• TABLE OF CONTENT
    • the dreaming machine – issue number 12
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 11
    • 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 12
    • The dreaming machine n 11
    • 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
    • The dreaming machine n 1
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  • Poetry
    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    The delicate hour of the birds among the branches – Poems by Melih Cevdet Anday (trans. Neil P. Doherty)

    Afro Women Poetry- SUDAN: Reem Yasir, Rajaa Bushara, Fatma Latif

    Afro Women Poetry- SUDAN: Reem Yasir, Rajaa Bushara, Fatma Latif

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    A flock of cardinals melted in the scarlet sky: Poems by Daryna Gladun

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    The wolf hour and other poems by Ella Yevtushenko

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Testing the worth of poetic bombshells – Four poems by Abdul Karim Al-Ahmad

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

  • Fiction
    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    The Naked Shell of Aloneness – Kazi Rafi

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    The Shadow of a Shadow – Nandini Sahu

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Football is Life – Mojaffor Hossein

    Datura – Paulami Sengupta

    Datura – Paulami Sengupta

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Origin – 1. The House, at night, by Predrag Finci

    HOT MANGO CHUTNEY SAUCE – Farah Ahamed (from Period Matters)

    HOT MANGO CHUTNEY SAUCE – Farah Ahamed (from Period Matters)

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

    BOW / BHUK – Parimal Bhattacharya

  • Non Fiction
    My Lover, My Body – Gonca Özmen, trans. by Neil P. Doherty

    My Lover, My Body – Gonca Özmen, trans. by Neil P. Doherty

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    A tribute to Carla Macoggi – An invitation to reading her novels, by Jessy Simonini

    A tribute to Carla Macoggi – An invitation to reading her novels, by Jessy Simonini

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    What Gets Read: How the Beats Caught on in Italy – Clark Bouwman

    What Gets Read: How the Beats Caught on in Italy – Clark Bouwman

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Of romantic love and its perils: The lyrics of the enigmatic Barbara Strozzi – Luciana Messina

  • Interviews & reviews
    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    Paradoxes of misfits and wanderers: Modhura Bandyopadhyay reviews Stalks of Lotus

    Beauty and Defiance: Ukrainian contemporary paintings in Padua- Show organizer Liudmila Vladova Olenovych in conversation with Camilla Boemio

    Beauty and Defiance: Ukrainian contemporary paintings in Padua- Show organizer Liudmila Vladova Olenovych in conversation with Camilla Boemio

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    A preview of Greek poet Tsabika Hatzinikola’s second collection “Without Presence, Dreams Do Not Emerge”, by Georg Schaaf

    Ascension: A conversation with Matthew Smith

    Ascension: A conversation with Matthew Smith

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Of Concentric Storytelling, Footballs and the Shifting World

    Lexically Sugared Circuits of R/elation: A Conversation with Adeena Karasick

    Lexically Sugared Circuits of R/elation: A Conversation with Adeena Karasick

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    Camilla Boemio interviews Malaysian artist Kim Ng

    Poetic bridges and conversations: Icelandic, Kiswahili and English through three poems by Hlín Leifsdóttir

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Human Bestiary Series – Five Poems by Pina Piccolo

    Bear encounters in Italy:  Jj4, anthropomorphized nature and the dialectics of generations – Post by Maurizio Vitale (a.k.a. Jack Daniel)

    Bear encounters in Italy: Jj4, anthropomorphized nature and the dialectics of generations – Post by Maurizio Vitale (a.k.a. Jack Daniel)

    Chapter four from “La cena- Avanzi dell’ex Jugoslavia”, by Božidar Stanišić

    Chapter four from “La cena- Avanzi dell’ex Jugoslavia”, by Božidar Stanišić

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    A song of peace and other poems by Julio Monteiro Martins

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    I am the storm rattling iron door handles (Part I)- Poems by Michael D. Amitin

    Datura – Paulami Sengupta

    Datura – Paulami Sengupta

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Spirited away by the northern winds (Part I) – Poems by Marcello Tagliente

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    Like a geological specimen in a darkened room: Two poems by Neil Davidson

  • 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
    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    The delicate hour of the birds among the branches – Poems by Melih Cevdet Anday (trans. Neil P. Doherty)

    Afro Women Poetry- SUDAN: Reem Yasir, Rajaa Bushara, Fatma Latif

    Afro Women Poetry- SUDAN: Reem Yasir, Rajaa Bushara, Fatma Latif

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    A flock of cardinals melted in the scarlet sky: Poems by Daryna Gladun

