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From the Italian language collection La grazia di casa mia. Rediviva, 2013.
From the Farthest Western Shore
From these immense deserts,
I think
in a conquered
European language,
and I feel
in an abandoned
European language;
I write
about my great fear,
so regrettably western.
Around me a scenario
that is westernizing
in a great hurry,
in the fissures
in the plazas
and in the hearts of the locals.
My life
is about to expire.
And yet
only now have I understood
certain things
and learned to do
better with other things.
Only now do I know how to love
and to take pleasure in love;
now I begin
to have a clear idea
of the world.
Time
has made me mature
and now fragile.
In a moment
the terrible surprise
explodes:
a moment after,
the end.
And now
even the love
I didn’t have
will remain
suspended in the void,
or nothing will remain of it.
Westerners
from the near or the farthest
west
have turned their backs
on instinct
to undertake
the long
journey
of the spirit.
Engraved upon the mind—
the firefighters
on the stairs
of the Twin Towers
a few seconds
before the collapse.
All of
our last days
broadcast live to the world:
the swollen rivers
full of bodies.
What an infinite,
inexpressible sadness
I have when I think
how little time remains
for everything I still have to do!
From the farthest reaches of the west
I tell you
of the human extreme.
Because only from the extremes
can we put together
the complete panorama.
The landscape
left behind
is framed
in the rear-view mirror;
it looks tiny to you,
you observe it
while you drive
along the last
stretch of road,
toward the final shore.
You arrive
full of desires,
passions,
ideas.
Returned to childhood
by the journey,
with a fistful
of sand between your fingers.
You arrive there,
where the world ends.
‘From the Farthest Western Shore’ was originally published by Doubly Mad, July 2021, volume 7, issue 8.
Dall’estremo occidente
Da questi immensi deserti
penso
in una lingua europea
conquistata
e sento
in una lingua europea
abbandonata,
scrivo
della mia grande paura
così disgraziatamente
occidentale.
Attorno uno scenario
che si occidentalizza
in tutta fretta
nelle fessure
nelle piazze
e nei cuori dei nativi.
Sta per scadere
la mia vita.
Eppure
solo ora ho capito
delle cose
e imparato a farne bene
delle altre.
Solo ora so amare
e godere dell’amore,
ora comincio
ad avere un’idea
chiara del mondo.
Mi ha reso maturo,
il tempo
e ora fragile.
In un attimo
deflagra
la brutta sorpresa:
un attimo dopo
la fine.
E allora
anche l’amore
che non ho avuto
resterà
sospeso nel vuoto,
o non resterà.
Occidentali
dal vicino o dall’estremo
occidente
hanno voltato le spalle
all’istinto
per intraprendere
la lunga
navigazione
dello spirito.
Impressi nella mente
i pompieri
per le scale
delle torri gemelle
a pochi secondi
dal crollo.
Tutti i nostri
ultimi giorni
in diretta dal mondo:
fiume in piena
carico di carcasse.
Che infinita
indicibile tristezza
quando penso
quanto poco tempo resta
al tanto che ho ancora da fare!
Dall’estremo occidente
vi racconto
dell’estremo umano.
Perché solo dall’estremo
si ricompone
il panorama completo.
Il paesaggio
lasciato alle spalle
è inquadrato
dallo specchietto retrovisore,
lo vedete piccino,
lo osservate
mentre guidate
lungo l’ultimo
tratto di strada,
verso l’ultima spiaggia.
Giungete
pieni di desideri,
passioni,
di idee.
Resi bambini
dal viaggio,
con un pugno
di sabbia tra le dita.
Giungete lì
dove finisce la terra.
On the Train
The train is traveling
in the valley.
It moves through a splendid
and long-lasting day.
On my cell phone,
you tell me
your plans
for the two of us,
and I listen to you
while watching the landscape
through the window:
the reflections on the river,
the cypresses,
the distant farmhouses.
Darkness.
A shock. Suddenly
a tunnel.
Your voice disappears
from the palm of my hand.
Outside the window,
absolute darkness.
The void.
I look around the railway car
for the first time.
I am alone.
How can that be?
