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Rosaria Trenta

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Beauty will save the world

Samples of my imagination... 



He dances

Immortalized by sin

La voix retentissante

The eyes wander

Not too far

Just where I am

Bound to contemplate
His little dance of love

Who is he?

He is death

Where is he?
He is in me

When is he?

He is eternal

What is he?

He is snow

How is he?

He is tender

Why is he?

Because I have made him.


Don't talk

Sometimes words are empty

Don't smile

Sometimes you soul is showing

Don't love

Sometimes your love can kill


If I could reach you

I'd tell you my story

If I could kill you

I'd be re-born

If you could see me

You'd be forever



Like you in the crowd

That quickly rejects

Your tears and your plea

At peace:

Like the frozen ocean

From which you came

To storm my heart away


Like the sky you forgot

To paint with colours

As marching clouds besiege

Your stone cold heart


I can't stop!

I won't end

This crazy romance

That's all in my head

And blows like sand

Won't break and won't bend

Won't leave nor mend

The broken pieces of hope

Cutting deep to send

Streams of blood into my hands…



Play with me

Lie with me

Sing with me

Jump with me

Run with me

Kill with me

Rhyme with me

Be! Be! Be!



[October 2008 - ©Rosaria Trenta]

A poem inspired by my latest obsession:


I love…

Your heart-shaped lips

that softly talk,

whispering in the loud wind

of winters that’ll never be

and falls you can foresee


I love…

Your pretty eyes

hiding the soul

I want to crash;

Your clueless expression

of childish joy

when you look astonished,

embarrassed and coy


I love…

Your smile

a shot to the heart,

a mesmerizing jump

in to the blood pumping system,

that circles and stops

then cuts to the bone


I love…

The intensity

of your pure mind,

so simple yet perfect

truly one of a kind


And you’re one in a million,

and she’s nothing but your minion

We’d die for a chance

to feel slaves to your hand


But you never look

never turn your head to see

You run through the mist

and fail to conceive


That we are in awe

of your perfect soul

I love you, it’s true:

your beauty I can’t resist

I love you, it’s real:

but you don’t exist.


 [©Rosaria Trenta, 17 September 2007]




The taste of your mouth is sweet and clean. I have often wondered how it would feel to have that taste melting inside me, like liquid metal under the boiling sun. And now I know, because I have tasted the softness of your tongue, touching my teeth and exploring the inside of my body; I have moved mountains with the help of your arms and legs, then sealed the truth with words, which remained unspoken and unaided by His Serene Highness, the General of Enquiries. Not for the first time, winning this personal bet with destiny was the only possible outcome for me.

The blood is running a marathon of intriguing sounds and visions; attempting to overcome my desire, it has now generated a simple circle of movements. It opens the path to infinite pleasure, pumps up the cells and particles, before unleashing its fury, like a caged lion, freeing from captivity for the first time. The pulse is fast and demands no pause. The pulse is your neck vibrating within your muscles; it stamps and seals the legitimacy of this gesture, participating to the feast arranged by your willingness to be the only one, the best and last in the order of things, the guilty and the beguiled in the vision of madness.

All of this begins with that sensuous slip of the tongue, making its move throughout the web of our wet mouths.

If you were an animal, you would be punished for such intrepid candour, never to be freed again from the immortal desire that haunts you since the day you were born. And haunted you shall be forever more, unable to see the world, only sensing it outside your prison, wishing it was real and hoping that, in a moment of distraction, your jailors would uncover the secret and finally meet your curiosity, showing you what you have been missing. But this, of course, shall never be.

In a rare moment of clarity, that impure gesture will break the barriers of this mortal coil and evolve into a better form, flawless possibly. Because you are not perfect and I could not punish you for it, the image of what it could have been will be your only comfort.

Every drop of sweat emerges from this chaos with a mission: to be tasted and concealed again. You are a master of deceit, like a magician hypnotizing an audience of fools. The one spectator you are performing for is a slave to your powerful will, this also being a trait of the great illusionist. You encircle the previous specimen, all of them in fact, and those who will come as well. You confine them all to oblivion, so masterful is your performing ability.

While your tongue expresses the intimate desire of your soul, that language so warm comes out of your vocal chords. In Brazil, your homeland, different ways of catching the elements of the strange sounding tongue, catapult your reason beyond the ferocious dominions of sanity. It is not only my particles mixing up with yours, in fact the different, unfamiliar tongues also resurface, but they are now changed and more advanced, so that I can speak your language as well as you can speak mine.

