"A Casa di Maica" seen through the eyes - and perceived with the sensitivity - of the poet Silvestro Neri

A CASA DI MAICA (AT MAICA'S HOUSE)

A gate divides the world from the mystery of this home…

Wild grass cloaks the garden, vines entwine the fig tree's limbs, others climb the old brick wall.There — a kiln, a hollow whispering secrecy; a canopy, chairs to the side, and when the gaze drifts—a wide glass pane reveals within a table, polished cherry bark, paintings, photos clinging to the wall, books laid without apparent order. I pause before the entrance door—a threshold between worlds unknown.

"Michele?"

"Welcome!"

"May I come in?"

The darkness is softened by clouds of light, and the chandelier, moonlike and deceiving, hovers at the center—a sly owl winking at the staircase, casting restless shadows across the room, stirring the stillness of endless spaces.Capodimonte ceramics, dolls not dead but frozen in some echo of life; to the right, the kitchen—a vine chasing the ceiling, the hearth hides vases, and shelters one, most precious, at its side.

— At Maica’s house, an enigma nearly spoken

— An acronym, the name of my mother

Chestnut hair already lightening, a voice assured, melancholy resting in his eyes.

— We can go upstairs. Let me show you to your rooms.

The steps groan beneath our feet, as if lamenting voices from seemingly empty places. Perhaps it is the morning light at the window, or the murmur of timeworn tiles. The great bed stands before me, coloured cushions, and at the headboard— a curious baboon’s image gazing kindly, blessing in silence. Two Austro-Hungarian armchairs probe the hush like aged sisters, the dresser slumbers, lord of the house in his repose.

— And here is the bath. I believe all you need is here.

The mirror reflects the vastness, space-time bends, and at its edges, a fifth dimension appears. Alone among multitudes, the word I utter has no body—it is spirit, revealing its very essence.

— Is not this house the world’s own allegory? Both maker and guardian, dear Michele.

Each corner holds fragments of forgetting: places, journeys, emotions, affections, sorrows, wrecks, meanings—a great zeppelin filled with life’s elements, suspended between earth and sky, motionless in the winds, resistant to passion. Of all possible worlds, only one world. Past and present speak, and without knowing, you know your course—your rightful path, already etched by fear, will, thirst and love...

— The coffee is ready. May I serve you? If it’s not enough, I’ll brew some more.

He vanishes—swift as a ghost in flesh and bone, returns in a shimmer of awe, sits beside me and says:

— Now let us speak as men, as is the custom in Arabia, and open our hearts...

May 20, 2025 – Silvestro Neri