Poetry and Poetic Prose

This unbearable pain – tear, tide
That rises on the horizon, eyelid
Closed or open to the sight:
The woods, a satin skirt,
The pebble to play with in the brook
This very pain to tell you about you,
Oh little goddess, who wants everything
Without conceding anything at all!

Come, sing, the play is about to begin!
We are well aware now of your mania,
The weird desire within your chanting:
Wavering and gliding placidly on rivers…
Unknown scene amidst the mist.         
Let’s start the game afresh, let’s try it again!
And may laughter eventually come to us,
While we are seeking you among the leafy branches!

When we fled on an August dawn,
Along the paths we found the goddess.
Our own fate and destiny: love,
The white cloud that blows up
Slow in the divine and godly blue.
With its very close flight the bird dictated
The lyrics of our shared song.

Laurel crowns on your jade head,
My ever so limpid and clear Aurora!
A kiss is a draught of flowers:
What does glory thus mean?
I ignore the virtues of chanting.
May all blues come along, the roses,
The crystal-clearness of the rivers!
It is the happiness of lyrics.

You may not know, but I am still waiting for you.

The short noises, the sporadic voices from the courtyard do shape and mould the silence in this house, they trim and carve it out.

I deceive time with trivial works: I hammer nails into the roof beams, I try to fix a lamp... Or else I read, or better I read once more the beloved and cherished pages. I go and seek them on the shelves, I retrieve them from the piles, in a kind of hunt for the beautiful and for the truthful.

This is perfect loneliness. Still, I know that balance does depend on this endless patience. A monk, a hermit would thus shape his prayer, confident that someone listens to him and invites him.

I am waiting for you; you look real, but appears as in a dream.

You may not know, but I am writing to astonish you, to offer you this limpid and clear words drawing, this calm abandonment and desertion.

Tree, clamorous earthly and celestial image. Earthly, because it founders and sinks its truth. Celestial, because it raises its arms to greet the world. (The world, that long poem we have removed the words to). Tree, referred to as knowledge, for us who admire, as a response to the incomprehensible uterus labour, to the remorse and regrets linked to ageing, to the odd worldly desires we have down here, under the stars.

Let’s thus capsize the tree so to recapture the sky on earth and the branches used as roots. Yes, yes: the roots as branches and the ground as a sky. This is the only way, maybe, we will be able to understand both the earthly reasons and those of the stars which move around our destiny, so far away. By pronouncing the world reversely, we will understand what the clod wants and what the leaf wants as well. Clod, leaf, root which stretches in the air, a branch which seeps into our heart... We are able to imagine, meditate to overturn everything as well as to keep silent because whatever remains at the end of the day is but our mute presence before such things or visions.

Tree, living figure that keeps the landscape together. We should show more respect to this cosmos’ creature. It also keeps us still, stable and steady when we stand upright close to its bark, and we wish to breathe in along with it. Its breaths will be ours and its fruits will be our fruits.

This, too, is a fruit that comes from the great oak tree I am currently observing, rather, I am presently adoring: this perceiving, this thinking, this being delighted to pronounce the word “tree”… A ripe fruit, fallen to the ground when it was due time and with suitable circumstances. I shall pick it up and offer it to you, dear reader.

There is the angel who can see what we will never manage to see. Another one who listens to what we can’t or we totally refuse to listen to. There is the angel who trots us when we are in a rush and another one who sustains us when we are slow, while waiting patiently, through meditation beside the countryside home fireplace. Should we not have a fireplace or a country house, never mind: we will sit with our angel in front of the television set in which pictures and sounds dance and crackle like flames and ember, holding a glass of wine with a cigar between the lips while looking at our she-cat, who, in absence of this invisible being, behaves as a sentinel for objects, people, devils and so forth…

If you walk along the city streets, don’t believe you are on your own: there is an angel preceding or following you. Then, you also have the angel who provides us with whatever we need to make us happy. Another one who rescues us. And even the one who will kill us one day.

Wandering in and around our memory, looking at her face, covered with wrinkles, just like a crackled ground on which we need to move forward and head on. This is how words come into being, live forms which blossom and sprout up in our hearts before cropping up to the surface, on that soft lawn on which we enjoy running.

What do those invisible enemies, those soul eaters, those devils who wish to strike us dumb, launched at full strength want? We resist, stubborn, as disease keeps up balanced, makes us dance in the air and sing. We live and don’t live but this neutral condition favours an unconceivable ability, a talent, otherwise impossible.

White-coated wizards tuck needles into our veins, they speak to our ghosts, in vain: the penitence is our work, our very reward. We are deeply rooted in a sense of guilt. When subtle tools tickle us, secret messages are sent towards the whole universe, towards unknown and distant worlds, where our friends – the lonesome ones – always on the hold, are ready to decipher and comprehend.

For this very reason, this effort persists along with this violent colour and these shapes which have never been precisely defined. We understand what we can actually work out: nothing is for free in this great deposit. We have to go there, walk through endless corridors, look for the last room…

Here are the most expensive items on the shelves the beloved paintings up on the walls, the people who warmly welcome us with open arms – it’s all eventually there.

A translation

Dylan Thomas

La forza che scorre lungo lo stelo e fa esplodere il fiore, guida la mia verde età; quella che dissecca le radici degli alberi, è per me distruzione. E non so spiegare alla rosa appassita come la stessa febbre invernale inaridisca la mia giovinezza. La forza che conduce l'acqua tra le rocce, fa circolare il mio sangue; quella che prosciuga le sorgenti, trasforma il mio vigore in spossatezza. E muto rimango quando la bocca che si disseta alla fonte montana si attacca alle mie vene. La mano che trascina l'acqua nello stagno, mescola le sabbie mobili; quella che annoda il soffio del vento, distenderà una vela per farne il mio sudario. E non so confessare all'impiccato che sono fatto con la stessa argilla del suo boia. Il tempo ha labbra che si feriscono dove la vita fluisce; le gocce d'amore cadono e si raggrumano, ma guariscono le ferite. E non rivelo al vento impetuoso come nel tempo le stelle abbiano costruito il cielo. Perciò resterò in silenzio: il verme che abita la tomba del mio amante si trascina verso il mio sudario.  

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower/Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees/Is my destroyer./And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose/My youth is bent by the same wintry fever./The force that drives the water through the rocks/Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams/Turns mine to wax./And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins/How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks./The hand that whirls the water in the pool/Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind/Hauls my shroud sail./And I am dumb to tell the hanging man/How of my clay is made the hangman's lime./The lips of time leech to the fountain head;/Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood/Shall calm her sores./And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind/How time has ticked a heaven round the stars./And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb/How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.