Davide Trame



The wall of mountains.

Solid, stilled waves.

They stand out, crystal clear

in the early autumn sun,

you can think of a well-settled

widespread Buddha sitting,

the horizon corralled with his limbs and sinews.

A wall thick with the touches

of hanging oaks and copper beeches.

You feel what has always been in between

the blotches and shots of time,

the clamours, the hush, the forgetfulness.

But I’ve always crossed the road

with a smile from their eyes

that do not tower but descend

and bathe in the light.

The illusion of a streaming world,

in the lines of a streaming Buddha’s gaze,

never fails

to take solidity and weight

and get to a halt in quiet support.

I hang on then on the cliff’s teeth

in coppery brightness,

over the great illusion

of my sprawled plain.



This armchair is solid,

soft only on the surface,

it sustains you perfectly, you know,

thoughts trimmed into a steady sailing.

It’s hard to leave

after you have touched, just sitting,

such a certainty, your dog nesting

on your legs, her curved back adhering

to the crook of your arm, her breath

surfing on your skin, a gentle snoring

where skies and plains run,

the long ears sprawled

on your lap like a shawl.

Settled you are at last

and hooked

to the eyes of your own roots.

Sheltered in between

gravity and the coming stars.

Why move?



Davide Trame is an Italian teacher of English, born and living in Venice, writing poems exclusively in English since 1993.  His poems have been widely published, recently in Poetry New Zealand, New Contrast and Nimrod.