The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 –2178


Volume-3                                                      DECEMBER -2013                                           Number-2



By Davide Trame

You can shout and be shovelled away
in this swarming.
You sense you can shout whatever you like
in these snakes and ladders shot through the sky.
You see sand in a cloud while you are walking
the sunlit pavement rising towards the seafront,
the stage full of a bright rage launching
lace after lace into the open.
The swarming stare of the air where tracks fall apart
like the infinitely torn ventricles of a heart.
Smithereens of a god’s cheekbones who enjoys
being endlessly blown up in rumbling ribbons.
It’s an unframed huge breath on your face
that makes you sooner or later lower your gaze
and you think of all that’s lost at once and swarms
and there must be, must be something of yours here,
in this lashing of selves, forgotten, torn, or just being born,
in this rushing and crashing of nothing into nothing,
this throaty, hollering announcement of air into air,
or stares expanding and exploding into stares, lizards
stopped by in an aplomb of sky, gazing motionless
for a second -time stopping, time never ending-
and in the next just dashing, flashing away.
A tail scuttering or, so much for that,
a tale plunging beyond the edge of an odyssey,
or a heart in the wake of a perpetual lightning,
or hope in eternity of sun breathing through sail.



By Davide Trame

From the train window, I gaze,
at the stretch
where fields get wider
and houses sparser,
and at that
silhouette on the slope by the ditch,
perfect curves,
a living hieroglyph.
I regularly pass and gaze
and in my gaze I catch
these outlines…eternity?
A word so easy to pronounce,
so teasing and restful…
I pass and gaze and plunge
into this sudden permanence,
this regular moment of the grass,
while being
swarmed away.