Window Diamonds

At night, the droplets on a windowpane,
lit by streetlights when my home was dark,
were multitudes of diamonds made of rain,
and each one scintillated like a spark
that dimmed and grew in brilliance as I passed
this treasure that impressed me with its jewels
which, unlike gems of stones, would hardly last
and drip down to the windowsill as pools.
But though the treasure didn’t last for long,
in memory it’s had a great duration
and made me want to write for it a song,
because it formed a gorgeous decoration:
each droplet gleaming like a precious gem,
I treasured in the night the sight of them.

Mario A. Pita

let-it-rain
Photo: Shannon Ridge

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Planetary Self

A world without a sun, a ball of ice
that hurtles through the emptiness of space,
as if it were a tossed and random dice,
not manned by any planetary base,
but uninhabited and all alone,
beyond the furthest solar system world,
in interstellar voids no one has known,
a rock by some indifferent, far hand hurled.
That’s me, without You, Christ, an icy planet,
a lifeless, isolated, distant ball,
my heart as hard as if a block of granite,
without the slightest light for me at all.
But, with You, I am like the planet Earth,
a solar system gem of life-filled worth.

Boston Snow

Mario A. Pita

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Homeless

You walk at night outside the lit up houses,
imagining the warmth they have within,
a warmth of love, of children and of spouses,
sheltered from the snow you watch begin.
You recollect the life you had, like theirs,
in days when happiness was overflowing,
and watch your step on icy flights of stairs
and shield your face from cold and snow that’s blowing.
But you are glad it isn’t them but you
who face the elements out on the street
and hope a home and joy like you once knew
are somewhere up ahead, past ice and sleet.
Though you now have no place to lay your head,
may a mansion be someday your home instead.

Blue Christmas

Mario A. Pita

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Aqueous

If I could just evaporate like dew,
the woes that weigh on me would cease to weigh,
and I’d not need to think of what to do
to bear them or to make them go away.
Evaporating, I’d become a mist
and join a cloud, condensing then as rain,
far from troubles, much too long to list,
splashing into puddles, free of pain.
But though, like morning dew, life may be brief,
I can’t convert my sorrows into vapor
and have to face the length and breadth of grief,
that flows, expressed as streams of ink on paper.
O, Christ, I know my problems won’t be solved
till in Your love my self has been dissolved.

Untitled

Mario A. Pita

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Blossom Kiss

Though anyone who watched might think it weird,
I smooched a lip-like blossom with a passion,
as if we were a pair who’d grown endeared,
so that I wished to kiss it in French fashion.
For I have long resented incarnation
and longed to be a disembodied being,
yet something in me knew that pink carnation
would help me to a different way of seeing:
In kissing that voluptuous, small bloom,
I kissed all life, and growth, and blossoming,
and, in that moment, it displaced my gloom
and filled me with a joy and wish to sing:
I won’t resent the gift of life that’s awesome
but love it all and kiss it through this blossom.

Untitled
Photographer Unknown

Mario A. Pita

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Italian Example

for Ma Angelica
(Juana Rosa Pita)

A land where a romance language’s words
have bloomed in its author’s seminal works,
and music from unheard celestial spheres
has come through composers into our ears
while mountain-extracted masses of marble
have morphed into chiseled sculptural marvels;
a country renowned for art and architecture
has shown by example – lovelier than lecture –
like God, you can create a universe:
in painting, sculpture, music, verse…

Esempio italiano

Terra in cui della lingua le parole
hanno fiorito in seminali opere,
e musica da inascoltate sfere
per i compositori a nostre orecchie
giunta, intanto dal monte in blocchi il marmo
si è mutato in sculpito miracolo;
famosa per l’arte e l’architettura
nazione che da esempio – meglio di una lettura –
come Dio, può creare un universo
in musica, dipinti, statue, verso…

Iris in Florence

Mario A. Pita
Italian translation by Juana Rosa Pita.
poem originally published in Lyrical Emissary

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Earthy Words

for Iris

For years, my words have been so squeaky clean,
with nothing of the naughtiness they had,
when, with you, I was playfully obscene,
with license to behave as lusty lad.
I often had a chance for talking dirty,
and I would take advantage when I did,
in the decade after I was thirty,
and had more fun than when I was a kid.
But when we separated, dirty talk
was washed out of my mouth as if with soap
and stashed away as if with key and lock,
and I have tried to speak more like a Pope.
Yet blossoms grow in dirt, and, since I’m wordy,
I wish new love would grow in talk that’s dirty.

Petals and Root

Mario A. Pita

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