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  • TABLE OF CONTENT
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 10
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 9
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 8
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 7
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 6
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 5
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 4
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 3
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 2
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 1
  • THE DREAMING MACHINE
    • The dreaming machine n 10
    • The dreaming machine n 9
    • The dreaming machine n 8
    • The dreaming machine n 7
    • The dreaming machine n 6
    • The dreaming machine n 5
    • The dreaming machine n 4
    • The dreaming machine n 3
    • The dreaming machine n 2
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The Dreaming Machine

  • Home
  • Poetry
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    This Is Not A Feminist Poem – Wana Udobang (a.k.a. Wana Wana)

    from AFROWOMEN POETRY – Three Poets from Tanzania: Langa Sarakikya, Gladness Mayenga, Miriam Lucas

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    What Was Heart Is Now A Scorched Branch – Three Poems by Elina Sventsytska

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Water: The Longest Tunnel Where the Color Blue Is Born — Four Poems by SHANKAR LAHIRI

    Message to Forough Farrokhzad and other poems – Samira Albouzedi

  • Fiction
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    BOW / BHUK – Parimal Bhattacharya

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    A Very Different Story (Part II)- Nandini Sahu

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    The Aunt: An Exhilarating Story by Francesca Gargallo

    THE PROGENITOR – Zakir Talukder (trans. from Bengali by Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat)

    Stalks of Lotus – Indrani Datta

    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations:  Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations: Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

  • Non Fiction
    Menstruation in Fiction: The Authorial Gaze – Farah Ahamed

    Menstruation in Fiction: The Authorial Gaze – Farah Ahamed

    Aadya Shakti, or Primal Energy – Lyla Freechild

    Aadya Shakti, or Primal Energy – Lyla Freechild

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE TIME HAS COME – Gaius Tsaamo

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” –  Massimo Ceresa

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” – Massimo Ceresa

    Plowing the publishing world  – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Plowing the publishing world – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

  • Interviews & reviews
    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

    Everything Moves and Everything Is About Relationships. Susan Aberg Interviews Painter Louise Victor

    Everything Moves and Everything Is About Relationships. Susan Aberg Interviews Painter Louise Victor

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    Videos from worldwide readings in support of Ukrainian writers, September 7, 2022 – Zoom Readings Italy

    Videos from worldwide readings in support of Ukrainian writers, September 7, 2022 – Zoom Readings Italy

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    From Euromaidan: Three Ukrainian poets to spoil Westsplaining fest in Italy – Zarina Zabrisky

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE MATERICIST MANIFESTO by AVANGUARDIE VERDI

    Artwork by Mubeen Kishany – Contamination and Distancing

    Glory to the Heroes! Poems by Volodymyr Tymchuk

    Glory to the Heroes! Poems by Volodymyr Tymchuk

    Materials from Worldwide Readings in Solidarity with Salman Rushdie – Bologna Event

    Materials from Worldwide Readings in Solidarity with Salman Rushdie – Bologna Event

    The Shipwreck Saga – Lynne Knight

    Phoenix: Part I – YIN Xiaoyuan

    Surrender to Our Explosive Democracy – Five Poems by Serena Piccoli from “gulp/gasp” (Moria Poetry 2022)

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Me and French, or What I Did During the Pandemic (Moi et le français, ou Ce que j’ai fais pendant la pandémie) – Carolyn Miller

    Becoming-animal as a Mirror – Ten Animals from Gabriele Galloni’s Bestiary

  • News
    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

  • Home
  • Poetry
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    This Is Not A Feminist Poem – Wana Udobang (a.k.a. Wana Wana)

    from AFROWOMEN POETRY – Three Poets from Tanzania: Langa Sarakikya, Gladness Mayenga, Miriam Lucas

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    What Was Heart Is Now A Scorched Branch – Three Poems by Elina Sventsytska

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Water: The Longest Tunnel Where the Color Blue Is Born — Four Poems by SHANKAR LAHIRI

    Message to Forough Farrokhzad and other poems – Samira Albouzedi

  • Fiction
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    BOW / BHUK – Parimal Bhattacharya

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    A Very Different Story (Part II)- Nandini Sahu

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    The Aunt: An Exhilarating Story by Francesca Gargallo

    THE PROGENITOR – Zakir Talukder (trans. from Bengali by Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat)

    Stalks of Lotus – Indrani Datta

    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations:  Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations: Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

  • Non Fiction
    Menstruation in Fiction: The Authorial Gaze – Farah Ahamed

    Menstruation in Fiction: The Authorial Gaze – Farah Ahamed

    Aadya Shakti, or Primal Energy – Lyla Freechild

    Aadya Shakti, or Primal Energy – Lyla Freechild

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE TIME HAS COME – Gaius Tsaamo

