BUTTERFLIES OF THE NIGHT – 4 poems by Bartolomeo Bellanova

by Bartolomeo Bellanova, translated from Italian by Pina Piccolo, from his collection “Gocce insorgenti”, Terra d’lUlivi,  2017

 

Butterflies of The Night 

 

It rains on the contaminated butterflies of the night,
it rains on their hoods as they speed about
under the pouring drops.

Their eyes staring,
at every turn of the nibbled sidewalk,
planned and disawowed destinations
cast by dice, rivulets of liquid thoughts.

It rains on breasts joined to pray to the nursing baby
groggy at the lullaby played by the rain
Or the onomatopoeic lover before the heat
that flares up and then soaks,
traces of corporeal storms.

It rains on the glass shards dancing
the dance of copper gutters full of holes.

It rains on weeds and soda cans swept outside the bar
out there in the shadows, last customary act
of a day too slow in dying.

It rains on the gray shop shutters full of graffiti,
escape routes ruled out from  the horizon of possibilities.

Even the last stammer of steps has disappeared
leaving only  grumbling puddles
as they wait for dawn.

 

Le farfalle della notte

Piove sulle farfalle ammorbate della notte,
incappucciate camminano veloci
sotto le gocce battenti.

Gli occhi fissi, destinazioni decise e rinnegate
a ogni svolta di marciapiede rosicchiato,
tirate ai dadi, rivoli di pensieri liquidi.

Piove sui seni giunti a pregare il poppante
assonnato dalla nenia della pioggia
o l’amante onomatopeico prima del calore
che avvampa e poi bagna,
tracce di corporali bufere.

Piove sui cocci di bottiglia che danzano
al ballo di una gronda di rame bucata.

Piove su cartacce e lattine spazzate fuori dal bar
nella penombra, ultimo atto usato
di un giorno troppo lento a morire.

Piove sulle saracinesche imbrattate e grigie,
via di fuga escluse dall’orizzonte del possibile.

Anche l’ultimo balbettio di passi è svanito
E solo le pozzanghere restano a mormorare
aspettando l’alba.

 

 

Summer – Night indoors

 

Summer –      Night, indoors Italy
Honey dripping from the starry sky
from your eyes to mine
from my fingertips to yours
climbing on the fiery amber
of the both of us joined into a single bloc
and our skin turned inside out
joined into a single skin.

 

Summer –       Night, indoors Syria
Deadly gas dripping from the starry sky
on your gaze of dust and plaster,
angel child of Aleppo
your body dripping putrid milk
from your tender calves
your white shoulders
and your trembling hands
milling among hands and nails and warmth

 

Summer –       Night, indoors Italy
Unknown child we conceive you again
here in the garlands of our soft arms
entwined like a cradle.
we smother your exhausted eyes with smiles
we siphon off the poison from your skin
and heart.

 

Summer –       Daytime, outdoors Italy
Violated angel, at first
lights of dawn, wash away from our eyes
the murderous deafness of an apathetic day
before liquefying into our oblivion.

 

Slippery is the muggy air in the streets
it slips us all down in a whirlpool of inhumanity

 

9th September 2016

 

 

Thirteen years old

You are new to this sidewalk
still fragrant with your skin burned by its
Mediterranean baptism,
red lipstick
steep like layers of sorrow.

I am an old man to this sidewalk,
yesterday she was blond like a foamy beer
your little girl friend child.
In this sad mugginess
Today you swing
from the vines of your braided hair
And you walk back and forth
like an alluring mermaid
Bait for butchers.
Gazelle eyed
I want to cure your black skin
with my white skin.

It’s not my fault if your mother
allowed you leave
your country,  with its droppings and dust.
It’s not my fault if you didn’t drown
under the sand in the desert.
It’s not my fault if you didn’t drown
in the red vortexof the bloodied sea.
It’s not my fault if ten bearded militia men
have smoothed the way to my pleasure
And then there is the question of customs and traditions
At the end, it ‘s all a question of culture
like spunky old Indro * with his child bride
used to claim
all things considered you’re a nigger
Don’t cry! Shut up!

I glance you, my dear daughter
from the door of your room left slightly ajar
and sail in the calm seas
of your sleeping breath.
You have milky skin
like rice paper
virgin cloth
white bread. You have pink nail polish
and shiny hair
in the feeble light of dawn.
In a bit I’ll walk you to school
The streets are full of monsters, predators and pigs

 

* Indro Montanelli, a famous Italian journalist, with Corriere della Sera and later editor-inn chief of his own newspaper Il foglio, in 1935 during Mussolini’s campaign to colonize Ethiopia bought a twelve year old Ethiopian girl as a concubine. He talked about it, decades later, in some interviews, most notably the one  with famed Italian journalist Enzo Biagi in 1965.

 

 

 

Drop By Drop

Drops by drops we rise up against brick
together we chisel and together
we peel off scales, everywhere.
Drops by drops we polish porphyry
carve marble
penetrate the soil
between root and root
between finger and finger.
Never ending buzz of soul drops
that mold us, dig into our brain
in mad labyrinths of poison
or in petals of liberation.
When clouds go extinct, of marble
and fingers only Love shall survive;
the boasting of a rainbow.

 

Goccia a goccia

Gocce a gocce insorgiamo al mattone
scalpelliamo insieme e insieme
squamiamo in ogni dove.
Gocce a gocce levighiamo il porfido,
scaviamo il marmo,
penetriamo la terra
tra radice e radice,
tra dita e dita.
Brusio incessante di gocce d’anima
ci modella, ci scava il cervello
in un labirinto folle di veleno
o in un petalo di liberazione.
All’estinzione delle nubi, del marmo
e delle dita sopravvivrà solo Amore:
il vanto dell’arcobaleno.

---

 

 

 

Writer Bartolomeo Bellanova‘s work has always emphasized social issues, both in prose and  poetry. He has written two novels La fuga e il risveglio, Albatros Il filo, 2009, and Ogni lacrima è degna, 2012. He is the author of the award winning, unpublished poetry collection Sguardi scomposti e liberati, as well as A perdicuore, David and Matthaus Edizioni, 2014. His latest poetry collection, Gocce insorgenti, Terra d’Ulivi, 2017 has also been nominated for awards in a number of competitions. His poems are included in print anthologies and online journals. He is a founding member of La Macchina Sognante and currently one of its editors.

 

 

Featured image: Photo of painting by Barbara Gabriella Renzi Iule.