Into me/out of me

Never shown to catch an angel
though I have to believe it’s true
that my shame and my regret
are nothing more than a punch of sand

Every way I know this angel,
he’s holding his breath to give me some death
A gift I never wanted
a gift I must accept

The gleam of mine is yours
I swallow what you dreamt of,
never forced to run out
a smile purifies my gift
A gift you yearn for
a gift you’ll die for

A life is one, two lives are one
indeed we call them “Love”

Bitterness is what now I’m drowned by
the claiming sea glows of the sun’s rays
of death and remembrance denied
What an erasing nothing can do
is just to spit you out of me

A souvenir soils my gift
an eternal you, a desert sand
A gift you’ll die for
a gift you’re dead for

A life is one, two lives are torn
indeed we call them “love”


copyright 2006 Eleonora Pizzi

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The Month Of Pearl

My beloved Andrew,

I found the guts to write you this letter only now, such a long time away. But I won’t give you this letter in your hands, no; neither a postman will. I’ll entrust it to the fire, which flames will raise towards you and bring these words in their curls of smoke. You won’t ever read these lines with your pretty eyes because, many years ago, you declared to yourself that kicking that enemy of the nation’s ass was right; what the hell am I saying? It was mandatory! That moment on, everything collapsed into an oblivion of pride and stubbornness which only a bullet managed to pull you out of.

Mom’s supplications, dad’s heavy silence, your elder sister’s endless crying, your little brother’s distressed impossibility to understand have been totally useless… he held your shirt and pulled, pulled, pulled it strongly to take you back at his age so that you could not leave. When you knocked my room’s door, the moment in which you turned the handle has been the last one. The last one of an era in my life, in your life, of your family and friends’ lives. Of an era of your still not born baby. He knew nothing, either to subsist or to be alive, yet he had already lived his dad’s farewell.

This war between our marriage. This war in the way, spanner in the works of the people who waged it, fight it and undergoes it. I was already about to flood you with a thousand questions about the flowers for the church, the maids of honour, the special menu for the children… a river torn and wounded by a dam built out of male chauvinism and false ideals.

One glance has been enough to freeze my blood up, seven words to hold all oxygen in my lungs: “do you really mean to do this?”. One syllable crashed me into a whirlpool of anguish while my heart was going mad, my hands gropingly searched for a chair, the new life inside me pulsed and pulsed just while I was looking at your flame choking in a light breeze. Like a burning ocean of little candles, roaring frightful and terrific first, then just a mound of wax wet by blood-red streams, exhausted wicks blow out too early. You are among the unrecognizable candles too, you who gave life just as you’re taking it away now. While you take it away from other people, you also steal it to your own self, because you’re not God. It’s not you who instilled life into your child, it’s not you who can save yours by taking it away to innocent wearing uniforms or civil clothes. Because real blameworthy people are not among them. And I am not guilty too, neither your baby, your family; in spite of this, you dedicate us the most cruel torture and the heavy blow who leaves only suffering and regret harmless.

How many times you told me “I love you” and it truly came from the deepest of your heart; love me then to the bottom, at least from up there, from the clouds where you play hide-and-seek with your child who walks with goofy treads pointing at you in the sky. But you’re not loyal, you never let him win, you are always veiled by humidity that sometimes condense and comes back to us, the drops of you streaming in your child’s blood. Together we survived a lot of winters, discovering each other again at every spring dawn. Despite the stiflingly hot day, wrapped and slippery in their heavy dark uniforms, from the officers’ mouths raged out a snow and ice tempest, a sucked by a black hole pale sun which threw its last rays to apologize. Not only for the people you condemned to your same end, but also for your baby’s half future.

I feel you while I caress him, while every single thing silently and ineluctably drifts away heading for my very last breath that will eventually rejoin us. But none of this is enough. Without your safe arms which embrace me, without your voice, your hands, your lips, many nights I find myself getting my pillow wet of little but penetrating teardrops. Each of them digs a crater inside me that can’t be filled up by anyone but you.

You who will came back any more. 



copyright Eleonora Pizzi 2007

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Manifesto of Tisaneria

Tisaneria is a creature of the night.

