On This Side Of The Wall

Wrapped in a smile,
as an ultimate goodbye,
all that was left
on a dateless morning
when hope resisted
and it was just a game,
a game of looks, touches,
moans, silences, sighs,
day after day after day,
like children again,
strangers much too soon,
until today’s recall,
those eyes wide open
over a boundless prairie
boxed inside twenty cubic feet…
Me – on this side of the wall.
 

Alessio Zanelli

published in Stanzas, (S. Africa), No. 29, Jul/Aug 2023, ISSN 2412-6985

 
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The Swan

Sometimes the swan believes it is a goose.
No harm done, it doesn’t last long,
it almost always goes back to its old self
before taking flight.
It is when it convinces itself
it is a puissant raven –
while swimming in the pond,
afloat on such a queer assurance,
and a real raven whizzes in front of it
skimming the water –
that the problem arises.
Because then it wonders
why it cannot fly as nimbly and fast.
It often takes quite a few days
for it to repossess its identity,
but it can happen
that it never makes it again.
Eventually, evidence wipes out any doubt.
In fact, it stares at its own reflected image
ineluctably day after day
and every time it sees a swan
just below the surface
in turn looking it in the eyes
and wearing the typical fearful expression
of one that’s met the ugly gaze of a raven.
 

Alessio Zanelli

first published in North Dakota Quarterly, (USA), Vol. 87, Numbers 3/4, Fall/Winter 2020, ISSN 0029-277X;
in pamphlet, Amalgam, 2021, Cyberwit, ISBN 978-93906019-2-9
and in collection The Invisible, 2024, Greenwich Exchange, ISBN 978-19109967-1-3

 
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The Secret Of Archery

Most have it
that they trace their course,
set their targets,
decide when and where
to aim the arrow.
A tiny few realize
that others string the bow,
then nock and draw it –
so hard a fact to accept.
All grow old
buying or fantasizing
they’re the masters of their lives,
and they go on and on,
convinced it is themselves
that set and keep them going.
Once gone that far,
nobody can stop them
or turn them away from their mark.
They know no love, no hate,
nothing at all;
they have no real will,
no wishes, hopes, scruples, regrets,
insight, first or second thoughts.
They’re not the brain in this,
they’re not the eye,
they’re not the hand,
they’re not the bow,
they’re not the string.
Yes – they are the arrow.
And the wait, the wait…
the wait once drawn,
while shaking in tension,
is wearing them out
more than the fear of missing.
But much less than the one
of never being released.
 

Alessio Zanelli

first published in World Literature Today, (USA), Vol. 85, No. 4, Jul/Aug 2011, ISSN 0196-3570;
in collection The Secret Of Archery, 2019, Greenwich Exchange, ISBN 978-19109963-0-0

 
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At A Loss

On a mission. A tiny clod amid still, muddy waters.
Alone, no dueler in front, I draw.
Through the cylinder’s bores – the pupil and the gunpowder,
as the cock rests, waiting for the forefinger.
There’s no getting round it, the hour is striking.
A prayer, or a shot in the dark.
Something is sparkling on the burnished metal,
and it’s no glitter one can keep clear of.
Smell and taste – of old, of new;
of without-a-name and without-an-aim.
Everything would end by the bang,
sharp and soon forgotten.
Light, darkness, dusk.
The unconditioned jerk of the eyelid
and the chore of the thumb;
an instant of sorrowful evening.
Loud croaks from all around the spot.
Either big puddle or small pond,
still greedy frogs leap-infest this foul world unseen.
Staring motionless, as if stunned – no smoke from the barrel.
Isn’t it funny? Nothing and nobody is attending,
yet I feel taken by too many things.
 

Alessio Zanelli

first published in Poetry News, (UK), Issue Spring 2010, ISSN 1353-7237;
in collection Over Misty Plains, 2012, Indigo Dreams, ISBN 978-19074016-0-2

 
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