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” –  Massimo Ceresa

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” – Massimo Ceresa

    Plowing the publishing world  – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Plowing the publishing world – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

  • Interviews & reviews
    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

    Everything Moves and Everything Is About Relationships. Susan Aberg Interviews Painter Louise Victor

    Everything Moves and Everything Is About Relationships. Susan Aberg Interviews Painter Louise Victor

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    Videos from worldwide readings in support of Ukrainian writers, September 7, 2022 – Zoom Readings Italy

    Videos from worldwide readings in support of Ukrainian writers, September 7, 2022 – Zoom Readings Italy

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    From Euromaidan: Three Ukrainian poets to spoil Westsplaining fest in Italy – Zarina Zabrisky

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE MATERICIST MANIFESTO by AVANGUARDIE VERDI

    Artwork by Mubeen Kishany – Contamination and Distancing

    Glory to the Heroes! Poems by Volodymyr Tymchuk

    Glory to the Heroes! Poems by Volodymyr Tymchuk

    Materials from Worldwide Readings in Solidarity with Salman Rushdie – Bologna Event

    Materials from Worldwide Readings in Solidarity with Salman Rushdie – Bologna Event

    The Shipwreck Saga – Lynne Knight

    Phoenix: Part I – YIN Xiaoyuan

    Surrender to Our Explosive Democracy – Five Poems by Serena Piccoli from “gulp/gasp” (Moria Poetry 2022)

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Me and French, or What I Did During the Pandemic (Moi et le français, ou Ce que j’ai fais pendant la pandémie) – Carolyn Miller

    Becoming-animal as a Mirror – Ten Animals from Gabriele Galloni’s Bestiary

  • News
    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

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Home Poetry

The present, either we see it from eternity … – Three poems by Julio Monteiro Martins, trans. by Don Stang and Helen Wickes

April 29, 2021
in Poetry, The dreaming machine n 8
Between past and present – Photo gallery and poems by Nicoletta Lofoco
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Windows

 

A poet has written
that poetry and windows
don’t get along well together.
Perhaps he was right.
Windows
are a subject
that is too poetical.
Too often they serve
as tired clichés.

Here’s one:
the gaze
is the window
of the soul.
Another:
this treasure chest
is a window
to the past.

In fact,
one can scarcely make
poetry in this way.
It’s clear
that there are no windows
that open into the soul
or doors
that swing open into the past.

There are, instead,
true windows,
and about those
one can in fact write poetry.
Or write nothing.
It’s the same.
They exist, that’s all.
The world is certainly not down on its knees
begging to be written about
by someone.
The world could care less.

One true window,
for example,
was the one my grandfather
locked with an iron bolt
every evening at eight,
even when the weather was brutally hot.

Today I understand
that he was not worried about
security.
He believed—
but he would never have admitted—
that through the open window
evil spirits would enter
and that they would infest
my childhood home.

He was paranoid, my grandfather.
A good man,
but paranoid.
In his delusion
evil was everywhere
but it only came in through the window.

Another actual window
had been crashed through
by a gang of youths
in the outskirts
of Rio de Janeiro.
It was the bedroom window
of my great-grandmother Herminia.
They wanted hidden money
that did not exist.
They beat her
to death.

My great-grandmother
had silver hair.
She also was good.
A strong woman.
She was the director
of the nursing home
that the gang had for some time
besieged.
Herminia
wasn’t paranoid.
But she should have been.
It would have saved her life.

When I wake up breathless
in the middle of the night
or in the early morning tired and dull,
I never know where I am.
So many times
I have changed countries and cities,
feathers and coat,
that I don’t always remember
my most recent move.

The walls are always the same.
Lamps, bathrobes, bath mats—
I find them everywhere.
Only the window remains
capable of explaining
things to me.
The things of my life.

I stretch my head out the window
in search of a tower,
a mountain,
a type of skirt,
a hat,
that might let me know
where the hell
I have ended up
this time.

A bus,
a fruit vendor
on the corner
reveal
the state of things.

From the window
one sees neither the soul
nor the past.
The window
is the present.
The room, instead,
is eternity.
And the present,
as we know,
we either see from eternity
or we do not see at all.

 

 

Finestre

Un poeta ha scritto
che poesia e finestre
non stanno bene insieme.
Forse aveva ragione.
Le finestre
sono un soggetto
troppo poetico,
servono troppo spesso
per metafore scontate.

Ne volete una?
Lo sguardo
è la finestra
dell’anima.
Un’altra?
Quello scrigno
è una finestra
verso il passato remoto.

Infatti
non si può mica fare
poesia così.
È chiaro
non ci sono finestre
che si aprono verso l’anima
né porte
che si spalancano verso il passato.