I think I remember
that a little while ago
there were others.
When did they get off?
Where did they all
go?
I quickly try
to redial the number,
but now there is no signal.
When will it return?
Outside the train
from the shadows
comes a deafening sound
of steel slicing the air,
of air slicing rock.
In my car
the lights flash
and then go out.
Now it’s just me
and that roaring in the darkness.
In my body
my organs labor.
When trains go into
the mountain
they disappear forever.
When trains
lose their brakes
they do not achieve liftoff.
‘On the Train’ was originally published by Neologism Poetry Journal, September 2020, Issue #40, https://www.neologismpoetry.com/ september-2020/.
In treno
Il treno corre
dentro la valle.
Attraversa una giornata
splendida e duratura.
Al cellulare
mi racconti
dei tuoi piani
per noi due,
ed io ti ascolto
mentre guardo dal finestrino
il paesaggio:
i riflessi sul fiume,
i cipressi,
i casolari distanti.
Buio.
Un colpo.
Una galleria.
La tua voce scompare
dal palmo della mia mano.
Fuori dal vetro
il nero assoluto.
Il nulla.
Guardo dentro la carrozza
per la prima volta.
Sono solo.
Come mai?
Poco fa,
credo di ricordarmi,
c’erano altri.
Quando sono scesi?
Dove sono andati
tutti?
Cerco in fretta
di rifare il numero
ma ormai non c’è campo.
Quando tornerà?
Fuori dal treno
dalle tenebre
viene un rumore
assordante
di ferro che taglia l’aria,
di aria che taglia roccia.
Dentro il mio vagone
le luci balenano
e poi si spengono.
Ora ci sono io
e quel ruggito nel buio.
Dentro il mio corpo
gli organi faticano.
I treni
quando penetrano la montagna
spariscono per sempre.
I treni
quando perdono i freni
non si levano in volo.
Living in Exile
To live in exile.
A bitter juxtaposition,
practically an oxymoron.
My children
speak different languages,
and even I,
between sleep and wakefulness,
hear separate languages
inside my head.
As I mourn, I am irritated
by the fragrance
of just-ground coffee,
of tangerines,
of cinnamon,
of just-ironed clothing,
of just-cut grass
that wafts in spring
through the open window.
Exile,
spilled wine
on the silver tray
around the glasses
left empty.
Exile,
cage without bars
protected by the impassible
distance
of our anguish.
Exile,
moth launched across the sea
by the scirocco
along with the sand
of the desert.
There would be another me
awaiting
in my homeland.
A useless wait,
a glitch.
If we encountered each other today
we would not
recognize one another.
One life is marble from Carrara,
the other is sand.
One man turns to stone
while the other crumbles.
Exile,
visions of
astonishing women
marred
by news of women
dying.
Exile,
a dismal dance
minus the music,
bodies flailing
among spasmodic memories,
articulating a vital
but mistaken rhythm.
Adagio without allegro.
Requiem for the living.
I experience exile
like a gloomy carnival,
awkwardly preparing myself
for the mysterious,
classic tragedy:
to die in exile.
To breathe the last breath
far away,
forever absent
from the grace of my home.
‘Living in Exile’ was originally published by Cagibi, Issue 11, October 20, 2020, https://cagibilit.com/in-translation-two-poems-by-julio-monteiro-martins/.
Vivere in esilio
Vivere in esilio.
Amaro accostamento,
quasi un ossimoro.
I miei figli
parlano lingue diverse
e anch’io,
tra sonno e veglia,
ascolto idiomi distinti
dentro la mia testa.
Il lutto innervosito
dal profumo
del caffè appena macinato.
del mandarino,
della cannella,
dei panni appena stirati,
dell’erba appena tagliata
che soffia in primavera
attraverso la finestra aperta.
Esilio,
vino versato
sul vassoio d’argento
mentre le tazze
restano vuote.
Esilio,
gabbia senza sbarre
protetta dalla distanza
invalicabile
delle nostre angosce.
Esilio,
falena lanciata in mare
dallo scirocco
insieme alla sabbia
del deserto.
Ci sarebbe un io stesso
ad aspettarmi
nella terra di partenza.