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    The wolf hour and other poems by Ella Yevtushenko

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Testing the worth of poetic bombshells – Four poems by Abdul Karim Al-Ahmad

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

  • Fiction
    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    The Naked Shell of Aloneness – Kazi Rafi

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    The Shadow of a Shadow – Nandini Sahu

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Football is Life – Mojaffor Hossein

    Datura – Paulami Sengupta

    Datura – Paulami Sengupta

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Origin – 1. The House, at night, by Predrag Finci

    HOT MANGO CHUTNEY SAUCE – Farah Ahamed (from Period Matters)

    HOT MANGO CHUTNEY SAUCE – Farah Ahamed (from Period Matters)

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

    BOW / BHUK – Parimal Bhattacharya

  • Non Fiction
    My Lover, My Body – Gonca Özmen, trans. by Neil P. Doherty

    My Lover, My Body – Gonca Özmen, trans. by Neil P. Doherty

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    A tribute to Carla Macoggi – An invitation to reading her novels, by Jessy Simonini

    A tribute to Carla Macoggi – An invitation to reading her novels, by Jessy Simonini

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    What Gets Read: How the Beats Caught on in Italy – Clark Bouwman

    What Gets Read: How the Beats Caught on in Italy – Clark Bouwman

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Of romantic love and its perils: The lyrics of the enigmatic Barbara Strozzi – Luciana Messina

  • Interviews & reviews
    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    Paradoxes of misfits and wanderers: Modhura Bandyopadhyay reviews Stalks of Lotus

    Beauty and Defiance: Ukrainian contemporary paintings in Padua- Show organizer Liudmila Vladova Olenovych in conversation with Camilla Boemio

    Beauty and Defiance: Ukrainian contemporary paintings in Padua- Show organizer Liudmila Vladova Olenovych in conversation with Camilla Boemio

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    A preview of Greek poet Tsabika Hatzinikola’s second collection “Without Presence, Dreams Do Not Emerge”, by Georg Schaaf

    Ascension: A conversation with Matthew Smith

    Ascension: A conversation with Matthew Smith

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Of Concentric Storytelling, Footballs and the Shifting World

    Lexically Sugared Circuits of R/elation: A Conversation with Adeena Karasick

    Lexically Sugared Circuits of R/elation: A Conversation with Adeena Karasick

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    Camilla Boemio interviews Malaysian artist Kim Ng

    Poetic bridges and conversations: Icelandic, Kiswahili and English through three poems by Hlín Leifsdóttir

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Human Bestiary Series – Five Poems by Pina Piccolo

    Bear encounters in Italy:  Jj4, anthropomorphized nature and the dialectics of generations – Post by Maurizio Vitale (a.k.a. Jack Daniel)

    Bear encounters in Italy: Jj4, anthropomorphized nature and the dialectics of generations – Post by Maurizio Vitale (a.k.a. Jack Daniel)

    Chapter four from “La cena- Avanzi dell’ex Jugoslavia”, by Božidar Stanišić

    Chapter four from “La cena- Avanzi dell’ex Jugoslavia”, by Božidar Stanišić

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    A song of peace and other poems by Julio Monteiro Martins

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    I am the storm rattling iron door handles (Part I)- Poems by Michael D. Amitin

    Datura – Paulami Sengupta

    Datura – Paulami Sengupta

    Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti

    Spirited away by the northern winds (Part I) – Poems by Marcello Tagliente

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    Like a geological specimen in a darkened room: Two poems by Neil Davidson

  • 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 Out of bounds

“Checkpoint”,”Cactus Flower” and “Roirama”- three poems by Julio Monteiro Martins

From "La grazia di casa mia", translations by Don Stang and Helen Wickes

May 1, 2018
in Out of bounds, Poetry, The dreaming machine n 2
“Checkpoint”,”Cactus Flower” and “Roirama”- three poems by Julio Monteiro Martins
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CHECKPOINT

 

Walter Benjamin,
who committed suicide
in front of the security gate
at the border
at Portbou, which closed
the day before his arrival:
history’s final insult.
He had extraordinary ideas,
ideas
that at the end
of that same night
of passion
flew over all the barriers
and landed beyond every border.

For his ideas a no trespassing sign
did not exist.

But here we do not speak
of the ideas of this man
– spotlight on the present,
translation of the future –,
we speak of his humble death,
of his unobtrusive and silent
poisoning.
Shut outside
the gates of paradise,
while he stared
at the impregnable wooden barrier
protected by machine guns,
his horizontal no
crucified
his last
day on his feet.