Ci sono invece
le finestre vere
e su queste
si può anche scrivere poesia.
O non scrivere niente.
È uguale.
Esistono e basta.
Il mondo non se ne sta certo in ginocchio
a supplicare di essere scritto
da qualcuno.
Il mondo se ne frega.

Una finestra vera,
per esempio,
era quella che mio nonno
sprangava con una barra di ferro
tutte le sere alle otto
anche quando faceva un caldo bestiale.

Oggi capisco
che non si preoccupava
della sicurezza.
Lui credeva
– ma non l’avrebbe mai ammesso –
che dalla finestra aperta
entrassero spiriti maligni
che poi avrebbero infestato
la casa della mia infanzia.

Era paranoico, mio nonno.
Tanto buono,
ma paranoico.
Nel suo delirio
il male era dappertutto
ma entrava solo dalla finestra.

Un’altra finestra reale
è stata sfondata
da una banda di bambini
in un quartiere periferico
di Rio de Janeiro.
Era quella della camera da letto
della mia bisnonna Hermínia.
Volevano i soldi nascosti
che non esistevano.
L’hanno ammazzata
di botte.

La mia bisnonna
aveva capelli d’argento.
Anche lei era buona.
Una donna forte.
Era la direttrice
dell’ospizio
che i bambini da tempo assediavano.
Hermínia
non era paranoica.
Ma avrebbe dovuto esserlo,
invece.
Le avrebbe salvato la vita.

Quando mi sveglio ansimante
nel mezzo della notte
o la mattina presto stanco e ottuso,
non so mai dove sono.
Tante volte
ho cambiato paese e città,
piume e pelame,
che non sempre riesco a ricordare
l’ultimo spostamento.

Le pareti sono sempre uguali.
Lampadari, accappatoi, tappetini,
li trovo dappertutto.
Resta solo la finestra
in grado di spiegarmi
le cose.
Le cose della mia vita.

Mi sporgo sul davanzale,
in cerca di una torre,
di un monte,
di un tipo di gonna,
di cappello,
che mi faccia capire
dove diavolo
mi sono cacciato
questa volta.

Un autobus,
un fruttivendolo
all’angolo
mi rivelano
lo stato delle cose.

Dalla finestra
non si vede l’anima
né il passato.
La finestra
è il presente.
La camera invece
è l’eterno.
E il presente,
lo sappiamo,
o lo vediamo dall’eterno
o non lo vediamo affatto.

 

 

In Lorenzo’s Book Bag

 

A big hairy spider,
a grasshopper,
a scorpion,
an ant,
two toads,
and a lobster that shrieks when,
distractedly, I step on it.
This revolting squad
of rubber
is my three-year-old’s
favorite toy.

It’s midday.
Now he has to leave.
He’s going to his mother’s
for a few days.
I need to dress him nicely
and drive him to her house.
He knows he has to leave.

I refill his green plastic
book bag
with all his insects.
One by one,
each returns to its nest.
He carries his domesticated fears
everywhere he goes.
And he has carried them to my home as well.
He is audacious, my child!

While I put them in the bag
I feel I am repeating an old,
familiar gesture:
for a long time I have hidden
my terrors
within me,
and I carry them around with me
wherever I go.
Instead of a spirit,
what I have is
a bag full of monsters.
Are they real
or also made of rubber?

My heart tightens
seeing him ready to leave.
He waits for me
on the doorstep
with the green bag over his shoulder.
He watches me and waits for me,
unaware that he is
so small and fragile,
so slight,
and already a proud winner
of so many hard-won trophies.

 

 

Nello zainetto di Lorenzo

 

Un grande ragno peloso,
una cavalletta,
uno scorpione,
una formica,
due rospi
e un’aragosta che grida
quando, distratto, la calpesto.
Questa schifosa squadra
di gomma
è il giocattolo favorito
del mio bimbo di tre anni.

È mezzogiorno.
Ora lui dovrà partire.
Andrà dalla madre
per qualche giorno.
Devo vestirlo meglio
e portarlo da lei in macchina.
Lui sa che deve andare.

Riempio il suo zainetto
di plastica verde
con tutti i suoi insetti.
Uno a uno,
loro tornano al proprio nido.
Lui porta ovunque vada
le sue paure addomesticate.
E le ha portate anche da me.
È audace il mio bimbo!

Mentre le rimetto nello zaino
sento che ripeto un mio vecchio
gesto ben conosciuto:
Da tanto tempo custodisco
i miei terrori
dentro di me,
e anch’io li porto in giro
ovunque vada.
Al posto dello spirito
ho uno zaino
carico di bestie.
Saranno vere
o anch’esse di caucciù?

