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‘I remember how to fly’.

And four more new poems.


I remember how to fly

Everything waits for the blasting red sun
in the dance of solitude.

I am tempted to believe again in swallows
that flash and dive,
their wings pointing to infinity.

They know where they belong,
follow the routes with sheer intensity
returning always returning.

I was born an eagle
with dark wings stretching wide
nesting high.
The crooked hook of my profile
slices the sky.

Worlds to come

Droll dolls, bells and thimbles, odd rods,
copper ladles, rubber ducks,
dry alloro leaves and rosmarino,
Italian peppers.

I left vestiges behind,
the colours of the Mediterranean Sea
the breeze scenting salt and jasmine
the sonority of the silver waves.

We moved to the land of roses after the escape.
The grace of change,
we take what comes.


I am looking for the incredible image of insects in action
their wild beauty like a language,
emotional response to the despair coming.
They mash and grind the soil
cooking a nurturing recipe of fermentation
creating landscapes in miniature
to restore damaged communities.
I envisage patterns, their glowing shades
the metallic blue and purple,
the ink black spots
and luminescent yellow,
the palette the shape of a butterfly.


—After Jen Hadfield’s ‘Daed-traa’

I go to the swimming pool
to remind me what my writing’s for.

Blue tiled walls
that mimic wider spaces reflecting inner yearning.

It has benches on the sides to leave my towel
while I float in the innocent water.

The waves of other swimmers
splash my face, blinding my eyes.

It has a sauna at a corner
where I warm my weak bones; the heat sips my cells.

I go to the swimming pool
to remind me what my writing’s for.

For me, it has the sore memories that come back
with the backwash,
the backlash cuts deep waters.

It has its ups and downs,
the rhythm of dust falling.

It has its sultry moments,
its glorious evenings
a space for failed thoughts.

It has its coming back, always coming back.


I go to the swimming pool
to remind me what my writing’s for.

Note: Risacca: backwash or rip current, from resecar or secar: to cut


A woman clothed with the sun with the moon under her feet
Revelation 12: 1

That night the sickle moon
hooking at the vague sky
might have been a goddess
thin and silver like a curved needle,
no stars around.
The lean shape defying the darkness
the ebb and tide drifting,
changing the land.
Crescent, decrescent
like an open belly irradiating movement
and energy.

You show your strength,
hair like lightening,
feet and hands are claws
that rip the red dragon,
cut the seven heads and ten horns,
scatter the rich diadems,
the pride of the mighty.

A lioness nourished in the wilderness
alert and feral
your son a lion cub –
the Lamb of God –
fierce like an eagle and tender like a dove.

Dear Mary,
we will remember you always, always.

CARLA SCARANO D’ANTONIO lives in Surrey with her family. She obtained her Master of Arts in Creative Writing at Lancaster University and has published her creative work in various magazines and reviews. Her short collection Negotiating Caponata was published in July 2020 by Dempsey & Windle. She completed her PhD degree on Margaret Atwood’s work at the University of Reading and graduated in April 2021. Her next collection, Workwear, is forthcoming from The High Window.

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