Just a few steps away from my 18 and I haven’t written my Book of 17 yet.
Others have already. Others write their Books of 17, they write to the last page, the last line, the last word. They write till they die.
And they really die.
Cause no one's really serious at seventeen.
At seventeen you are still just young.
17 comes with the quiet steps of a child and when it goes away it already believes in other things.
17 is just too much Paris, just too the people around me and way too a soul of a traveller. 17 like Wien, like London and Berlin. 17 like the bakery across the street, where I will never live, 17 like my 17 moments of lindens, 17 like my fingers, dedicated to the blue ink. 17 like 23:17. 17 like the 17th of October, which is my favourite day, no idea why. 17 like 2007 and like 2017 (call me, when you get there).
I was 17, when I was 16, and I’ll be 17 at least one more year.
I used to be 17, when I wasn’t and I’m not looking forward to become 18 so fast.
At least not in the next few days.
About this Book a friend of mine said that a great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets make a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare nor realise. I don't know but wanna wish you to be an honest and pure Poet! ...without meaning how! And a happy new year of your life :-)
ReplyDelete'And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
ReplyDeletein search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.'
honest and pure.
i promise.