It was born in a midfall night of 2012 around a table, over three hot teas, while
outside shadows and cold embraced the trees and tar in the southern Lands of Como.
It was not a dark and stormy night and who knows if stars overlooked down on earth…
It was the night when we raised our inner voices, held tight for too long by the darkness
of a chaining reality: the Italian one.

 Finding a haven in one’s own fancy is good, but, when darkness is too much,
even dreams have no shadows and they can easily hide themselves.

Dante, Sommo Poeta, wrote:
Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice ne la miseria.
(“No greater sorrow than remembering cheerful times in misery”).

We add and adjust it to our period:
“No greater sorrow than living in a time when you are not represented”.

 While in the outside everything is dark in any sense,
we are determined to set an ambush to the light.

With our “cups up!” we want to salute the ones
who feel joyful in tasting a tea instead of uselessly unhealthy drinks
– a placebo for precariously happy minds –
and glad after constructive discussions at every sundown.

With our “cups up!” we want to salute the ones
who does not moan, but build themselves
in order to shut up their own’s and other’s complaints.

With our “cups up!” we want to salute the ones
who sometimes would rather share the company of past minds
than most of currently living people.

With our “cups up!” we want to salute the ones
with a sane nostalgia sensation for places and feelings which emerge
as they had always put down roots in and entwined together with them.

With our “cups up!” we want to salute the ones
who respect Nature and get angry
when someone throws something on the ground.

 Our choice of expressing ourselves in English is due to our desire in reaching universality,
in order to make Italian tongue’s chains not that binding,
so that an increased number of readers all over the world could
feel one with Tisaneria and find a secure haven in it.

 We trust our reader to be active;
we wish our works arouse curiosity and spurs in him
so that he could carry out researches and go into unknown themes.
Text interpretation is totally free and open, anyway.

Curiosity, expansion of one’s horizons and deep knowledge of one’s neighbour
are themes that build solid basis for a little but significant change in ourselves,
not only with reference to Tisaneria but in daily life too,
asking ourselves, every single day:
“What can I do to make my life better?”.

“There is a crack in everything, but it is from this crack that sunshine comes in”:
We would like to find where this sunshine is.
Tisaneria is to show how much power of change everyone holds,
only just starting with a subtle alteration of perspective.

Diana Clerici , 
Eleonora Pizzi

October / November 2012

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…welcome all…

I Tisanieri

Manifesto of Tisaneria

 Tisaneria is a creature of the night.

It was born in a midfall night of 2012 around a table, over three hot teas, while
outside shadows and cold embraced the trees and tar in the southern Lands of Como.
It was not a dark and stormy night and who knows if stars overlooked down on earth…
It was the night when we raised our inner voices, held tight for too long by the darkness
of a chaining reality: the Italian one.

 Finding a haven in one’s own fancy is good, but, when darkness is too much,
even dreams have no shadows and they can easily hide themselves.

Dante, Sommo Poeta, wrote:
Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice ne la miseria.
(“No greater sorrow than remembering cheerful times in misery”).

We add and adjust it to our period:
“No greater sorrow than living…

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Categories: Short Stories | Leave a comment

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Morning of passion

Sunlight slowly crawled along the ceiling, then went down on the whiteness of the wall until it caressed a head, abandoned on a pillow. A soothed but parched body welcomed that sweet nectar of heat that it was given for free. In the unconsciousness of her sleep, another little unconsciousness thrilled in her womb, throbbing with new life, still unaware to the body that feeded it for free, just because that tiny being, no bigger than a hand palm, was there, existed. Existing seems the easiest thing in the whole world. You consider yourself powerful and invincible like a sculpture built out of sand, but if you turn your look back, you may see some waves licking your unwaveringness. But now, tenderly, a dream cradled her in her drowsiness and made her feel like being back in the warm embrace of a mother’s lap.

Some knocks abruptly echoed in the silence. Sharp, frightening. That dreamlike mother’s lap disintegrated and she opened her black eyes wide with a fearful yell, having a dazed look around.

“Come on! Hurry up! It’s late!”.

She snorted: it’s just the guard. Like every single morning since a month, a graceful woman in uniform “ringed the alarm” against cells’ bars to wake up the convicts. What a good service. From the railing window she tried to look down over the courtyard, but she could only take a glimpse of her imagination carrying her beyond those walls. Slowly she took her pajamas off (she could do it because she was alone in the cell, how lucky am I!) and she put on the same clothes she wore the day before and the one before that.

