume? Is not my fragrance for you enough? But when we are together Don’t offer me broccolis. I prefer strawberries, Ripe. I’ll thus nibble on them So gently, Like the caress of kisses . . . Translated by © Dalva Agne Lynch

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Blue Owl

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The Show

What can I understand about feelings
living in the dark,
with not a word telling me, I like you
or even
I dislike you!

I make believe you love me,
contrive strange conversations,
you, speaking to me
in occultic tongues

I picture you here
so close to my heart
and I make myself beautiful
for your eyes,
which see me not.

Sometimes, in the silence of the night
between two goblets of champagne
in a room full of flowers
and lights
at the sound of Gershwin, Porter,
or Lennon
I perform my Show. . .

Now I'm Chaplin,
with a New York black hat
(a certain sad smile?)
Now I'm sensuous Liza
in a lacy bodysuit.
Silky stockings in long legs
shining silver shoes . . .

I try to sing,
"Imagine
You'll never know
The man I love . . ."

And on an imaginary stage
then I dance
back and forth
(with a cane!)
as if I were at Broadway!

At other times
I dress up as Diva,
and play I'm in the Scala
or Caracalla
(but maybe my stage is in the woods
at the end of my street . . .)

I sing Musetta's Valse,
a Butterfly, or maybe
some Ave Maria . . .
I simply hum Albinoni,
the Adagio
(which sounds like a Requiem).

But on warm fiery nights,
my Beloved,
in a trance
I descend the garden steps
slowly,
wrapped in diaphanous veils,
inebriated by the scent of flowers . . .

I float in a pool, in caresses,
in turquoise waters,
naked as Luz del Fuego,
my breasts glowing on the warm surface
as two radiant stars . . .

And I behold the distant Vesper
so far shining!

My audience is only you,
beloved dear,
and the night birds
(the blue owl, or maybe the white one
which is not,
but enthralls me and fascinates me
chirping at my bedroom window . . .)

And at the end of the show
I picture your eyes open wide
(surprise? happiness? emotion?)
Who knows . . .

You throw me a rose
a blue rose from the fields of dreams . . .

And then, my Beloved, I fall into your arms
exausted,
and we lose ourselves in Passion.

But suddenly,
I see only myself
(in the room? on the lighted stage?)
and I fall asleep across the couch . . .
The show is ended,
the curtains are drawn,
but still I faintly hear someone's laughter,
hurting laughter, sarcastic, rough,
merciless
(envious laughter?)

Jeering at my clumsy, ridiculous
comic show . . .

(Translated by Dalva Agne Lynch)

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Bistro

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Lady in Blue

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New Moon