Sunday, March 30, 2008

Therese Pace - A poet from Malta

I got to know Therese Pace through my involvement in the Maltese Poets Association. She is an active member of the Association and writes in three languages: Maltese, English and Italian. Therese Pace is amongst some of the best contemporary women poets in Malta.

Mother of three Therese Pace was born in Rabat, Malta. She has published an anthology in Maltese entitled ARPEĠĠI (ISBN 99932-0-246-0), for which she was awarded first prize by the National Book Council. Other poems can be found in anthologies in various languages, in newsletters and newspapers. Award winning poet in various contests in Malta and in Italy. She is an active member of the Maltese Poets Association and a member of the World Poets Society. She took part in a literary project in conjunction with the Maltese Poets Association and the European Union celebrating its 50th year of existence. She is currently working on a couple of new projects.

Links to her poetry

The following are some of her poems in English:


There dwells a touch of magic, an all important air
around the way it happens. The resting of an eye
upon your countenance in an endearing manner; the
faintest smile bestowed whose radiance says it all

before it is rewound into its own self consciousness
as curling leaf that withers on the stem, short stoppages
in time as of a video pausing, transcending, presiding
over senses with aplomb. Short intimacy that secretive

enthrals, enfolding you in butterflies of warmth.
Powder like, it settles on your spirit with translucent
affability, as of some invisible hand reaching beyond
the barriers to touch you in quick flirt, eloquent

in its silence. You marvel at this moment imploding
your whole being, As you wallow lingeringly in its
fleeting splendour, you will become aware of your
astounding luck in having intercepted it.


These shoes are not your type. The kind that give you
blisters from bad choice, no matter how you wax and tax
them for quick comfort. When you put them on you limp
and falter, strutting like the ugly duckling of fairy tale fame,
making them creak a vociferous protest like door hinges,
an all time declared misfit they shake off on the way.

The other kind are kind. Incumbent time moulds them for
the format of your toes, with stress pads to buffer against
potholes or sore spots. With perseverance they conform
resigning themselves to a life of slavery. When they settle
down they fit you like your skin. Laces tied in place show
total disposition, obedience to your feet portrays your
imposition. You walk them, they oblige, adapting.

Fully fledged, they ogle environs, testing, until it’s time to
soar, redeemed from the old confined spaces, growing well
versed projections towards newer heights, new embraces.
Only now, almost too late, do I realize the sky is their limit.

My disciplined shoes have grown fit for posh places.


Enchantment blends me with the chic surroundings. I
do the catwalk stunt on the red carpet Naomi Campbell
style, all poised to catch the stars for just one night.

Chiffon Cinderella gown rustles like plastic in the wind
as hanging mirrors reflect another me, tilting me sideways
to imbalance. Soft light dispenses with the shadows, steals

the mystery from my face. None of the exotic birds hanging
on the Gobelin tapestries show me any slight recognisance.
I can almost hear them twit their disapproval of cheap eau de

toilette as my bare back walks tall. Inside, the crowd breaks
the ice in shimmering parures that thin the average pocket.
I remind me of a fish out of the water, as mind slips back to the

sleek limo that brought me here enraptured in its voluptuous
belly. My body glistened on its panel . They must have licked
like mad to eke such torso glimmer. Like this Louis Quatorze.

I could cross my legs forever in relax on this armchair, kissing
Zwarowski crystal rims that quench vinotheque thirst. Usually
I scoff at silver service manners. Today I simply relish. Slightly

giddy from the Kleine Zalze Chardonnay and the fine prince
beside me, paté de fois de gibier tastes like Paradise lost and
found.. He swirls me round in a Viennese Waltz too rapid for

my tipsiness. I sway towards his midriff pretending to forget
flirting in public is an etiquette crime. When midnight strikes,
I will not drop a silver shoe behind me. Instead I’ll pluck a rose

from the arrangement left idle to observe, and pin it to my hair.
I’ve reason to believe its haunting tell tale scent will guide his
ferret nostrils directly to chez moi still enchanté tomorrow .


We should employ a think tank to protect us
to reassess ambitions at their birth
that clawing at our skin with pointed talons
might rock the sound foundations of our girth.

We hover on the edge of their discretion
and feed upon the fragments that they drop
we may or may not have a say to topple
the scales to our advantage reaping crop.

They are a scheme whereby we shape existence
into a landscape of bubble gum and strass
their platelets dyed vermilion with enticement
our antibodies weaken in the fuss.

We stand exposed and vulnerable to currents
that try to force our wildest dreams to crack
as seeds upon the wind we are transported
to corners that allow no turning back.

Wild dreams are like the tide: its flow momentum
raises the levels higher than the norm
and in its outward ebb discards carcasses
displaying ugly lesions of the storm.

We pin our hopes according to perceptions
at times ignoring signals when they bleep
do not trust dreams, they are our worst allies
they buoy us then destroy us in one sweep.

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