• TABLE OF CONTENT
    • the dreaming machine – issue number 16
    • the dreaming machine – issue number 15
    • the dreaming machine – issue number 14
    • the dreaming machine – issue number 13
    • 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 16
    • The dreaming machine n 15
    • The dreaming machine n 14
    • The dreaming machine n 13
    • 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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The Dreaming Machine
  • Home
  • Poetry
    The God of Submission Loves Gentle Calves and Other Poems –  Yuliya Musakovska

    The God of Submission Loves Gentle Calves and Other Poems – Yuliya Musakovska

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    Hence, the walruses will keep our memories – Poems from Ikaro Valderrama’s Tengri: The Book of Mysteries

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    “When Crimea Was Not a Grief”: Six Poems by Lyudmyla Khersonska, from 21st Century Ukraine

    Of Hunger and Tents: Poems from Gaza by Yousef el-Qedra

    Of Hunger and Tents: Poems from Gaza by Yousef el-Qedra

    Ratko Lalić’s painting, a little Noah’s ark –  Božidar Stanišić  

    The region suddenly turned into a deciduous forest. Poems by Paulami Sengupta

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    A False Dimension: regarding the empty walls – Aritra Sanyal

  • Fiction
    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    The Importance of Being Imperfect – Haroonuzzaman

    THE STATE – Hamim Faruque

    THE STATE – Hamim Faruque

    Tempus Fugit (in D Minor) – Michele Carenini

    Tempus Fugit (in D Minor) – Michele Carenini

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    A Mirage of a Dream – Kazi Rafi

    Prologue to “Maya and the World of the Spirits” – Gaius Tsaamo

    Prologue to “Maya and the World of the Spirits” – Gaius Tsaamo

    RETRIBUTION – Mojaffor Hossain

    RETRIBUTION – Mojaffor Hossain

    A Nation’s Reckoning on a Rickshaw: Photogallery from Bangladesh in turmoil – Melina and Pina Piccolo

    Between Two Lives – Mojaffor Hossain

    A Nation’s Reckoning on a Rickshaw: Photogallery from Bangladesh in turmoil – Melina and Pina Piccolo

    The Amatory Rainy Night – Kazi Rafi

    Chapter 1 of “Come What May”, a detective story set in Gaza, by Ahmed Masoud

    Come What May, chpt. 11 – Ahmed Masoud

  • Non Fiction
    I AM STILL HERE: It’s not a movie, it’s a hymn to democracy – Loretta Emiri

    I AM STILL HERE: It’s not a movie, it’s a hymn to democracy – Loretta Emiri

    Requiem for a Mattanza – Gia Marie Amella

    Requiem for a Mattanza – Gia Marie Amella

    In Defense of T.C. Boyle: Satire in the Era of Psychological Realism – Clark Bouwman

    In Defense of T.C. Boyle: Satire in the Era of Psychological Realism – Clark Bouwman

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    That is the Face – Appadurai Muttulingam

    Langston Hughes: Shakespeare in Harlem – Barry David Horwitz

    Langston Hughes: Shakespeare in Harlem – Barry David Horwitz

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Understanding the Quintessential Divinity: Binding the Two Geographies – Haroonuzzaman

  • Interviews & reviews
    Michelle Reale’s Volta: An Italian-American Reckoning With Race. Necessary turnabouts as  Columbus Day returns amidst Sinners’ vampires – Pina Piccolo

    Michelle Reale’s Volta: An Italian-American Reckoning With Race. Necessary turnabouts as Columbus Day returns amidst Sinners’ vampires – Pina Piccolo

    from The Creative Process: The Future of activism.  Bayo Akomolafe interviewed by Mia Funk and Natalie McCarthy

    from The Creative Process: The Future of activism. Bayo Akomolafe interviewed by Mia Funk and Natalie McCarthy

    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    from The Creative Process: A Life in Writing with T.C. Boyle, interviewed by Mia Funk & Cary Trott

    from The Creative Process: A Life in Writing with T.C. Boyle, interviewed by Mia Funk & Cary Trott

    Living as a painter: Shaun McDowell in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Living as a painter: Shaun McDowell in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Area Sacra at Torre di Largo Argentina —or, Calpurnia’s Dream – Laura Hinton

    from The Creative Process: TIOKASIN GHOSTHORSE, interviewed by Mia Funk and Melannie Munoz

    from The Creative Process: TIOKASIN GHOSTHORSE, interviewed by Mia Funk and Melannie Munoz

