A Salem, nella classe di Lingua Italiana, ho avuto il piacere di incontrare Sinia Molinari, giovane poetessa americana dalle origini evidentemente italiane. E’ una brava poetessa, a cui auguro un futuro di luce. Pubblico qui volentieri alcune poesie in inglese, che meritano di essere lette.
Little Doctor in Atchafalaya By Sinia Molinari
Eyes growing heavy, I employ my ears to listen as my kayak glides through murky mirrors, leaving lilies as victims of decapitation and a flattened path of water celery in its wake.
I hear the nutria’s twin incisors chip away at native flora, knuckled feet skittering so as to remain undevoured by the clay.
I hear the creek cry as blue herons wade for their next meal, and the red hawk’s trill up above; the same symphonies sung for my ancestors by their ancestors, birdsongs passed down through the cyclic rhythm of nature.
I hear the hisses and groans of gators as they slither through the swamp marsh, digging homes for future prey.
I hear the Cypresses tell me their secrets as they sway, and I know that, when I open my eyes, they will be arched overhead in one collective embrace, with Spanish mosses cascading downthe bones like a familiar veil.
I hear their aches as they reach for me.
I open my eyes and see them reaching for me, and for the sky, and for the fauna.
With open eyes, I see the earth as it produces for me.
Chicory and mamou grow abundant for me.
Elderberries seek to heal, and the sugarcane hides amongst the manglier bushes.
I see fragmented gold flicker across the tombstones of fallen trees, roots twisting upwards, cut off with a warning.
Creatures slowly bleed out, the day succumbing, the sun finding some other place to hide.
In its place, I see moonbeams work to animate pecan limbs, shadows preforming their dance across the now still surface.
I hear the hubbub of beasts falling into dreams and I feel myself drifting off amongst the existence of the bayou.
αὑτοῦ σύμβολον (hauton symbolon) By Sinia Molinari
There is a box that I am always aware of.
A box that, if found, would expose me, would expose the true moments I hold dear to me.
A box whose contents I could never part with, it sends drenched songs into my eyes and frogs into my throat at the speed of heart pulses.
A blue Adidas shoebox, if I need to be specific, hidden on the far right, top shelf of my closet.
It contains my most precious childhood memories;
Three plastic rubber duckies from a movie theatre claw machine with tickets to match, a folded up pin-the-tail on the donkey, a purple and yellow spiraled baby rattle, some rocks, a small jar filled with dirt.
When I know I will be alone for a few hours I like to take the box down and induce that icky homesickness. As I clutch the cold glass of the jar to my chest and rock, the images pour out of my mind in the form of tears.
I see us as children, both tanned with dirty feet and matching striped overalls our mommas picked out for us.
I see us as tweens, discovering freedom on our bikes, tracing paths through the trees with our deflated wheels.
I see us that summer before starting high school, when we found our spot, a steep hill leading down to a trashed beach.
But there was a singular tree that stuck out from the hill with two enormous trunks, and parallel planks nailed to keep them from ever separating. We spent most of our time sitting atop those planks, legs intertwined so we didn’t fall, getting dirt on each other’s thighs.
When I see you here, in my mind, I see myself laying flat and balanced, looking up towards your golden halo.
I see eyes as blue and green as the earth, the freckles underneath situated strategically like the stones in the rivers we traversed as kids. I see lips like the rosebuds that lined the trails, plump and feminine. When I see you, I wonder to myself if we made a mistake that day, saying it wasn’t our time. Saying we would be together in time.
When I see you, I ache for you, I gravitate towards you.
My body screams, “we were never supposed to be apart in the first place. It was never meant to be that way.”
Mushroom Ornament By Sinia Molinari
I didn’t think you knew me.
To be fair, I never gave you a chance to
But I thought we had an unspoken agreement.
You go your way, I go mine, and I’ll see you for the holidays.
Yet here I am, holding this.
White stemmed and polka dotted.
Sparkles clinging to my hands and the abrasive porcelain surface of which they derived
And you chose this to capture my essence.
I didn’t think you knew me and yet,
You saw this, and I,
All that I am
Danced across your mind and willed you to bring this to me.
And here I am,
Holding this representation of myself in your mind
And you are completely correct.
Relaxing on my palm and twirling the golden string around my finger and
You see me how I see me.
Nostalgia By Sinia Molinari
The question danced luringly on the screen.
My heart leaped at the thought of another secret little meet.
Vines slithered around oaks guiding me down the path,
To a place that felt like home,
A fallen tree, a memory, and a golden bath.
Making angels in the water,
I watch while basking the sand upon my feet.
You’re the only person I’d want to be here with.
My savior from the heat.
And when we were children,
You’d pick wildflowers,
From the flowing green wasteland
They covered like wheat.
But now the green is gone,
And we’re no longer free,
It seems that all we have left of our,
Is a golden bath,
Ribboned By Sinia Molinari
I’ve found that the earth has become an isolated place.
Is it just me that feels this way?
Although I have many friends,
None with a false face,
And a lover who for once
Offers me the time of day,
I still feel alone.
Who can I run to when my fate gets out of hand?
Nobody in my life has the capacity to understand.
It seems that platonic partners have become
Every couple of years.
Nobody in my life sticks around long enough to
grow to learn my deepest fears.
Or why tears flow when that horrid day nears.
What happened to the
Life long friendships our parents entertained?
Nowadays, you choose your friends based on what you can gain.
And when they make one mistake,
You don’t hesitate to strike out their name.
So then two people part ways
And the cycle remains.
How are we supposed to find true connections these days?
One person does you dirty and it’s in
The fabric of your memory like a stain,
Causing you to drive everyone else away.
The love in your life and the relationships you share gives it so much meaning.
Yet nowadays, everyone you love always ends up leaving.