Matilde Tortora (Italy)

Wayfarer stop You’ll repose here Thou too shalt couch thy limbs Linger with me, sit Stay, whether night or day I’d like your sitting here to benefit you

I know, you’d like to go on, you’re rushed, called by all, allured, winked at from a distance, but have faith, even seated here the Sun can flood you, the rose’s velvet spur you, a glass of wine intoxicate you

Linger with me, pose after pose, Wayfarer repose, here you can calmly rattle off the grains of each beloved, yearned- for verse. And, in the meantime, spot their mother-of-pearl gleam, sea memory

Trust that this seat was known even to Machado “there is no road, you make the road as you walk… blow after blow, verse after verse…” I want to tell you the road can be sketched, made, even with the thinking of it somewhat restfully, as it gains impetus, to picture it as it stands, pausing here today comfortably seated on this chair, lending ear to how much I’m telling you, my welcome friend, my precious guest ready to leave again and, all the more precious, because interim and ready for new swerves, for setting off, merely passing through, lent to me, only for as much as is enough to hear me a little

I know, I know, you’re thinking back to your school chair, your naked knees, your falls, your bruises. Your mother who said each time “do you think you’re an apple perhaps, coming home bruised?” Her sharp way to squeeze out your laugh and apply disinfectant then bandaid. Your mother, make room a little today for Her to sit here too. smile at her and gratefully touch your now-uncut knees.

I know, you’re thinking back to that traitorous fold- up timber cinema chair, to the smoke in your eyes, to the sweet girl sitting beside you, to her face watching you, you enthralled more by Her than the rolling film, to the kiss you dreamed of giving her, to the ceaseless rain in the street that seemed even to enter the theatre. Make room today for that sweet girl too, as you ponder where in the world She lives today, and above all how you could have forgotten her all these years. Hold yourself a little on this chair, Wayfarer, there’s room for Her too, close your eyes and cleanse them of smoke, of rain, of tears.

Repose, Homo viator, pilgrim, trust you’re beside the chimney in your grandfather’s house. Open yourself, though you’re by no means a nut, and show yourself your nature, munch on your thoughts, one by one, think back to them, pledge to love yourself a little.

And resume, refreshed, your walk, my interim guest, my wayfarer friend. What’s important is to have met, and it wasn’t so sure then, so predictable. This is the power of verse, of each verse and of a chair, this one. Who would’ve thought?