The World is experiencing a moment of stand-still during the events of Covid-19 pandemic. Surely it is affecting each one of us in many different ways. To some this means fear and uncertainty about the future, economic difficulties, to others – inspiration and time to create. This period brings ideas into surface, raises questions and debates about our healthcare and economic systems, ecological, political and social issues.
This is a series of posts featuring creative expressions made during Covid-19 pandemic, or previous works that are particularly relevant during these times of change.
Today we are sharing a poetry piece by Davide Castiglione, who is a creative writer, researcher and lecturer in English language and literature at Vilnius University, Lithuania, where he is based at the moment.
Davide is also an active member of Ideas Block community, contributing to our activities by organising Mind Sharpener events – a series of lively, thought-provoking talks and debates varying from academic research to reflections stemming from professional practice, of general interest and open to everyone.
March 2020 What a way is paved ahead of you, gold medal in the long Jump of the species. Poets fill their lungs With inspiration until You take inspiration’s place there. Unless modesty gets first, Gently leaning its fresh gauzes Upon where your spikes would have clung. Modesty never got me, haughtiness does still. I capitalize on your sphere-shaped body and fame; You capitalize on their feeble bodies without fame. She is here no more. Her voice was warm and coarse Like whitening nuggets crackling in the fireplace. She used to stand on her steady Widening smile, not simply the courteous smile One has on Sunday family lunches. I flew away The fireworks would not stop as here it was National holiday, the Soviet tanks Thirty years back. I flew Away, got to the gym let’s see if my arms Will end up touching if will unite in prayer While labouring to win against the iron load. Let’s see if my mind will get dull, eventually, Aping these voices warped by techno synths. Then home. Reclusion in low spirits, One spirit will visit us and we’ll call it Our Spirit of Initiative, one word weighted For those far apart, warmth travelling via Skype, Homemade apple pie Coming out of the oven. The air is clean, it doesn’t seem to carry. The leaves with their rustle would bring peace. Were it not for the numbers once they cease Being numbers on a screen. Were it not For the emptied bellies of the buses. Were it not For the red and yellow plastic ribbons Surrounding the swings in deep surrender. Recluse of the jungles – the air is clean. Frenzied influencer – the air doesn’t appear To carry. Jump and sprint, the venues in Venice The dolphins took them, we cannot clap. All the roads, the empty roads, lead to you. And if A morning in March in two thousands twenty It’s me clinging onto you if it’s me Capitalizing on your body and fame Then allow me once to feed on your fame And make myself seen and known and inject These lines into the skin and breadth of others.