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    From The Stony Guests, Part IV: SIRAN BAKIRCI and SAIT B. KARAKAYA – Neil P. Doherty

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Chaos Theory – Michele Carenini

    Of People and Puppets, Kingdoms of Silence, Trauma and Storytelling: Review of “Azad, the rabbit and the wolf – Pina Piccolo

    Of People and Puppets, Kingdoms of Silence, Trauma and Storytelling: Review of “Azad, the rabbit and the wolf – Pina Piccolo

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Poetry is also born from Gesture – Ikaro Valderrama on Gestos de la Poesia, transnational poetry, multimedia and the energy of the Andes

    Poetry is also born from Gesture – Ikaro Valderrama on Gestos de la Poesia, transnational poetry, multimedia and the energy of the Andes

    A loneliness like an endless steppe – Poems from Maria Luisa Vezzali’s collection Home Ghost

    A loneliness like an endless steppe – Poems from Maria Luisa Vezzali’s collection Home Ghost

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Once the veil of artifice falls away: Poems by Haroonuzzaman

  • News
    Memorial Reading Marathon for Julio Monteiro Martins, Dec. 27, zoom live

    Memorial Reading Marathon for Julio Monteiro Martins, Dec. 27, zoom live

    PER/FORMATIVE CITIES

    PER/FORMATIVE CITIES

    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

  • Home
  • Poetry
    The God of Submission Loves Gentle Calves and Other Poems –  Yuliya Musakovska

    The God of Submission Loves Gentle Calves and Other Poems – Yuliya Musakovska

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    Hence, the walruses will keep our memories – Poems from Ikaro Valderrama’s Tengri: The Book of Mysteries

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    “When Crimea Was Not a Grief”: Six Poems by Lyudmyla Khersonska, from 21st Century Ukraine

    Of Hunger and Tents: Poems from Gaza by Yousef el-Qedra

    Of Hunger and Tents: Poems from Gaza by Yousef el-Qedra

    Ratko Lalić’s painting, a little Noah’s ark –  Božidar Stanišić  

    The region suddenly turned into a deciduous forest. Poems by Paulami Sengupta

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    A False Dimension: regarding the empty walls – Aritra Sanyal

  • Fiction
    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    The Importance of Being Imperfect – Haroonuzzaman

    THE STATE – Hamim Faruque

    THE STATE – Hamim Faruque

    Tempus Fugit (in D Minor) – Michele Carenini

    Tempus Fugit (in D Minor) – Michele Carenini

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    A Mirage of a Dream – Kazi Rafi

    Prologue to “Maya and the World of the Spirits” – Gaius Tsaamo

    Prologue to “Maya and the World of the Spirits” – Gaius Tsaamo

    RETRIBUTION – Mojaffor Hossain

    RETRIBUTION – Mojaffor Hossain

    A Nation’s Reckoning on a Rickshaw: Photogallery from Bangladesh in turmoil – Melina and Pina Piccolo

    Between Two Lives – Mojaffor Hossain

    A Nation’s Reckoning on a Rickshaw: Photogallery from Bangladesh in turmoil – Melina and Pina Piccolo

    The Amatory Rainy Night – Kazi Rafi

    Chapter 1 of “Come What May”, a detective story set in Gaza, by Ahmed Masoud

    Come What May, chpt. 11 – Ahmed Masoud

  • Non Fiction
    I AM STILL HERE: It’s not a movie, it’s a hymn to democracy – Loretta Emiri

    I AM STILL HERE: It’s not a movie, it’s a hymn to democracy – Loretta Emiri

    Requiem for a Mattanza – Gia Marie Amella

    Requiem for a Mattanza – Gia Marie Amella

    In Defense of T.C. Boyle: Satire in the Era of Psychological Realism – Clark Bouwman

    In Defense of T.C. Boyle: Satire in the Era of Psychological Realism – Clark Bouwman

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    That is the Face – Appadurai Muttulingam

    Langston Hughes: Shakespeare in Harlem – Barry David Horwitz

    Langston Hughes: Shakespeare in Harlem – Barry David Horwitz

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Understanding the Quintessential Divinity: Binding the Two Geographies – Haroonuzzaman

