The Angel Trilogy 

Preface by Licia Cardillo

       I don't want to lose you from my sight, oh mother,
       or from my heart for an instant
       when you look out from afar to watch me

The womb of departing night gives birth to morning, "song is born / wordless melody / gurgling of water / in full-throated repetition…".

A painful birth, the passage from protective enveloping darkness to the new day which calls up "a throng of a thoughts /and thoughts, we know, are / shade-carrying clouds".

On the threshold of light, on the boundary between past and future, the Angel with his light "leafy" hand introduces the morning.
To relieve the pain of this transition he accompanies "the movement of our painful exiguous wings…he flutters fans, spreads balm…removes poison thorns / one by one…".
Waking to the morning is like starting a voyage, facing the unknown, transforming from worm to crysalid to butterfly. Obtaining wings. Changing. And every change brings suffering. Each beam of light that pierces the darkness opens up space for pain. This in life.
Once again the words of Maria Stella Filippini attempt to open slits in the "wall of shodow" separating life from death, waking from sleep. And she says the unsayable.

In "The Angel Trilogy" she takes up the therme of becoming, of departing and returning, of sailing away from shadow and from oneself, towards the light, wearing "parchment wings" in a world where " war reigns / and innocence dies on the road / and Christ is still on the Cross / and the earth burns and the sky / oh the sky / does not beed the voice of the oppressed / of migrants".

In sleep the soul in bared benexth pearly shades to discover "another destiny". It rubs up against the doors of mystery. If these open, the Angel arrives to distribute certainty, to raise barriers against fear, to invite at hope, but if at dawn we fail to hear skylark's song, then we are not dreaming, not sleeping, not living. "Death is with us".

Trilogy about lightness, about fading, suspended atmosphere, transparencies and changing colours, doorways that are never completely chosed, that allow entry to the "other" dimension of life.

Edition by Bonfirraro Editore - anno 2001 - Translation by Joan Beeching - The adaption in sicilian is by Marco Scalabrino from Trapani
On the cover "Madonna, sole e bambini", work by Maestro Silvio Benedetto - Illustration Maria Ministeri


Angel of the morning
He appears
to accompany the movement
of our painful exiguous wings

It's the Angel of Light
who walks discreetly
inveigling fool, minstrel
careful timekeeper

It's his advance
slight rustiling of fronds
constraining liana
ferment limit threshold

On his head he carries
the cup of coming day
and of departing night
and travelling companions are
a throng of thoughts
and thoughts, we know, are
shade-carrying clouds.

          He flutters fans, spreads balm
and with patience
removes poison thorns
one by one

He is, likewise,
a maternal paternal wave
passage of the grub transmuting
regenerated butterfly
opal butterfly
opal dark-drinking
light-diffusing opal

Song is born with him
wordless melody
gurgling of water
in full-throated repetition

In the planets' merry-go-round
magic hermits' haunt
figures symbol
the dust of pain and breath

If breathing rasps
seeking ancient signs and intimations
of the beginning become future
he smoothes the hardness of rok
and the sun with giddy joy
is captured in crystal traps

Because the morning has
a single ray
and a single space
the Angel, with leafy hand opens
the sea entrance and pushes
the heron's flight
onto the narrow ruby path

In the name of He Who Concedes Hours
he comes dressed in jades
ever-changing talisman
dewy vermillion flower

He is escorted by the two Chariots
and the stars crown him

Awaiting the splendour
of warmth
my primeval cry is freed
and the pressing wave
is stilled

Tender we find ourselves and embracing
and the new-born we fully
The angel of travel
If you want to travel
says the Angel
while you await the provisions
or the helmsman
          or the wing-maker
don't stop to observe
the direction of others
gather your plans
          and go!

Travel is the counting of steps
desert of words
predestined goal pause arrival

It has varying parables
patterns and guides and the guides
are deceiving mermaids
and are, in the fog,
evasive quarries

It is, likewise, curiosity
quest for frostr in the fire
yearning for clamour in quiet
triumph of intent
light reflected from the moon's eclipse

Travel is also disappointment
but if one boat fails to raise apt sails
and falls short of the harbour
another cheats the eye of the cyclone
and reaches Nadir

If you travel from pink to black
chasing dreams among ravines
maelstroms and hurricanes
like a dogs you will lick your wounds
behind the wailing wall
and you will see swallows flee
in the wake of the wind

What goal will I ever reach
Angel Exhorter
if at the fall of chaotic towers
war reigns
and innocence dies on the road
and Christ is still on the Cross
and the earth burns and the sky

oh, the sky

does not heed the voice of the oppressed
of migrant ?

And yet, we will surely
explore my world
house world
cradle world
granary world
garden world
world that gives takes

We'll sail
when moss and corn-heads sleep
from dawn-kissed water's edge
that softens departing

Our sail breath yearning
will be as a white tunic
stamen, queen bee's honey
in the tardy hour of ephemeral voyages

We will wear parchment wings
yet travel content and fruitful
in the shade

And you Angel pilot
leave the sextant
let destiny
          be our guide!.
The Angel of sleep
How can we
Soundless Angel
not speak
when your mysteries
leave a multitude of traces

and how can we speak
knowing the seesawing of time
and the dizziness of words
on the tip of the tongue?

How will you beguile us
if even your dense airy networks
are a crucible of cold clouds
climbing plants and black
of wakefulness
of oblivion?

Tell us, Angel

Is sleep
affectionate providence
refined courtesy
invisible laying of stones
rock-like friends

It has unexplored depths
And its roots nurture the heart
and the heart, we know, is like the sea
metaphorical world
that distorts and tranquilizes all

Death, ceaselessly,
with stealthy touch
in sleep
dons the raiments
of truce

In utter drowsiness
the soul is bared
and reveals alternative destiny
through virgin pages
through prohibited doorways

Like burnt-out glow-worms
we follow binary directions
riddles charades
hoping that any door
even though barred
may eventually open

If the door opens you arrive
Gift -Laden Angel

Guiding throngs and eddies
you tame and silence
sea-horses and waves

You raise mirror deceptions
to postpone certainties
to blandish illusion
in conspiracy of bodies and hands
of dissolving figures
evoked or feared

At the waking of Dawn
You raise bats
          and the doves
from the depths
while we chase the Light
in the labyrinth

But if we fail to hear the skylark's song
then it means
that we're not dreaming
then it means
that we're not asleep
then it means
that we're not living

          Death is with us!