To Eduardo B. Toledo Listur
and Orlando Toledo, son

To trace someone who could give you the strength of the hands
even before you. And that would love me as the wind that refreshes,
that cools, that subverts, that blows away, that launches
is loved!
To germinate you and deliver you here, between us, from us! Then, to accept
laws not mine, others’ negations and affirmations. Touch and farewell!
To look for you, find you, emancipate you, meet you again in the other’s
What other more virtuous concession can the flesh give me
what more collected clemency can quieten each wound
if not the possibility of watching you loved by others’ love, by their delight!

Paris, fresh and silvery
2017 – Maria A. Listur




When the internal dialogue
became just an image
every heart appeared more vivid
the nudity reflected by every heart was mine
wisdom and pain of those hearts that I felt in me was also their light.
Since then, I wash each slag,
I let go lightness, every weight.
I strip memories from the teachings
it’s the purpose, the path; now sense, color
education, and sound also.
Constant like the water falling from the mountains
from me I scratch off the sorrow of each doctrine,
in the dawn I jump off
– like a suicide victim from the bridge
who in the falling discovers the water near –
and I save myself, every time, in every moment
to say from inside of my immature body:
“I am saved!” “Once again!”
And those hands that deprived me
or that chest that made me an orphan
become an unusual mother
vitality and concreteness of the father
playful brothers and sisters,
sweet breeze of autumn.
I gently graze the waters
refresh the feathers, the pores,
the bleeding wings,
Inhale, exhale,
and with the belly full of solemn laughs
I rise to see and illuminate
all the dead ones,
all the living,
this skin,
new and secular.

Paris, 2016 – Maria A. Listur
Nori Irto ph

La raccoglitrice/The Harvestress



The Harvestress

An isolated regret
A memory of you
That by now is mine as well
A weak cold shines of yesterday:
Never far from the maternal glance
Boundless in the protection of the impossible
Orphan and mother of feminine goods:

They were the strangers that looked like us!
They were anticipating hung and sustained loves…
They imitated Penelope, attached to her thread!

A scary truth I would have wanted to give voice to.
I would have wanted to announce from inside:
“Stay calm, come to bed,
the clothes peg out there
don’t die from cold
and you my precious
be strong in the heart
all along

Rome, with words donated by time, together… 2013 – Maria A. Listur