top of page

Gabriella Garofalo

Extract from 'To M. W.'

Oh, the sweet white lies lovers indulge in 
Yet she lives a scant summer warmth, 
Maybe the sun, while the symbols of her failure 
Are showing off, the skinny salesgirl smiling on her bike, 
A handful of wealthy bimbos 
Tasting oysters, caviar, and avocado 
Close to a weird underground slyness, 
An early silence aimed at comets, souls, graves 
Grab the gifts, say ‘thank you’, and dive 
Into the scent from cupboards,  
The shabby memory of your eyes, 
But don’t get mad at words, if a blue fire  
Keeps stalking you, just hide symbols,  
And wasted features, it’s nonsense  
Like frayed rags in the street,  
Vines all over the walls, 
They can’t stop you from striking 
Light, or dark 
Oh, fancy that, she moves time  
At her own rhythm, she believes in grass, 
Even in harvests, and no borders  
To her words, no sympathy 
For a riotous blue whenever the moon warns: 
You own her, but she sets a high price  
For all those colours shrieking for a bit of attention, 
Brambles, briars, red, green 
Shun them, your mind screams, 
But shut her out, my soul, 
Get up, dive into die-hard seeds, and mind, 
Heaven’s gonna hit you with jolts of stars, 
And what’s worse, you’re bound to call them life.

Extract from ‘To S.’


Out of a pesky arthrosis time is forced

To stand still, he is bedridden so can’t dash

To centuries and millennia, to wolf them down

The soul is gently soothing him, with those platitudes

Eerily akin to a generous dollop of salt on infected wounds

Soul, don’t waste your time with him, better for you

To look for a light blue sky, where light stands as a survivor

Along with lighter colors, maybe blue, maybe desire

And she suddenly raids him, touches his lips, a biting cold

Breathes life to your winter, but, oh, those hands, them

And primary colours, such a bore

Never complain, never explain, just remove them quickly,

No good for you to end up like her 

For a cheap sunset, too much sorrow, and hot tears, 

What’s the bloody point?

Listen, be wise, grab a reliable night, a pocket gift,

Don't you know the roots of your being are born blue

Wasted, unstoppable, they show 

The weird rhythm of your days to a lover who always 

Dodges a bit cagey

However, that’s very much for him 

To get in touch and say ‘hello’, he usually dodges 

Dirty jobs, if the soul stares in awe at briars,

The sunset hides to ravage them

Long story short, you too hide in the blue 

The soul desires-all right, all right, no choice for you

If your places don’t live in you so they reject 

A rendezvous with you

Well, Father, to be honest even the moon rejects

To quench her thirst, maybe it’s the right time for sounds

To fade away, not that you like them, as the days from the mothers rape your winter, same here, same here.

The point is, one fine day the roots of your being 

Would like to wither away leaving no trace

Great, but your body your limbs are set on 

Making it hard for them- they might just love life, or they can’t wait to ground Father who threw them at you in bulk.

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of these books “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Casa di erba”; “Blue Branches”; “ A Blue Soul”.

an independent press dedicated to new writers
bottom of page