 

Immersed in this new century,
millions breathing its poison,
its morphine
diffused in the air,
stunned
by its toxicity,
they perish in front of closed borders
no longer fashioned of wood
but of tough words.
Of unbreathable ideas.
Of residence permits denied.
Of detention camps for foreigners.

 

Every border a sphinx.
Every customs agent a Cassandra,
Every passport a prophecy.

 

For their friends, everything.
For their enemies, the law.

 

The humble death
of Walter Benjamin,
terrorized by the dawn,
slumped on the ground
on no man’s land,
and the sister death
of his brother Gramsci,
huddled on a cot
in a clinic,
his gaze fixed
on the vertical bars.

 

These are emblematic deaths,
prophetic
of the human condition
turned upside down,
metaphors in living flesh,
not of a world which ended
in poison,
but of another
that was born exactly there
at the border at Portbou:
the one which we know,
striped with despicable fences,
with walls and moats,
with every sort of partition
rigidly surveilled.

 

A world under the sign
of death by exclusion.

 

We must we get used to this.
Isn’t death itself

 

perhaps
an insurmountable
barricade?

 

 

POSTO DI BLOCCO

 

Walter Benjamin,
che si è ucciso
davanti alla sbarra del confine
chiuso a Port Bou
il giorno prima del suo arrivo:
l’ultima beffa della Storia.
Aveva pensieri straordinari,
pensieri
che alla fine
di quella stessa notte
di passione
sono volati sopra tutte le sbarre
e si sono posati oltre ogni confine.

 

Per loro non esiste:
è vietato oltrepassare.

 

Ma qui non parliamo
delle idee di quest’uomo
– luce sul presente,
traduzione del futuro –,
parliamo della sua umile morte
del suo discreto e silenzioso
avvelenamento.
Rinchiuso fuori
dalle porte del paradiso,
mentre fissava
il legno immobile
protetto dai mitra,
il no orizzontale
a crocifiggere
l’ultimo suo giorno
verticale.

 

Immersi nel nuovo secolo,
respirando il suo veleno,
la sua morfina
diffusa nell’aria,
storditi
dalla sua tossicità,
in milioni periscono
davanti alle sbarre chiuse
fatte non più di legno
ma di parole dure.
Di idee irrespirabili.
Di rifiuti di soggiorno.
Di lager per gli stranieri.

 

Ogni frontiera una sfinge
Ogni doganiere una cassandra
Ogni passaporto un vaticinio.

 

Agli amici, tutto.
Ai nemici, la legge.

 

La morte dimessa
di Walter Benjamin
accasciato a terra
sulla terra di nessuno,
terrorizzato dall’alba,
è la morte sorella
del fratello Gramsci,
rannicchiato sulla branda
di una clinica,
sguardo fisso
sulle grate verticali.

 

Sono morti emblematiche,
premonitrici
di una condizione umana
rovesciata,
metafore in carne viva,
non di un mondo che finiva
nel veleno,
ma di un altro
che nasceva proprio lì
sul confine di Port Bou:
quello che conosciamo,
rigato da recinzioni abiette,
da muri e da fossati,
da ogni sorta di divisorio
strettamente sorvegliato.

 

Un mondo sotto il segno
della morte per esclusione.

 

Bisogna abituarcisi.
Non è forse
la morte stessa
una transenna
insormontabile?

 

 

 

RORAIMA, ALASKA

 

Palpitations in a vacuum.
The hours a whipped cream
in a cup of fog.

On the bureau there used to be
a map of Brazil
made of foam rubber
where every state
was a different piece:
my long lost town
was way up there,
nothing more than a puzzle.

 

High
on the map
there was
an isolated state
where no one goes;
I know no one
who’s ever set foot there:
It’s called Roraima, and its existence is known only
because the Yanomami indians
still live there,
the most primitive
and wisest tribe
– so they say –
remaining on the planet.

 

Roraima is the Alaska of Brazil,
I thought,
amused by the idea.
There too are
high mountains and deserts
always covered with mist,
which rises from the jungle:
The Pico da Neblina.
A Mount Olympus
humid and of no use
for atheists and monotheists
like us.

 

I was looking at
that map on the bureau
through the little hole
in the metal clip
of the paperweight.
I pinpointed
the Bay of Guanabara
and centered it on my house.
I fantasized
that if I were
to pass through that hole
I would arrive straight away at my house
from the other side of the world.
What a strange thought!