  • Interviews & reviews
    Michelle Reale’s Volta: An Italian-American Reckoning With Race. Necessary turnabouts as  Columbus Day returns amidst Sinners’ vampires – Pina Piccolo

    Michelle Reale’s Volta: An Italian-American Reckoning With Race. Necessary turnabouts as Columbus Day returns amidst Sinners’ vampires – Pina Piccolo

    from The Creative Process: The Future of activism.  Bayo Akomolafe interviewed by Mia Funk and Natalie McCarthy

    from The Creative Process: The Future of activism. Bayo Akomolafe interviewed by Mia Funk and Natalie McCarthy

    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    from The Creative Process: A Life in Writing with T.C. Boyle, interviewed by Mia Funk & Cary Trott

    from The Creative Process: A Life in Writing with T.C. Boyle, interviewed by Mia Funk & Cary Trott

    Living as a painter: Shaun McDowell in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Living as a painter: Shaun McDowell in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Area Sacra at Torre di Largo Argentina —or, Calpurnia’s Dream – Laura Hinton

    from The Creative Process: TIOKASIN GHOSTHORSE, interviewed by Mia Funk and Melannie Munoz

    from The Creative Process: TIOKASIN GHOSTHORSE, interviewed by Mia Funk and Melannie Munoz

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    From The Stony Guests, Part IV: SIRAN BAKIRCI and SAIT B. KARAKAYA – Neil P. Doherty

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Chaos Theory – Michele Carenini

    Of People and Puppets, Kingdoms of Silence, Trauma and Storytelling: Review of “Azad, the rabbit and the wolf – Pina Piccolo

    Of People and Puppets, Kingdoms of Silence, Trauma and Storytelling: Review of “Azad, the rabbit and the wolf – Pina Piccolo

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Poetry is also born from Gesture – Ikaro Valderrama on Gestos de la Poesia, transnational poetry, multimedia and the energy of the Andes

    Poetry is also born from Gesture – Ikaro Valderrama on Gestos de la Poesia, transnational poetry, multimedia and the energy of the Andes

    A loneliness like an endless steppe – Poems from Maria Luisa Vezzali’s collection Home Ghost

    A loneliness like an endless steppe – Poems from Maria Luisa Vezzali’s collection Home Ghost

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Once the veil of artifice falls away: Poems by Haroonuzzaman

  • News
    Memorial Reading Marathon for Julio Monteiro Martins, Dec. 27, zoom live

    Memorial Reading Marathon for Julio Monteiro Martins, Dec. 27, zoom live

    PER/FORMATIVE CITIES

    PER/FORMATIVE CITIES

    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

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Home Poetry

Silent, watching the growth of nothingness – Three poems by Julio Monteiro Martins

Translated from Italian by Donald Stang and Helen Wickes

April 15, 2023
in Poetry, The dreaming machine n 11
Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko
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Verbi gratia

 

Avevo tanta paura
dei sostantivi astratti
che mi sentivo al sicuro
persino fra gli aggettivi.

 

Paura per esempio
della parola libertà
(è usata in sensi opposti,
uno a destra,
l’altro a sinistra,
e nessuno dei due credibile).

 

Ero anche allergico
al concetto di verità.
Tagliato su misura
per ogni convenienza
da un tessuto logoro,
dai brandelli dei fatti.

 

Volevo circondarmi
di sostantivi concreti,
di cose semplicemente:
conchiglia, candela,
cometa, sapone,
vaniglia, frittella.

 

Chiudevo gli occhi
e questi sostantivi
sfilavano dentro di me,
uno scaffale vivente,
come un tesoro
alla portata dei miei verbi.

 

Ma il mondo
è tanto cambiato.
Come potevo indovinare?
I suoi nuovi abitanti
volevano concretezza.
E una paura inedita
mi assalì,
assediato com’ero
dai motorini,
dalle catenine d’oro,
dalle barche e dalle macchine,
dai rolex,
dalle carte di credito.
Troppi sostantivi
inqualificabili.
Troppi soggetti,
nessun predicato.

 

E ora s’insinua in me
la doverosa nostalgia
dei sostantivi astratti:
chi l’avrebbe detto!
Princìpi, lucidità,
equilibrio, equità,
riflessione,
coerenza, correttezza,
fierezza,
dignità
(e anche la parola astrazione,
per ironia,
oggi mi sembra bella).