Inutile attesa,
disguido.
Se c’incontrassimo oggi
non ci potremmo
riconoscere.
Una vita è marmo di Carrara,
l’altra è sabbia.
Un uomo si pietrifica
mentre l’altro si sfalda.
Esilio,
visioni di donne
strabilianti
imbrattate
da notizie di donne
morenti.
Esilio,
squallido ballo
senza musica,
corpi a dimenarsi
tra spasmi di ricordi
a scandire un ritmo vitale
ma sbagliato.
Adagio senza Allegro.
Requiem per viventi.
Vivo l’esilio
come funebre kermesse,
preparandomi goffamente
per l’arcana,
classica tragedia:
morire in esilio.
Esalare l’ultimo respiro
in lontananza,
eternamente assente
dalla grazia di casa mia.
Julio Monteiro Martins (born in Brazil in 1955 and died in Italy in 2014). Honorary Fellow in Writing” at the University of Iowa in the United States, he taught creative writing at Goddard College in Vermont (1979-82), at the Oficina Literária Afrânio Coutinho, Rio de Janeiro (1982-91), at the Instituto Camões, Lisbona (1994) and at the Pontifícia Universidade Católica do Rio de Janeiro (1995). Between 1996 and 2000 he held courses in several Tuscan cities. He was among the founders of the Brazilian Partito Verde and of the environmentalist movement “Os Verdes”. As a defender of human rights in Rio de Janeiro, he guaranteed the safety of the meninos de rua. In his country of origin he has published nine books, including short story collections, novels and essay, among which are Torpalium (Ática, São Paulo 1977), Sabe quem dançou? (Codecri, Rio 1978), A oeste de nada (Civilização Brasileira, Rio 1981) and O espaço imaginário (Anima, Rio 1987). In Italy he has published Il percorso dell’idea (petits poèmes en prose, with original photos by Enzo Cei, Vivaldi & Baldecchi, Pontedera 1998), as well as the short stories collections Racconti italiani (Besa, Lecce 2000), La passione del vuoto (Besa, Lecce 2003), L’amore scritto (Besa, Lecce 2007). and the novel madrelingua (Besa, Lecce 2005) . His story L’irruzione was included in the anthology Non siamo in vendita – Voci contro il regime (edited by Stefania Scateni and Beppe Sebaste, with a forward by Furio Colombo, Arcana Libri / L’Unità, Roma 2002). His poetry collection La grazia di casa mia was published by Rediviva in 2014 and many of his poems have been published in various literary journals, including the international three-monthly “Pagine” and the online magazine “El Ghibli”, as well as in the anthologies I confini del verso. Poesia della migrazione in italiano (Florence, Le Lettere 2006) and A New Map: the Poetry of Migrant Writers in Italy (Los Angeles, Green Integer 2006). He was the creator of the event “Scrivere Oltre le Mura”. He lived in Tuscany from the early 2000’s to 2014 where, besides teaching Portuguese and literary translation at the University of Pisa, he directed and taught the Fiction Workshop in the Masters program of the Scuola Sagarana in Lucca, and was editor in chief of the online literary magazine, “Sagarana” . His posthumous publications in Italian include La macchina sognante (2015), and the novel L’ultima pelle (2019). Many of his poems have appeared in English translation by Helen Wickes and Don Stang in a number of US print and online journals.
The translators: Donald Stang is a longtime student of Italian. His
translations of Italian poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in
Carrying the Branch, by Glass Lyre Press, Silk Road, Pirene’s Fountain,
Mantis, Newfound, Catamaran, Ghost Town, Blackbird, Apple Valley Review,
Apricity Magazine, America, We Call Your Name: Poems of Resistance and
Resilience by Sixteen Rivers Press, and thedreamingmachine.com. Helen
Wickes’ work appears in AGNI Online, Atlanta Review, Boulevard,
Massachusetts Review, Slag Review, Sagarana, Soundings East, South
Dakota Review, Spillway, TriQuarterly, Westview, Willow Review, ZYZZYVA,
thedreamingmachine.com (poems and translations of Italian poetry), as
well as many others. Four books of her poetry have been published.