 

After this I had
a coughing fit.
Since this morning I knew
I was on the verge
of a cold.
Then it happened
that the door of the refrigerator
refused to close
because there was too much ice
in the freezer.
I turned it off
and defrosted it.
I cleaned and dried it
and with this
the cold hit me
as it had wanted to do for some time.
But what was I supposed to do?
Leave the fridge
sleeping all night
with the door open?

 

What does the refrigerator have to do
with the mountain in the mist?
And where is the poetry,
my friend?
Well,
everything has to do with everything,
and poetry is everywhere,
my friend.

 

Everything has to do with everything.
Shall I show you?
My cold
resembles the water that dripped
inside the turned-off fridge.
It has to do with the music
that I am listening to as I write:
it’s “Dracula”
by Philip Glass.
It has a lot to do
with the mountain in the mist
or with a door
that refuses to close.

 

Yes, because the fact is
that everything has to do with everything.
The moon is related to
the waves of the ocean
– so they say.
The ass has to do
with the pants.
Honey has to do
with grease,
and the journey
with the calluses.

 

And then,
the grave awaits
with its stench of mildew
– and here Dracula
rears his head again.
There is the desire
for great things
and the enjoyment
of little ones.
(I saw a film this evening
on TV
in which a man dies
and leaves his lover pregnant
with their first child,
who he will never see.
In silence
I thanked the I-don’t-know-who
who has allowed me
to live long enough
to meet my own.)

 

You’re all good company
(a little too unobtrusive,
it’s true),
but please excuse me now:
a cup of hot tea
will help my cough.
The eskimos of Alaska,
do they too catch colds
and drink tea?
The eskimos of Alaska
are surely no less wise
than the Yanomami, I think.
Poetry is of course a beautiful thing
and it’s a beautiful thing to write it.
But who said
that poetry
is worth more
than a cup of tea?
Even Eliot quarreled with himself
in this way
before the taking
of a toast and tea.
I, however,
– I’ve already decided –
I will take my tea
with biscuits and butter.

 

And that’s the way I take life too.
At least I try.

 

 

RORAIMA, ALASKA

 

Batticuore nel vuoto.
Ore montate
su una tazza di nebbia.

 

C’era sul comò
una mappa del Brasile
fatta di gomma piuma
dove ogni stato
era una tessera colorata:
il mio paese perduto
era lì sopra
niente più
di un rompicapo.

 

Là su in alto
nella mappa
c’era uno stato
isolato
dove non va nessuno;
non conosco nessuno
che ci abbia messo piede:
Si chiama Roraima, e si sa che esiste
perché lì vivono ancora
gli indios Yanomami,
la tribù più primitiva
e più saggia
– così dicono –
rimasta sul pianeta.

 

Roraima è l’Alaska del Brasile
– ho pensato,
divertito dall’idea.
Anche lì ci sono
montagne alte e deserte
sempre coperte dalla nebbia
che si alza dalla giungla:
Il Pico da Neblina.
Un Olimpo
umido e inutile
per atei e monoteisti
come noi.

 

Stavo guardando
quella mappa sul comò
attraverso il buchino
della molletta di metallo
del fermacarte.
Ho centrato
la baia di Guanabara
e lì ho centrato casa mia.
Ho fantasticato
che se io riuscissi
a passare attraverso quel buco
arriverei subito a casa
dall’altro lato del mondo.
Che strano pensiero!

 

E mi è venuto
un accesso di tosse.
Da stamani sapevo
che ero sull’orlo
di un raffreddore.
Poi è successo
che la porta del frigorifero
si è rifiutata di chiudersi
perché c’era troppo ghiaccio
nel congelatore.
L’ho spento
e l’ho fatto scongelare.
L’ho pulito e asciugato
e con questo
il raffreddore mi ha colpito
come ben voleva da tempo.
Ma cosa avrei dovuto fare?
Lasciar dormire
il frigo tutta la notte
con la porta aperta?

 

Che c’entra il frigorifero
con il monte delle nebbie?
E dov’è la poesia,
caro mio?
Eh be’,
tutto c’entra con tutto,
e la poesia è ovunque,
caro mio.

 

Tutto c’entra con tutto.
Vuoi vedere?
Il freddo dentro di me
sembra l’acqua che gocciolava
dentro il frigo spento.
C’entra anche la musica
che sento mentre scrivo:
È il “Dracula”
di Philip Glass.
C’entra benissimo
col monte delle nebbie
o con una porta
che si rifiuta di chiudersi.