This is all in the mind of those who can envisage the entity of the damage, who can protect themselves from such a tornado of feelings, emotionally charged, terribly wrong and yet so very right. You take this lesson with you, proud to have found the missing part of my brain, but never too worried that I could turn back the hands of time and prepare my shelter. No, I must not shelter my feelings from your violence, as I need it for survival just the way it is. Without it, there could be no tomorrow; without it, there is no existence at all.

I feel your vibrations and expect them to last in order to make me live; I expect them to give me a definition of myself, to find a way out of the morbid thoughts I have. The salvation I crave you are, the immortal salvation making me perfect and imperfect at the same time. Like the constant contradiction we always find in ourselves, the same one that made you believe you could find peace in the number thirteen. I am counting, verifying the acceleration of time, which stood for a short infinity lost on your lips, frozen on your mouth.

Time and time again, the fluids boil in the heat of this encounter. Too many times we have found solace in the certainty of this existence. But this world in motion does not stop for us; the gloomy look of the enemies trying to prevent our fatal encounter, now surround us; we are in the stranglehold of doubts and maybe for a second, will be apart. It will not last more than a second, and yet the pain will be so unbearable, like the scar under your stomach trying to become a bleeding sore again. Those lines on your face will glow and I will be saying the words you taught me to say. It will be only our moment in time, carved on the edge of the world.

The intimacy of our bodies interlaced only by the lips and flowing into each other via the liquid core of our tongues, is everlasting. You and I will take it away with us; for years to come we will keep it as a vital part of ourselves, a true reason to stay alive whenever we will be struggling to find any. In the magic of that togetherness we have found our strength and we have measured its power. To wish for a better outcome it would be offensive.

The taste you gave me I have made mine. And I return it. You take it and give it back again, insatiable as you must be. If the magic of the unknown has now left us, something even better has come to us, the notion of being a part of each other’s self, detached a long time ago and returned to us, in a strange, unexpected way. The mean which we have used to find our way back, would not be suspended in time. It would be at hand, whenever we might need it, to make those fluids alive again. The softness of a cherry, juicy fruit to taste, element of the fast growing earth; the tip of the iceberg, the inviting slice of the sweet cake of passion. And then your beauty, unobtainable even for me, your blood running in streams of fire, the curves of your body and the sweaty pores of mine. Scanning the images and the sounds, little noises and heavy sighs, but most of all, your taste in my mouth, so sweet and clean. How can I define all that and make it comprehensible?

You would call it: o beijo. Perhaps I shall call it: the kiss.


To F.S.

Excerpt from the collection "Epistulae"- © Rosaria Trenta

Hard as Stone

Nothing will make it better.

Lured in and enticed by darkness

Hoping that light will follow

On the safe shore of despair:

Who’s leading you there?


In the touch of a hand

And a frivolous kiss

The spirit descends

Into the depths of the abyss;

Pit your wits against the deceiver

There is more, far more to see

Even for you

While you’re away from me


Who art thou?

I hear that voice:

It is mine to keep.

Are you the stranger

Who’s come to take me home?

Or just the danger

Of a reoccurring nightmare

That’s never gone?


You, the sign

Never shown in vain

Never ready to remain;

A frugal promise

Mortified in a row

Detained and demised

In this obscene vow


Sealed with iron

The truth is shunned;

It cries of solitude

In the long shadow of my past:

‘Please, free my spirit

Make it better now,

Make it last!’


[© Rosaria Trenta, 4 October 2006]

Swedish composer Johannes Jansson has written the score to a previous version of this poem of mine.


He said that maybe this time he will stay a little

He turned that light on, the red and blue across the room

Mumbled unspeakable words to break all comfort down

Not that I cared about a single sparkle of energy

Coming from that horrible fiend


He found a naked moment in the midst of the acid rain

Complained about my skin being black and blue from that aberration

Like it was my fault I did not have any protection cream

Oh, the indignity of it all!

Frankly too spiteful to be spoken of

And yet so infinitely beautiful


I touched a line on his forehead and made him scream a little

The pleasure of knowing a soul can be crushed and humiliated

In more than just one simple way

That is all I can say, bearing in mind he is shy and so very insecure

About who he really is and why he does exist

A question not to be answered just now


Later he will move to another subject

Escaping the prison of his lonely thoughts to reach my intimate sadness

The same one he gives, not without enjoying the mess resulting from it all

On this note I shall end our little rendez-vous

Because he is tired of being a stupid demon and he will not stay

Not until we break the spell and let him out of that silver cage


[©Rosaria Trenta, 5th November 2006] 

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