She had bought some cookies at the extra food stock, so she heated up some milk she used to keep fresh into a basin full of cold water. While she was staring at the little pot and trembling flame of the ring under it, that annoying, sudden knock stroke the air again.

“Calling me by my name, instead of all this mess?”.

“O princess… don’t piss me off. Take this, comes from the doctor”. The gentlewoman passed a white envelope through the tiny window in the iron door. A writing on it said “cell 312, female department II”.

She picked it up and opened it, after switching off the ring and gas cylinder. It was her blood and urine exams result, very kindly ordered by the prison director a few weeks before, when she got degraded from “woman” to “host”.

Under the numbers column, two handwritten lines by an anonymous doctor with an incomprehensible signature: “the analysis of the hormones present in the material handed to her reports an ongoing pregnancy. Please carry out immediate inspection by ultrasound findings. Sincerely”.

Pregnancy? Me? Me pregnant? Me with a stuff in my belly? Since… o my God… since… two months?

Instinctively (and maternally) her right hand settled on her navel. And, all of a sudden, another thought: here?

When her breath became regular again, she stood up and first washed her face many times. Not to wake up from a dream, rinse out paleness from her cheeks or get used to the unbelievable surprise. Just to purify herself. To make her former life flow down the drainpipe and end it in the most suitable place ever.

She wished she was brand new for her creature. Mine? That thought increased until it included another person, its father (“father”… what a difficult term to say!), that lad who… loved her. Did he love me? The last of a long series of men, the first of a new era. “Love”, a really absent and dressed up word in her life, locked up in the most secret jail in her heart, whose cell mate was “Trust”. In that moment, when the word “father” overlooked her mind, she deeply understood that feelings’ dance, that harmonically perfect ballet which a curtain displayed every time they were together alone. She never understood it, or wanted to, because Fear held her heart’s cell’s keys and guarded its gate extremely well.

“Guard!”, she cried impulsively, “guard! Can you come here for a second?”.

“What the hell you want? Don’t you know I am plenty of stuff to do?”.

“Can you give me an application form? I would like to phone, if it’s possible. I know it’s not the right time, but I need this phone call, can you ask the director to approve it immediately? It’s a matter… of life”.

“Or death?”, the Grand Duchess in uniform ironically completed.

Her heart ran fast. She dialled the number and checked it out twice, tasting every single heartbeat which escaped quickly from her veins. The unengaged tone seemed to last forever. Than he answered. Hello.



“Don’t hold your breath, you know I would have called you sooner or later. You are the only one that’s left to me in this world”.

Her speech unexpectedly was so sweet because she gave up the fact she was in love with him. He had been hurt so much by her hidden feelings, but he himself healed his scars with his own love as a good surgeon would do. She managed to admit her loneliness in the end, for she had always been surrounded by unscrupulous people who he unsuccessfully tried to move her away from. A joy he never felt before exploded inside. His heart was beating hard in his chest, it was going up his throat and around all his body. It was crazy, but alive and free!

Words knotted up the way from her lungs to her lips. For a second she lost control and got paralyzed, as she was drunk from happiness, and both stayed silent for some time.

“I wandered if you want to marry me. I would like my child to be carried by a father with a ring on his finger”.


“Hey there…!”

“Can you… repeat?”. Okay, turns of phrases did not work.

“You know what, no, who is there in my womb? Our child. Consequently, I want to be your wife”.



“How can I ask for a visit to you?”.

“But… you don’t say anything? I thought you… would be happy…”.

“I don’t have to say a word. I have to hug you!”.

Mrs Pinkerton in uniform and truncheon knocked the 312 cell’s door with usual delicacy.

“It’s time, the jeep has arrived. Hurry up”.

While getting on it with about ten other women, she held her belly as if its weight could throw her off balance and make her stumble down, even if it actually grew only few centimetres more.

What does pregnant women fancy about when they are in their cars with their partners going to the hospital for the first ultrasound exam?, she was wondering, maybe they think about what sort of pushchair they’ll buy, or brush up how to knit as their grannies taught them, or are anxious to know if it’s going to be a baby-girl or a baby-boy. All she could think of was, instead, where she would have grown up her child. She would have really liked not to make her child pay the bitter price for her own mistakes… his father already payed for that; he chose to increase his shifts at work and to look for an extra job in the weekends.

