Poems translated from Italian by Pina Piccolo, from Gianluca Asmundo’s collection, La citta impupata, Macabor 2024. Cover photo and one of the in text photo from Gianluca Asmundo’s personal archive.
Introduction by the author
This collection is an act of love for the city of Palermo, a city that is both mine and belongs to a much larger collective. My aim is to recount its scents of orange blossoms, its Arab flavors, its burning contradictions, its honesty and vivacity, immersing myself in its streets and donning the masks of its inhabitants, blending memories and the future, Italian and dialect. But first and foremost, I lend my ear to the voices from the harbor, the markets, the theaters, the anti-mafia movement, the gardens, and the resistance and let them speak through my poems. The setting is both baroque and ironic, a small stage on which humanity can perform, where orality takes the form of a tale that is recited and the metrics are those of the Opera dei Pupi, a specifically Sicilian form of marionette theater, narrating in octaves the epic tales of Paladin warriors of the Carolingian cycle. In this collection, Palermo becomes a stage on which we all become puppets without strings, taking part in a collective tale, just like characters, such as the statue of the Genius of Palermo, the olive seller, the neighborhood madman, the dreamy boy among the rubble, the school teacher, and the girl in an Art Nouveau mosaic. Palermo is a complicated place. A synthesis of the Mediterranean, a hospitable open harbor city, a partially lost garden city, a planetary metaphor. This collection represents the first part of this story about the city. A book dedicated to those who resist and, thus, full of hope.
PROLOGUE.
The Genius of Palermo
Here I sit and sing
‘cause the meter of the flow
chanced upon me
new and archaic in my blood.
And of the grand scent of stone I sing
of the fortunate dialogue of salts
of prevailing winds, the mutual exchange.
Of such things that were done, I tell and recount
having walked to the end of the world
through islands, deserts, and high waters
just enough to leave me unsated.
The chair that supports me
in my gesturing
lends rest to my body’s exhaustion
and my arms
swaying in the air
lift it as it is twice born.
Forever bitten by a snake is my chest
though an eagle be my companion
on my Pindaric, rhetorical and amorous flights
and the fading of its flowers’ dream.
From: First Recital
Mine is political poetry
as everyone is privy to
and if I use metaphors
it’s not to seek cover
but ‘cause I believe in the scent of images
their spicy flavor
whether ancient or ordinary
speak for themselves
without me writing
stanzas in a room
not too far in the distance.
Political it is, I would venture
I confided it to a stone
if I recite it’s for this reason
I beg your forgiveness
and so I knead language and feelings
and write in a square
lending my ear as far as I can
as I try my hand with dialects
or play with myths
and along the way, unravel the thread of chance
woven with words,
street by street.
II.
Run quickly as you can
run up, everyone, to your homes
barricade your windows
go ahead and blow out the candles
run fast as you can
it’s already a disaster, the Turks are upon us,
it’s Ave Maria time
they’re not coming from the sea
nor from cliffs or stairs
behind our faces
they hide
modern, all made up, these Saracens
Come down fast as you can
come down to the streets
let us roar with silence
form a human chain
come out onto your balconies
it will be a silent word
and white sheets hung
indignation is the reaction
showing determination
us residents aflooding
let us lift our faces and foreheads
let their ideas walk on our legs.
III.
The lights are on
even in the crypts
the squares sprout
people who become festival lights
city, the whole of you is a harbor
open to any future
poverty and blooming coexist
city that knows how to resist
far beyond any rubble
city that knows how to reinvent itself
scent of the ordinary
city that knows how to dance
ferment of the present
you will teach us life
unrestrained phoenix
From Second Recital
Photo from Pina Piccolo’s personal archive, Sicilian Opera marionette display at Mucem, in Marseilles.
Improvised – or of pantomimes
I.
Puppetless theaters
and puppets without strings
we were inhabitants free from destiny
inanimate.
If anything, once stories dissolve
rhyming octave poems forgotten
we will still be hanging
on who knows what strings
knights and ladies replaced
with folklore
empty the theater boxes
the squares and courtyards
nothing but bitter backdrops
the faded posters
the whole improvised, made-up city deserted.
If, on the other hand, we raise
our dignified eyelashes
our finger pointed against oppression and sloth
our heads turned towards the future’s best
gestating in the present
the sea will be radiant
we will fill the streets with hope
with seeds already planted and sprouting.
Cooked together in stoneware– or of mixtures
I.
The statues speak to me
from niches in facades
they gesticulate motionless
with a thousand bows
in front of the Leopards.
The Saintly Maidens, their outstretched arms
white though made of marble
have never persuaded them
to wonder more than provide answers.
The same can be said
of the revolutionaries
in the adjacent square
who made an unfortunate racket
in times of revolt and chickpeas in their mouths
due to bad leadership and manners.
And dusk falls
it is time for Vespers
baroque solemnity
if you will, ora pro nobis.
II.
Just like a pomegranate
your open wounds
ever more strident
in a city that is a belly
fabric unveiling itself
of its gold and brocade
to the salt cod and mummies
visceral market
gradual concession
you don’t uncover layer by layer
(it would still be simple)
Palermo pomegranate you are
marble and inside split
crimson, eternal and languid
II.
The tale you unravel
ephemeral and obstinate
as you insist on it appearing
amid mills
lends you the comfort
of returning
salt to the wind
the faint echo
of intertwined humanity
shall be the charge of others,
in another elsewhere.
Playing hide-and-seek with hope
let us plant a good lemon
so that it may be sniffed one day
as well as the pounding of the blue sea
V.
And we believe in faces
that can change
from arid to orchard
and we will put our faith
in the sweetly beloved cedars
for renewal
with polished eyes.
We shall be thresholds before the future.
Born on a snowy day in Palermo, Gianluca Asmundo works among the marbles and tides of Venice, specializing in restoration. He holds a PhD in Architecture, his dissertation was on Danilo Dolci and the dams he designed from the ground up in Sicily. He has taught cultural heritage representation in Tunisia and Lebanon, and studies Arab-Norman architecture and waterscapes.
Gianluca Asmundo writes about the Mediterranean, open ports, drought, and borders, and has published several books of poetry.
He believes in writing that builds bridges; he has organized international poetry festivals, coordinates the blog "Peripli" and ithe magazine associated with it.
