DAVID SUBACCHI - POEMS

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry and one in the Welsh Language. He also writes in Italian.
You can find out more about David at
https://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi
or simply by searching on line for DAVID SUBACCHI.

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​ONLY YESTERDAY

The feeling of fear
And humiliation,
Cold paving stones,
Tightly packed
Belongings.
 
The slight tickle
Of warm air
From shop
Doorways,
Ankles stiffening.
 
Back aching,
Wind rising,
Blowing trash
Across the square,
The averted eyes
 
And discarded
Cigarette butts,
The unexpected
Five pound note,
The ritual
 
Chant
Of a beggar;
Only yesterday
There was
 A tomorrow.
 

MEMORIAL
(Gladstone’s Library, Hawarden, North Wales)
​

This is your memorial,
From stone and bronze,
Even from cushion covers
Your stern gaze
Confronting staff
And curious visitors.
 
Within fireplace
Dominated rooms,
Miniature busts
Encased in glass
Emphasise your status;
You are everywhere.
 
Even in the library
A woodcutter's axe
Always on display,
Reminds us
Of the power
You once wielded.

​IMPRESSIONS

​They compose quickly each outline image
Applying logic to their selection,
Likewise with the colour distribution,
Not bad for those of such an early age;
Yet too eager to decorate the page
Their artwork never reaches completion,
Before being thrust forward for attention
So as all other painters to upstage;
This aggressive strategy commonplace
In the free for all world in which we live,
Where speed beats quality to win the race
And babes are raised to be competitive;
Thus do eager young artists only trace
Vague impressions of the inconclusive.
 

BRANWELL ​

​Thinking the picture crowded
 You painted yourself out
 Leaving three sisters
 Huddled around the pillar
 That replaced your image
 A plain stone pillar
 Matching their expressions.
 
 Years later a disinterested
 Descendant, roughly folded
 Your careful work
 Placing it carelessly
 On top of a cupboard
 Creating damaging marks
 Bisecting pillar and siblings.
 
 At the National Portrait Gallery
 Fading paint is now starting
 To reveal your hidden form
 Emerging ghost like
 From the dreary pillar
 A brother resuming
 His rightful position.
 

​A THIN LINE

​Flesh burns near flame
When taken too close,
Yet I approach again
Offering my writer’s hand;
Am I insane
To behave like this?


Words smoulder
Written in anger,
Now I am older
They ignite
Much easier
Blackening fingers.


Images are trashed,
Incinerated,
I see the ash
And move nearer
The oven’s flash,
Not intimidated.


For there’s a thin line
That separates
Art from design,
Love from sentiment,
Coarse from fine,
So very dangerously.