“And when are you going to visit me if you work 24 hours a day?”, she asked him laughing.

“Well, I come visit you every time I close my eyes and think about the three of us, together”.

She liked so much to be cuddled by his speeches, so truly and naturally dictated by love, and listen to his reassuring voice depicting a life she would have desired to live since she was a child. The life I want to give to my baby.

Copyright 2006 Eleonora Pizzi

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Categories: Short Stories | 1 Comment

The Wounds Colours

Little fragments of glass were stuck in her flesh. Inside her organs, in her gullet, all over her body’s muscles, in her stomach, in her heart. They made her bleed copiously and the blood unceasingly flowed, painting her feeling’s surface a vibrant red. Hands were tightened in close fists, nails’ edges were white by the effort of pushing other splinters deeper and deeper into her skin. As on an oblique mirror, blood flowed and covered it with its intense colour, sliding on the ground. Everything was sliding away, even physical suffering. She didn’t feel any emotion. She observed the sluggish flowing of the red liquid out of her body in the same way a scientist would note a natural phenomenon. Despite this, she was feeling wonderfully better. The Evil stood no more inside her body, ferried on the floor towards death by that vermeil Charon. Better to lose that colour that mesmerises your glance as the flames of a fire lit in the darkness do, than to share life with that vicious everlasting destroyer.


Abruptly, a distant sound of a voice, low and muffled but still hearable. It was yelling as if it had a cotton pad over its mouth, “what are you doing??”. Now the arms that belonged to that voice were shaking her, male fingers were violently stroking her hair and lower and lower that saving sound was reaching her. But she didn’t want to be saved, for she alone had already arranged for it: she chased away the Evil from her body together with that red, the Evil that persecuted her, that made her feel an inhuman beast, that proded her at every day and night hour, leaving her wrecking in the sea of anguish. In that ocean there were no lifeboats or flares, only the certainty of being killed from the inside by the Evil and yet living, although her suffering.


Now the red that surrounded her had vanished. There was only white: dirt white, white of something torn by a continuous and repeated use, a tired white, sick of being there but resigned to the idea of having to stay there for a long time still. Thin transparent plastic cannulas full of that vivid red went out, or in, her arms. She tried to open her mouth but she realised that a blear colour mask was around it, steamy by her breath. She wanted to lift an arm, but any muscles did answer. In her idleness, panic burstingly infiltrated once again, in spite of the belief of having won over the Evil. Those familiar male arms had interrupted her beloved contemplation of that unique colour and her conviction of having eventually destroyed the Evil. She tried to turn her head, and she saw a woman dressed in that same weary white, her hands wrapped in transparent latex gloves, at her feet dusty drilled slippers, on her breast a tag with her name, a little black and white photo and a godforsaken writing, quoting “St James Psychiatric Hospital”. She saw the woman’s fire red lips moving and tried to focus on them, but what a difference with the vividness of blood colour! Of her blood! Other people came in, dressed in that same shabby uniform, and fussed around the cannulas and machinery. What a pain now, owning not that dazzling beautiful red, only way to get rid of sorrow! She didn’t want to give up its lack and uselessly searched for some kind of copy, a faded halo of its liveliness among all that bare white.

After some time the cannulas were removed and someone told her she could stand up and walk on her own feet, but she sensed that she couldn’t carry on just with the memory of that colour. Noboby now would have allowed her to heal, because the only possible cure was her blood, soaked with the Evil! Now, she knew, she would have been even more securely tied to the chair where the Evil used to make her suffer his terrifying abuses. Her life would have continued in the grip of his tortures, in her veins just brown and faded clots would have crept, leftovers of a more than a newborn rose’s bud intense red. Prisoner of the Evil, of her body, no way out.


Blood dried, and on the mirror of her feeling only a massive brown repulsive crust was left. Nothing she could have done to wash it away.


copyright 2007 Eleonora Pizzi

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There’s always a way back

In my headphones Dave Grohl’s hoarse voice, the music, some lines:

come on, take my side, I’m fighting for you, I’m fighting for you!! / pleased to meet you, take my hand / there is no way back from here, but I don’t care / no way back from here, yeah!

