lucia olivieri

How can I call little collections of words, drawings and memories that combine in endless ways to create stories, magic spells, tributes to the beauty and mistery of existence?

the child in me

a poem for a pair of baby shoes

the child hiding
under my skirt
can be a little elf
dancing and whirling
whirling and dancing
almost for ever

or a girl giving her eyes
her roots and
to the big world
opening up just for her

most often, though,
she is a lonely child
a desperate crying baby
only a lost embrace
can console

with me she is
and makes life passionate

like a blooming smile
like a lollipop walk
in the greenest wood

her moments,
a story that will not know
a happy ending.

I will protect you,
my baby,
I promise.
I will listen
to your heartbeat
while you cry .
and I will not forget

the child in me


Madonna Loneliness


Madonna Loneliness and her child

kisses not given asked for walls
hair never meant to dance on harsh shoulders
eyes like blades cut a river between us

until now.
I have crossed the water
now I keep you close to me


this is a long story...

once upon a time an old, withered woman lived in a wood on top of a cliff, in a battered hut she had found there long ago.

from the hut under big, old oaks, one could hear the sound, the roar, of the waves at the feet of the cliff, and the children of the village were afraid to go in the wood and meet the old woman. if they crossed her path, they just turned and ran so fast it seemed their feet did not even touch the ground until they reached the village again.

nobody knew what the old woman did with her days on the cliff and when, one day, she disappeared nobody knew, or cared, what had happened to her. then, one day after a long time, when very few people in the village remembered about the old woman and her hut on the cliff, a fair girl appeared out of nowhere and was seen to walk under the oaks that protected the battered, ancient hut under their gnarled arms.

somebody says that the girl stopped in front of the hut for some time to listen to the waves at the feet of the cliff and then, with a faint smile on her face, bowed to pick a whitened skull on the doorstep. a roe deer’s, probably. two little horns pointing to the sky, like olden fingers warning strangers of the fate awaiting those who dared to cross the threshold.

nobody saw the girl disappearing into the hut and whatever story was told about her fate in the village, what happened to her that day or afterwards is still a mystery.

Ci fu un tempo lontano in cui una vecchia ricurva viveva in un bosco su una scogliera, in una capanna sotto enormi querce che crescevano in quel luogo remoto dalla notte dei tempi.

Dalla capanna sotto le vecchie querce si sentiva il rumore, anzi il boato delle onde ai piedi della scogliera, e i bambini del villaggio evitavano di entrare nel bosco per timore di incontrare la vecchia che vi viveva. E se per caso la scorgevano, si voltavano in fretta e correvano via come se avessero le ali ai piedi.

Nessuno sapeva cosa la vecchia facesse delle sue giornate in cima alla scogliera e, quando un giorno d'improvviso scomparve, nessuno si curò di scoprire cosa le fosse accaduto. Quando, dopo lungo tempo, non c’era più anima viva che si ricordasse di una vecchia vissuta in cima alla scogliera, comparve dal nulla una bambina che fu vista avviarsi verso il bosco di querce sotto i cui rami nodosi si nascondeva a occhi indiscreti una vecchia capanna malandata.

Si racconta che la bimba si fermò qualche istante davanti alla capanna ad ascoltare il rumore delle onde che si frangevano ai piedi della scogliera, per poi inchinarsi con un sorriso lieve sulle labbra per raccogliere qualcosa sulla porta della capanna. Il cranio di un capriolo. Due piccole corna puntate verso il cielo come ad avvertire di uno strano destino chi avesse osato oltrepassare quella soglia.

Nessuno vide la bambina scomparire dentro la capanna e malgrado tutte le storie che la gente prese a raccontare nel villaggio, quel che ne fu di lei quel giorno é ancora un mistero.

Using Format