 

Sì, perché il fatto
è che tutto c’entra.
C’entra la luna
con le onde del mare
– così dicono.
C’entra il culo
con i pantaloni.
C’entra il miele
con il grasso
e il percorso
con i calli.

 

E poi,
c’è la tomba che aspetta
col suo lezzo di muffa
– e qui c’entra Dracula
nuovamente.
C’è il desiderio
di grandi cose
e il godimento
delle piccole.
(Ho visto un film stasera
alla TV
in cui un uomo muore
e lascia l’amante incinta
del suo primo figlio,
che lui non vedrà mai.
In silenzio
ho ringraziato non-so-chi
che mi ha permesso
di vivere abbastanza

per conoscere i miei)

 

Siete una bella compagnia
(un po’ troppo discreta,
è vero),
ma ora mi scuserete:
una tazza di tè caldo
mi farà bene alla tosse.
Gli eschimesi dell’Alaska,
anche loro si raffreddano
e prendono il tè?
Gli eschimesi dell’Alaska
non saranno meno saggi
degli Yanomami, credo.
La poesia è senz’altro una cosa bella
ed è una bella cosa scriverla.
Ma chi ha detto
che la poesia
vale di più
di una tazza di tè?
Anche Eliot si imbatté
in questo dubbio
before the taking
of a toast and tea.
Io invece
– ho già deciso –
prendo il tè
con i biscotti al burro.

 

E così prendo anche la vita.
Almeno ci provo.

 

 

  CACTUS FLOWER

 

Canteloupes and misanthropes,
Bills and thrills,
Inspiration and perspiration.

Money and verses.

Sad pairings.
And meanwhile
the bills arrive
and the poet suffers.

A lifetime
on the edge of eviction.

Indoor spaces
always precarious,
provisional.
Walls are expensive.

For the poor poet,
unwelcome to the landlords,
rejected by the walls,
the outdoors remains.
Camping out.

About my life
in the great outdoors
I’ll tell you one story,
for free, as always.

There is a place
where there is no television
and newspapers are not delivered.
It’s a sort of desert.
It’s lovely to visit there at dawn
when the cactus bloom.

There I have known
the irony of plants.
The ugliest cactus
is the one with the most beautiful flower:
a giant lily,
fragrant,
multicolored,
that opens only at dawn.
It’s understandable.
In those parts
the sun is so strong
that the flower
has no choice
and must remain closed
the rest of the day.

But calm down.
Resist
interpretation.
This little story
is not a metaphor
for the misery of the poet.

It’s only a memory.
A recollection perhaps.
A pang.
A little thing,
mental
and priceless.

 

 

FIOR DI CACTUS

 

Cambiali e minotauri,
saturnali e minestroni,
angurie e folgorazioni.

Soldi e versi.
Tristi accoppiamenti.

E intanto
arrivano bollette
e il poeta soffre.
La vita intera
sull’orlo dello sfratto.
Gli spazi chiusi
sempre instabili,
provvisori.
Le pareti costano.
Al poeta povero,
sgradito ai proprietari,
respinto dalle mura,
resta l’aperto.
L’addiaccio.
Sulla mia vita
all’aperto
ve ne racconto una,
gratis come sempre.
Esiste un luogo
dove non c’è televisione
e non arrivano giornali.
È una sorta di deserto.
È bello visitarlo all’alba
quando fioriscono i cactus.

 

Lì ho conosciuto
l’ironia vegetale.
Il cactus più brutto
è quello dal fiore più bello:
un gigantesco giglio,
profumato,
variopinto,
che si apre solo all’alba.
Si capisce.
Da quelle parti
il sole è così ardente
che il fiore
non ha scelta
e deve rimanere chiuso
per tutta la giornata.
Ma state tranquilli.
Trattenete pure
le interpretazioni.
Questa storiella
non è una metafora
della miseria del poeta.
È soltanto un ricordo.
Un richiamo forse.
Una fitta.
Una piccola cosa,
mentale
e inestimabile.

 

To find out more about Julio Monteiro Martins’ poetry, please see links to pieces in The Dreaming Machine N. 1 https://www.thedreamingmachine.com/a-world-without-a-libretto-poems-by-julio-monteiro-martins/

THE POSITION – Julio Monteiro Martins

Featured image: Photo by Melina Piccolo.

 

 

Tags: AlaskaborderscactusconnectednessdeathdesperationexclusionGramsciJulio Monteiro MartinsNazismparadoxPoetryRoraimasuicideWalter Banjaminyanomami
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