 

Magari sono cambiato io
dopotutto.
Forse ho capito
che tutti i sostantivi
sono astratti.
Che parola è parola
e cosa è cosa,
e che è molto pericoloso
scambiare una per l’altra.

 

Più lontana dalle cose
è la parola
più vicina sarà a se stessa.

 

Se guardandosi intorno
dopo averla ascoltata
non si trova niente
che le somigli,
prendiamola come un invito
sottile
a un pensiero nuovo,
o un richiamo
a un’antica arte.

 

L’arte di disegnare
con la voce
l’idea,
per poi versarla sulle cose
e intingerle di senso.

 

Oggi ho paura e amore,
parole astratte
ambigue e imperiture
tra le nostre mani.

 

 
By the Grace of Words

 

I used to have such a fear
of abstract nouns
that I even felt safe
among the adjectives.

 

For example, fear
of the word liberty
(it is used in opposing ways,
one by the right,
the other by the left,
and neither of them believable).

 

I was also allergic
to the concept of truth:
cut to measure
for every convenience
from a worn-out fabric
of the shreds of facts.

 

I wanted to surround myself
with concrete nouns,
with straightforward things:
shell, candle,
comet, soap,
vanilla, pancake
.

 

I would close my eyes,
and these nouns
would parade inside me,
a living library,
a treasure
within reach of my verbs.

 

But the world
has changed so much.
How could I have guessed?
Its new inhabitants
wanted concreteness.
And an unprecedented fear
assailed me,
besieged as I was
by mopeds,
gold chains,
by boats and by cars,
by Rolexes,
by credit cards.
Too many
deplorable nouns.
Too many subjects
without a predicate.

 

And now an appropriate nostalgia
for abstract nouns
pervades me:
who would have predicted it!
Principles, lucidity,
equilibrium, equity,
reflection,
coherence, correctness,
pride,
dignity

(and even the word abstraction,
ironically,
now seems beautiful to me).

 

Maybe I have changed
after all.
Perhaps I have understood
that all nouns
are abstractions.
That a word is a word
and a thing is a thing,
and that it’s quite dangerous
to mistake one for the other.

 

The further the word
is from things,
the closer it is to itself.

 

If looking around
after hearing the word
we find nothing
that resembles it,
let us take that as
a subtle invitation
to a new way of thinking
or a reminder
of an ancient art:

 

the art of representing
the idea
with the voice,
and then to instill it in things
and thereby bathe them with meaning.

 

Today I feel fear and love,
abstract words,
ambiguous and imperishable
in our hands.

 

 

Eclissare il Taj Mahal

 

Perché un amore
non fosse dimenticato
il principe Shah Jahan
fece erigere
il palazzo più bello
e gli diede il nome
dell’amata morta
Mumtaz Mahal.

 

Dopo molti anni
il principe moriva
e ammirandolo
forse confondeva
il marmo bianco
con l’ultima pelle
dell’amata morta.

 

O forse voleva dire
una cosa molto semplice,
che il suo non era stato
un amore
ma l’amore.

 

Anche a me
che non sono un principe
si è presentato l’amore,
molti anni fa
(l’amore è democratico,
poveri noi!).
Per l’amore
– dovete perdonarmi –
non ho fatto erigere
il Taj Mahal.
Non ho scolpito
in suo omaggio
un monolito,
né inciso
una lapide.
Per rispetto o per timore
non ne ho scritto
una sola riga,
tranne queste.

 

La scomparsa dell’amore
l’ho vissuta soltanto
come un buco,
un cratere,
del tutto alieno
a ingegneri e architetti.

 

L’amore che è stato,
che un giorno ha fermato il tempo
e oggi mi ferma il cuore,
è solo una parte di me
che si è volatilizzata.
Una grande cancellatura
non so dire esattamente di cosa.
Se potessi disporre
di marmo,
schiavi,
anni,
non erigerei comunque
il Taj Mahal.
Rimarrei in silenzio
come ora
a vedere crescere il nulla,
a vedermi sciogliere
come la noce di burro
al centro della padella.

 

Non avrei eretto
il Taj Mahal,
non avrei nemmeno
graffiato su un albero
il nome dell’amata morta.
Non l’ho mai fatto.