Il mio cuore si stringe
nel vederlo pronto a partire.
Lui mi aspetta
sull’uscio della porta
con lo zainetto verde in spalla.
Lui mi guarda e mi aspetta,
inconsapevole di sé,
così piccolo e fragile,
così leggero,
e già fiero vincitore
di tanti difficili trofei.

 

 

Everyone Is Asleep

 

I’ve come back home so late
that I scarcely remember
the moment when I left.
I didn’t want to leave then.
I didn’t want to interrupt
the joyful atmosphere,
the jokes, the bubbly talk,
the constant chatter of the family
and the friends
who were at our home
in that big tree
at the hour of sunset.

But what a day!
So many things to do
in so many different places:
hurried meals,
endless lines,
useless waits,
senseless squabbles,
missed appointments,
glitches and misunderstandings.
How tiresome!

Now I return home.
To my home.

Oddly,
I find the door closed,
the lights out,
and a great silence
everywhere.
How strange.
Could it be so late?
Or are they changing their routines
and now everyone goes to bed early?

I open the door,
turn on the lights in the living room
and, very tired,
throw myself on the couch
and wait.
What a silence!
And even outside,
for once,
the world is quiet.
The little table in front of me,
the credenza, and the china cabinet
are covered
with a thin film of dust.
But what is happening?
Doesn’t anyone take care of this house?

Now I get up
to look for someone
who is still awake.
In the kitchen,
the dirty dishes
sleep in the sink.
From the corridor,
I hear deep breathing
coming from the bedrooms.
I open one door, then the other,
take a peek inside.
Everyone is
profoundly
asleep in the house.
They are immobile,
each one unmoving
in the chosen position,
the most comfortable one
for a long night’s sleep.

I close all the doors
and return to the living room.
I stretch out on the couch,
and the images flail about
confusedly
in my head.

I am tired.
The day passed
without my seeing it!
The atmosphere here
is an invitation to sleep.
I want to sleep
the way all the others
are sleeping.

 

 

Dormono tutti

Sono tornato così tardi a casa
che mi ricordo a malapena
il momento in cui l’avevo lasciata.
Non volevo andarmene
allora.
Non volevo interrompere
l’atmosfera gioiosa,
gli scherzi, le confidenze frizzanti,
il costante chiacchiericcio della famiglia
e degli amici,
che erano di casa
in quel grande albero
all’ora del tramonto.

Ma che giornata!
Tante cose da fare
in tanti luoghi diversi,
pasti veloci,
file interminabili,
attese inutili,
diverbi senza senso,
appuntamenti persi,
disguidi e malintesi.
Che fatica!

Ora torno a casa.
Alla mia casa.

Stranamente
trovo la porta chiusa,
le luci spente
e un grande silenzio
dappertutto.
Che strano.
Sarà già così tardi?
O stanno cambiando abitudini
e ora vanno tutti a letto presto?

Apro la porta,
accendo le luci del salotto
e molto stanco
mi butto sul divano
e aspetto.
Quanto silenzio!
E anche fuori
per una volta
il mondo tace.
Il tavolino davanti a me,
la credenza e la vetrinetta,
sono ricoperte
da un sottile strato di polvere.
Ma cosa sta succedendo?
Nessuno bada più a questa casa?

Ora mi rialzo
per cercare qualcuno
ancora sveglio.
In cucina,
i piatti sporchi
dormono nel lavandino.
Dal corridoio
ascolto il respiro profondo
che viene dalle camere da letto.
Apro una porta, poi l’altra,
faccio capolino.
Dormono tutti
profondamente
in quella casa.
Sono immobili,
ciascuno fermo
nella posizione scelta,
quella più comoda
per una lunga notte di sonno.

Chiudo tutte le porte
e torno in salotto.
Mi sdraio sul divano
e le immagini si dimenano
confusamente
per la mia testa.

Sono stanco.
Non ho visto
passare il giorno!
L’ambiente
è un invito al sonno.
Voglio dormire
come dormono
tutti gli altri.

Sono tornato a casa.
È così tardi.
Ma come facevo a tornare prima?

Dormono tutti.
Voglio dormire anch’io.
Sono esausto.
E voglio dormire a casa.

 

 

Acknowledgments

 

‘Windows’: Published in Cagibi, Issue 11, October 20, 2020, https://cagibilit.com/in-translation-two-poems-by-julio-monteiro-martins/.

 

‘In Lorenzo’s Book Bag’: Published in Two Thirds North (Stockholm University), 2019, p. 34.

 

‘Everyone is Asleep’: Published in The Opiate, April 2019.

 

Cover image: Photo by Nicoletta Lofoco.

Tags: alienationallegoryDon StangfutureHelen WickesJulio Monteiro Martinslonelinessmemoryominous feelingspastpresentterrorsunsettling feelingwindow

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