With his poetry, Tony Pucci elicits a most delicious sense of melancholia shot through with a paradoxical feeling of connectedness and even hope; sadness is rendered so vividly that it becomes something else, something bigger than what is being depicted, transforming and inverting it. And therein lies the true value of the poetic form; the transcendence of fancy language and clever tropes into the realm of pure, visceral emotion. Just momentarily, but long enough to have seen through the words. —Harry Flowers
Pucci Poetry Bibliography
A DREAM OF BUTTERFLIES – 1994
THE QUIET SUN FLOWERS – 2005
INSTINCTUAL – 2006
HISTORIAN’S TALES – 2007
AUMTUMN POSTCARD DAY – 2007
LIVING TERRAIN – 2009
CHASING RED – 2011
…and here’ s a few of Tony’s poems for you to sample…
It’s One of Those Nights
It’s one of those nights when I want to talk to you,
a girl of many faces and names but only one soul.
The antithesis of loneliness, you make me drunk
with the aphrodisiac of losing control.
It’s one of these daydreams I am caught in again,
murmuring your name over and over again
until the barrier of promises made and broken
becomes the cage you find yourself in.
It’s one of those nights when I want to lie with you,
when all of the lies I’ve told are believed to be true,
when homage is paid to our temporal shrine
and forgiveness is granted ahead of time.
It’s one of those nights when all I have is faith,
that wretched instinct to desire the make-believe.
This is My Faith
This is my faith.
I give you my every tired character,
my great need for intoxicating decay.
I give you the hours I should be sleeping,
enveloped in a promise of forgetfulness.
I release the torque of strain against ideals,
I cleanse myself of the rotten smell
left by green ink on cotton-cloth paper.
Desire appears in many stained forms,
releasing in you the unforeseeable
prism of lust-tainted mercies,
shattered with the tendrils of ill-fated illusion.
A grace to be amongst so many people,
inviting you into the world,
at peace until an emotional trigger clicks in your mind,
suddenly rendering yourself dumbfounded
with the presentation of purpose.
There is no mountain to climb,
some grand wisdom to seek out nor to offer,
it is simply the physical form
and vitality of mind sparkling in another’s eyes,
it is the quiet call of generations
asking to be born from an idea to a legacy.
And if promise is not to them,
it is then to the hope that one future day
we all will live such a life as can barely be imagined,
free from the clinging conditions and deadly sins,
free to fall in love,
free to follow your muse wherever she leads you.
This is my faith.
Naked to the Sun
Dear One, it is with the floating sensation
of the wayward seed pod on the breeze
that I call to you now from the darkness of a midnight run,
the crucible of the vanquished, diseased man
scraping a rusty quill near and far on stained parchment paper,
the seeds of destruction buried deep in his passion and immortal call.
The fevered arc of a story I cannot control despite my tight grip
on the pen that compels me to bare my essence,
naked to the sun of your judgment before me,
I stand alone amongst the prayerful, hoping for absolution
from sins inherent in the rotten blood of human design.
Give me one reason why I should maintain hope
amongst the ragged skeletons of deformed metal,
why I should believe for even the slightest phantom second
that peace is granted to those who give faith a form more than magical.
You know it’s possible if you leap blindly,
if you ignore gravity atop the cliff of your fears,
the unbalanced step before the fall,
the desire encased in daily reasons that you torturously parade before us,
all in a paroxysm of your imagined preservation.
I don’t believe for an instant that you want to hide,
that you want to remain pristine and sheltered amongst impossible parameters,
that sensuality is but a shocking myth we dismiss with our every bitter breath,
an exhale of regret, lament and disregard.
It is not the pit you wish to avoid,
merely the sensation that you are falling again without control.
Yet decline by its very nature is beyond control,
beyond the dial we spin with our mathematical hands,
it is the horizon beyond which we cannot know,
and yet only there can we run bare before the sun,
the bright warmth clothing enough
for our pulsating bodies and screaming minds.
When I Choose to Breathe
There was a time when you
could have asked me for the world,
You could have then watched me
spin deliriously for your favor.
There was a time when I
would have claimed I adored you,
A time beyond appreciation,
A mind–a landscape deserted,
Parched by the sun of desire
and the hot wind of need.
I’d rather be quiet in my religion,
In the patterns I keep,
In the ritualistic sins where I dabble,
In the rote sayings with which
I greet each point of the day.
Through grace or luck this cathedral rose,
A house of god like all others,
A symbol of power while trying to touch heaven.
And though the marble gleams
with impressive facade,
And while the echoes of whispers and footsteps
gather to scratching cresendo,
It is those quiet nights under a rain-soaked moon,
The congregation appeased
and safely sheltered in their homes,
When I lightly tred amongst the candlelit pews,
The smell of wax and polish fair substitute
for your summer sweat-scented skin,
This is when I choose to breathe deeply.
High Above the Shoreline
I like to look into the waves,
high above the shoreline foam,
a picnic on a palisade.
Terns sail by as if guardians
of a royal tapestry.
And I watch her as she spreads honey
on a roll baked fresh this morning.
And I watch her as the sun sparkles
in her dark, French eyes.
I like to live inside her days,
nearer now than I have ever been
to uttering what only fools do say.
Protestations coming quick
in the moonlight.
And I need her as she quietly molds
my rough-mannered speech.
And I need her as the woodsman splits
logs in cold anticipation.
I like to look into her eyes,
frozen in our closest moments,
hearts caged in bodies paralyzed,
Her soul’s defenses ripped
And I kiss her as she quietly sways
to the quickening tempo.
And I kiss her as if I could taste
golden dew from heaven.
I like to live inside this spell,
apart but for the summer
we spent on that green hill,
Our future and our memory intertwined.
And I miss her as the traveler
does a distant home.
And I miss her as the ocean swells
in deep, mysterious rhythm.
Each note I send to you, each letter, word,
Comma, colon, period, question mark,
Like standing by a marble-statued bird
Spouting rain into the shallow pool, dark
With pennies copper, dimes and nickels tin–
Fingers still plump with baby fat clutch
Coins from the parsimonious purse. Thin
Motherly lips smile and patiently watch
Gravely charged wants arc from awkward limbs,
Lifted in joy at the secretive splash
And, drowning with caution thrown to the wind,
Deposit themselves ‘mongst those wishes past.
The children laugh with glee, so elated
At causing death, at desire wasted.
The pointilist paints in her rich colors,
A delicate spray of corrupt fashion.
She dances among the verbal flowers,
Fate couched in a molten, silent passion.
The artist writes her monochrome tales,
Her brilliant mind navigating the maze
Of pouncing women and fevered males,
No motive is safe in what she portrays.
A student of the human condition
And a master of red scars and black lines,
She marches on the edge of division,
Eyes sharply focused and feeding the mind.
Be careful, the lust you think you are hiding?
She will brew into ink, sharp and blinding.
Quiet like the fragrant evening becomes,
Dancing with reminders of yesterday,
Shortly before the dawn unfolds the sun,
The immortal spirits come out to play.
Some offer guidance and infuse our dreams,
And some inhabit, seeking the ancient
Mirrors of their living days, hoping to see
Themselves pink once more with extravagance
Of blood and breath and bitter, tender form.
But let’s not forget it is your wish too
To find your mother risen from the worm.
We all have reasons to look like you do.
And so we cherish with suspended breath
Those moments we discover life in death.