 

Penso agli altri, sappiatelo.
Per proteggerli
dell’ineludibile
sentimento di cratere
che l’amore lascia:
la sua impronta
immateriale.

 

 

Per proteggere
chi non ama
dalla vista del cratere,
dalla vertigine
al guardarne il fondo.

 

 

Eclipsing the Taj Mahal

 

So that such a love
might not be forgotten,
the prince Shah Jahan
ordered the most beautiful palace
to be built
and bestowed on it the name
of his dead love,
Mumtaz Mahal.

 

After many years
the prince was dying,
and admiring
the white marble
mistook it, perhaps,
for the actual skin
of his dead love.

 

Or perhaps he meant to say
something much simpler:
that his love was not
a love
but love itself.

 

Even to me,
though I am not a prince,
love presented itself,
many years ago
(love is democratic,
heaven help us!).
For love—
please forgive me—
I did not order the Taj Mahal
to be built.
I did not sculpt
in its homage
a monolith,
nor did I engrave
a plaque.
Whether from respect or reverence,
I haven’t written
a single line,
except for these.
The loss of love
I simply endured
as one does an abyss,
a crater,
altogether foreign
to engineers and architects.

 

The love that was,
which one day stopped time
and today stops my heart,
is only a part of me
that has evaporated.
A big erasure,
I don’t know how to say exactly of what.
If I could command
marble,
slaves,
years,
I still would not build
the Taj Mahal.
I would remain silent,
as now,
watching the growth of nothingness,
seeing myself dissolve
like a pat of butter
in the center of the pan.

 

I would not erect
the Taj Mahal,
nor would I even
carve on a tree
the name of my dead loved one.
I have never done so.

 

I am thinking of others, you know.
To protect them
from the inescapable
crater-like feeling
left by love:
its intangible
imprint.
To protect
those who do not love
from viewing the crater,
the vertigo
of seeing all the way to the very bottom.

 

 

Seduto immobile

 

Seduto immobile
ho visto spegnersi
intorno a me
la mia generazione
come brace dispersa.

 

Fa buio
nell’angolo del mio cortile.
La notte s’illumina
di altri fuochi.
Ma io non li riconosco.

 

Sono il poeta
che ha deciso di non mentire.
Il poeta impopolare
a cui poco è rimasto
da dire.
Tre o quattro cose,
tutte cose tristi,
tutte cose vere.

 

Il vento che soffia nella notte
ad accendere fuochi
è lo stesso che consuma
la brace,
che porta via le cenere.
In balìa del vento
scompaiono le ultime tracce
di ciò che ho vissuto
di ciò che ho amato.

 

Tutto ciò che deve scomparire
scomparirà in mezzo
al turbinio,
al vociare stridulo,
ai tamburi, ai clacson,
a tutte le campane.

 

Baciata dal nulla
un’intera generazione
non è mai nata.
Le tenebre non custodiscono
residui di luce.

 

Baciato anch’io dal nulla,
sempre seduto e immobile,
spengo la mia memoria.
Un soffio e poi
l’oblio profondo
della memoria del mondo.

 
Sitting Motionless

 

Sitting motionless
I have seen
my generation extinguished
around me
like scattered embers.

 

It is getting dark
in the corner of my courtyard.
Night is illuminated
by other fires.
But I don’t recognize them.

 

I am the poet
who decided not to lie.
The unpopular poet
to whom little is left
to say.
Three or four things,
all sad things,
all true things.

 

The wind blowing in the night
and kindling fires
is the same that consumes
the embers,
carries the ashes away.
The last traces
of what I have lived,
of what I have loved,
are vanishing at the mercy of the wind.

 

All that must disappear
will disappear in the midst
of the whirlwind,
of a strident clamor,
of drums, the honking of cars,
the chiming of bells.

 

Kissed by nothingness,
an entire generation
was never born.
The shadows do not safeguard
the light that still remains.

 

Even I, also kissed by nothingness,
still sitting and motionless,
switch off my memory.
One puff and then
profound oblivion
of the memory of the world.

 

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.

Cover artwork: ME(A)LS “Barren Garden”

 

Tags: deathDon StanggrammarHelen WickesJulio Monteiro MarinslanguageloveobjectsPoetrytime
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