1. |
MAPPING
04:40
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As travellers, drawing
lines from place
to place, we copy
the nervous conceit of mapmakers.
We crop the edges of our worlds
like failed photographs,
but our discarded parts,
with their uncertain shifts
from inside to outside,
show that definiteness
is only the edge
of desire.
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2. |
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Di questo catino di mondo mi riempio
che freddi diffonde a manca
rumori di lama
scintille di casa nascente.
È il Nord, ed è lontano.
Respira sotto liquidi gruccioni il mare
e sparge
venti di sale sui geranî
rose abboccate da calabroni voraci.
È l’Ovest, ed è vicino.
Premono forte a dritta i pini e le cicale
nascondigli muri
per la civetta gelosa
notturno faro di assioli.
È l’Est, rosso di sole.
Di là da un bianco sollievo di stanze
tuffo di rondini
contro me che affaccio
su nidi orlati di becchi nuovi.
È il Sud, strada infinita.
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3. |
MIGRANT WORDS
03:45
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In a pocket of earth I buried
all the accents of my mother tongue
there they lie like needles of pine
assembled by ants
one day the stumbling cry
of another wanderer
may set them alight
then warm and conforted
he will hear all night
the truth as lullaby.
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4. |
UN ALTRO LUNEDI'
04:49
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Che cosa ne facciamo, adesso, di un altro lunedì?
Spiarlo, conviene, da dietro il vetro.
Eccolo lì, così grigio
sugli zaini malchiusi
sulla strada polverosa
sulla pioggia che non si decide a cadere
Grigio
dietro un cielo di piombo
dietro una nuvola in corsa
dietro casa mia che si allontana.
Aspetta – avvicinati per guardare meglio.
Non troppo, Non troppo!
Attenzione, non scendere sul primo gradino:
le porte si aprono verso l’interno.
D’accordo, d’accordo – puoi sempre annusarla,
questa giornata di fumo
e quasi pioggia
sa di sporco, là fuori
di sudore acido
di vapore e caffè dal bar all’angolo
e anche di fritto che ristagna dalla cena di ieri.
Annusa, vieni, avvicinati.
Ma non troppo, non troppo!
Attenzione, fatti indietro:
le porte si aprono verso l’interno.
Ascoltala, allora, questa mattina rumorosa:
tubi di scappamento
clacson di macchine in coda
il vecchio che sale imprecando
la pioggia che adesso batte forte sui finestrini
un tuono – lontano
il campanello – vicino
la tua fermata
prenotata da una donna con in braccio un bambino che
scalcia.
Affrettati, permesso, permesso, fai presto
avvicinati – di più, ancora di più.
Ma attenzione, fai molta attenzione:
LE PORTE SI APRONO VERSO L’INFERNO!
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5. |
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the lovely train of thought
which had closest brought me farthest from
your
tight closet, returns, shivering
with the light ed beacon of a distressed
permit of pain. The lighted beacon which had
furthest announced its rainbow
joy, is delirious, soulfully
singing rot
into the crashed ears.
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6. |
SEPARATION
06:50
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We with our vagrant language
we with our incorrigible accents
and another word for milk
we who come by train
and embrace on platforms
we and our wagons
we whose voice in our absence
is framed on a bedroom wall
we who share everything
and nothing -
this nothing which we break in two
and wash down with a gulp
from the only bottle,
we whom the cuckoo
taught to count,
into what currency
have they changed our singing?
What in our single beds
do we know of poetry?
We are experts in presents
both wrapped ones
and the others left surreptitiously.
Before leaving we hide our eyes our feet our backs.
What we take is for the luggage rack.
We leave our eyes behind
in the window frames and mirrors
we leave our feet behind
on the carpet by the bed
we leave our backs behind
in the mortar of the walls
and the doors hung on their hinges.
The door closed behind us
and the noise of the wagon wheels.
We are experts too in taking.
We take with us anniversaries
the shape of a fingernail
the silence of the child asleep
the taste of your celery
and your word for milk.
What in our single beds
do we know of poetry?
Single track, junction and
marshalling yards
read out loud to us.
No poem has longer lines
than those we have taken.
Like horsedealers we know how
to look a distance in the mouth
and judge its pain by its teeth.
With mules, on foot
by airliners and lorries
in our hearts
we carry everything,
harvests, coffins, water,
oil, hydrogen, roads,
flowering lilac and
the earth thrown into the mass grave.
We with our bad foreign news
and another word for milk
what in our single beds
do we know of poetry?
We know as well as the midwives
how women carry children
and give birth,
we know as well as the scholars
what makes a language quiver.
Our freight.
The bringing together of what has been parted
makes a language quiver.
Across millennia and the village street
through tundra and forests
by farewells and bridges
towards the city of our child
everything must be carried.
We carry poetry
as the cattle trucks of the world
carry cattle:
Soon in the sidings
they will sluice them down.
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7. |
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