In my eyes the automatic door of the railway station that opens without any effort as a curtain on a scenery made of obsessive rhythms and standard people behind a dirty glass, who wish for being anywhere but there, hearing strangers’ voices asking for “a return ticket to Milan”, or, when their imagination gets tipsy, “a season ticket to Casbeno”. And to have to answer “Do you have 10 cents?”, or to remind the absent-minded elderly or the inexperienced kid to hand the customer card over, because “I can’t give you the season ticket without it”. No “thanks”, “see you”, “please” or Cenozoic kidness like these.

Grohl, the old good Grohl, here he is, he’s asking for a return ticket to Milan, adding 10 cents for the nervous joy of the ticket clerk. Or it’s me? It’s me that, after putting that little white, black and green paper square in my jeans back pocket, raises its look and meets his? No, not Dave’s one. Dave has already fled away from my acoustic nerve. A homeless’ gaze.

Or, better, leftovers of a man’s gaze. Shady eyes, dark hair, thick beard. A wrinkled and faded puppet, with torn seams, hanging threads everywhere, black stains that penetrate far beyond its light t-shirt. A puppet that once was round and chubby, with vivid pink painted cheeks, a puppet that has been pulled at his extremities, chopped into pieces by events or people that had to take care of it, washed and spin-dried lots of times to erase the slight imperfections on its clothes and body.

He gets near bashfully, with a kind attitude. “Excuse me, can I ask you a penny? I’ve filled the bottle at the bathroom’s washbasin!”, he continues, showing a bottle in the other hand, “I’m on the streets, please!”. Which events could have forced a person with a so sweet glance to bend his dignity and pride to the ground? That “I’m on the streets” lights a powerful curiosity in me, a harmless, not morbid curiosity, a curiosity that wants to help, to listen, but can’t find the guts to go out of my lips, moulded in the shape of “what’s happened?” or “why?”. Trivial and stupid, my thought runs down in my rucksack and notices that I’ve no money left, having spent those last 4,10 euros for that ticket.

I’m sorry, I had just the money for the ticket, I’ve nothing left…”. How much regret and shame in that moment! I was ashamed of myself

Oh… you bought a ticket, and then you have to take the ticket to come back, too… yes, there’s always a way back…”, he says, staring at me, and then, on that last, extreme sentence, scanning beyond the automatic door, or, maybe, it would be better to say beyond the void space in which people leave him in his despair. He seems mesmerised by that void. For a couple of seconds he stands still, lost in his thoughts. Perhaps he is terrified by the shocking meaning of that sentence too, as if another entity inside him has pronounced it with a so evident tone, like those truths we hear, repeated to us since we were children, which we take for granted for so many years that, as we realize their authentic meaning, we are dumbfounded, as the prehistoric men in front of the power of the finally dominated flames. How many times I’ve heard about Nietzsche’s “eternal return”; how many times, reading The Lord Of The Rings, as Frodo comes back to the Shire, I’ve shared with him the anguish born from “nothing will ever be like before”… yet, just in that moment, in that ticket office, I have understood the authentic meaning of RETURN. I could dominate the power of the flames of despair, distress and sorrow that surround the people who lost anything and who now burn in loneliness and bewilderment.

I’m so sorry, please, excuse me”, a pityful effort to apologise and console him, even if the consolation this sentence can give, after being used by all mankind with ipocrisy and falseness at least once in a lifetime, is really ridiculous.

He wakes up from his thoughts storm, he looks at me and smiles, “not at all, don’t worry!”. Another poisoned arrow, arrow of purity and clearness in my heart that now would bury itself together with the rest of my body. “Thanks, hi!”, he exclaims, waving his hand. I return the gesture, another time having no courage enough to link my brain to my mouth to pronounce seven damned words, “Can I help you in another way?”. His feet, instead, obey with a listless “yes, Sir!” to his nervous system and carry him out of the ticket office, disappearing beyond the glasses of the automatic door, a door that allows the passage from a space to another one, door of the soul that is always and irretrievably sealed to our neighbour, to this man’s leftovers.

copyright 2006 Eleonora Pizzi


Song quoted from “No Way Back” by Foo Fighters, 2005, from the album “In Your Honor”, RCA records.

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Con amore e squallore

cups up & read!

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The few things Algernon thought before leaving his cage...

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