Tag Archives: Poetry

My butcher, by Elisabetta Destasio Vettori

Standard

My butcher had eyes of sky
the scent of linden,
white and clean petals
to cover my breasts.
My butcher
had the warm red colour of flamboyants and the strong scent
of the miraculous khat, an echo of far away Yemen.
My butcher,
lit up
candles and wrote on my back
words of honey, of myrrh. There were no nights and I had skin of moonlight;
so he said, as he carved up my life.
My butcher
had eyes of ice, sharpened word blades as if threading pearls.
He had the scent of emptiness and trodden, ruined linden flowers.
Ruins.
My butcher
had the red colour of wounds, of lies, of blows.
One piece at a time he fed
on my nudity, down to my soul,
to my last cent, to the last shred.
To my last.
I have been flesh, I have been goods, I have been water, I have been air,
I have been nothing.
I had no voice to cry. Vocal chords strangled.
I have been goods, I have been water, I have been air, I have been nothing.
But I am alive also in death and I fall from the sky in the shape of a thousand other women
and my wounds are gilded gold, between the word courage and the word love.
And I cry, cry with the voice of a thousand women:
courage
love

original Italian by Elisabetta Destasio Vettori, ‘il mio carnefice’ via Gioianet

Advertisements

媽媽, di Marlene Min-ling Liao

Standard

Metronomo di coltello su tagliere
un coro di rumori

gli occhi mi si riempiono
mentre lei continua senza una lacrima

in fondo al corridoio, odori pungenti
ci sorpassano

lei ronza e borbotta
muovendosi al ritmo suo

un gorgoglio ci scappa dallo stomaco

accogliamo al suo posto dolcezza
ci abbuffiamo col naso
mentre la ammiriamo

oggi
ne copio i suoni
cercando di ricreare gli odori

gli occhi mi si riempiono
e mi fermo

il frigo ronza
e fa eco nella stanza
toccando ogni pezzo di estraneità

non c’è spettacolo qui
il calore portato via
da distanze e tempo

[tradotto con permesso dall’originale inglese di Marlene Min-ling Liao, su Ricepaper]

Un secolo, più o meno

Standard

Un uomo intraprende un viaggio, una donna no.
Le betulle invece mormorano nel canto
di un uccello invisibile, la foresta recede incessante.

Essere soli e senza scopo: un seme
portato dal vento su pietre piatte stese
sulla riva remota. Testimone di notizie,

canti, mielina. Una delle nostre ultime è
una successione di costole distinte e vaste
in preda a collasso improvviso. Madre, scelta

non abbiamo. Madre, lui conta le nostre deboli ossa.

(Tradotto con permesso dall’originale inglese di Joan Naviyuk Kane)
#translationthurs

#GloPoWriMo 2018 26 – Twisted Idioms (VI)

Standard

this is a cat
this is a treat
this is a cat
reaching for it

this is a cat
this is a paw
this is a cat
stepping in it

this is a cat
this is ambition
this is a cat
punished for it

this was a cat
with all of its paws
this is a cat
regretting it

#translationthurs
#gattaallardo

#GloPoWriMo 2018 22 – mapping

Standard

the stars cannot rearrange

themselves in the sky

& yet here you are

changing the pinpoint over my head

making me lose directions

& maps of where i thought i thought

i would be & be going

at this point in time but it was space

that you changed & i was a fool

not to see that chance & you seized

the opportunity as you drew

new constellations on our skin

ladles & spoons replacing bears

pyramids where arrows flew &

sails instead of falls though fall we did

through hallways of cold light

& of cold nights after sudden rain

& we rearranged ourselves

in your bed bodies shifting

mapping out another sky

prompted

#GloPoWriMo 2018 20 – Twisted Idioms (V)

Standard

if you squint
if you squeeze
if you press one eyelid
closer to the lower half
if you look carefully
if you stretch your gaze
if you peer into the vastity
of what is before you

you’ll find the divine
was waiting for you all along.

You just weren’t looking hard enough.

 

more catch up
(#occhiopio)

#GloPoWriMo 2018 19 – Preghiera di Demetra ad Ade

Standard

Solo questo chiedo per te: conoscenza.
Capire ogni desiderio ed il suo limite,
sapere che siamo responsabili per le vite
che cambiamo. Nessuna fede è gratuita,
nessuno crede senza dover morire.
Per la prima volta ora
mi è chiaro il percorso che hai creato,
l’intero terreno una scoria,
nonostante tu sognassi ricchezza
di fiori.
Non ci sono maledizioni, solo specchi
davanti alle anime di dei e mortali.
E ora anch’io rinuncio a questa fede.
Credi in te stesso,
avanti – vedi cosa succede.

 

Rita Dove, “Demeter’s Prayer to Hades”, from Mother Love, W.W. Norton, New York 1995.
Translated by permission of Rita Dove.

#GloPoWriMo 2018 18 – Twisted Idioms (IV)

Standard

consider the circumference
and the curve of the skin
consider the stretched or
loose expanse of
the core of this man

consider its direction
its size its layers
its complex arrangement of
human behaviour and instinct
gaze into more
than just the navel

you will find meaning there

back on this again, catching up
(#uomodipanza)