Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Andrea Gibellini

(The Hidden House)

The house is hidden behind a river
(inside the city, but not a word to anyone).
The house is empty, a complete mess,
uninhabited for years, the last
falling into miserable dust,
and where you are now able to enter.
This was the house that was
always faded, dilapidated,
when, as a furtive explorer,
you opened the door closed
by time (into your temple),
flame black of ossified subsoil,
a bush in the waters of jumbled grasses
where, lost yourself, you lose the power of speech.
And inside, in the sempiternal night,
even the animals have gone,
everyday things it’s useless to point out.
Tough colours of aquamarine
scattered with fine dust
and jerkily, in a ghostly fashion,
a humble Italy shorn of its socialist ideas.
Everything is distant, inescapable, disfigured.
Poems piled on the table like scattered boxes
are those of Brecht, this I remember.
And like animals escaped from the trap we took everything.

(VERBORGEN HUIS)

Het huis ligt verscholen achter een rivier
(het is binnen de stad, maar niemand zeggen).
Het huis is leeg, een en al rommel
onbewoond door de jaren, de laatste
slepen zich voort in het smerige stof,
waar je je nu kunt klaarmaken.
Dit huis
sinds immer voorbijgegaan, zo haast vergaan,
toen jij op steelse verkenning
de dichte deur van de tijd
(jou toegewijd)
het zwarte vuur van de versteende ondergrond,
tussen de plassen een struik vergane kruiden,
alwaar verdwaald je nu niet meer spreekt.
En binnen een eeuwigdurende nacht
zijn ook de beestjes gevlucht
is er wat men zo achterlaat, onnodig te noemen.
Uitgedroogde aquamarijnen
in fijn stof gewenteld
en in flarden, spookbeelden,
het arme Italië van een socialistische gedachte.
Alles is ver, onontkoombaar, misvormd
de gedichten in een stapeltje op de tafel, als ongeordende
doosjes, zijn die van Brecht, dat herinner ik me.
En als dieren aan de val ontsnapt hebben we alles meegenomen.

(Casa Nascosta)

La casa è nascosta dietro un fiume
(è dentro la città e non dirlo a nessuno).
La casa è vuota, disordinata
disabitata dagli anni, gli ultimi
si tirano giù nella polvere disgraziata,
dove adesso puoi prepararti.
Questa casa
da sempre passata, così andata,
quando furtivo esploratore
aprivi la porta chiusa
del tempo (del tuo tempio)
il nero fuoco dal sottosuolo ossificato,
un cespuglio fra le acque di erbe smarrite,
dove disperso ora non parli più.
E dentro in una notte sempreterna
anche le bestiole sono fuggite
ci sono le cose di tutti che è inutile dire.
Colori d’acquamarina induriti
rovesciati di pulviscolo
e a strappi, a fantasmi,
l’umile Italia di un’idea socialista.
Tutto è lontano, ineludibile, sfigurato
le poesie stipate sul tavolo, come scatole
confuse, sono quelle di brecht, questo ricordo.
E come animali scampati alle tagliole abbiamo preso tutto.
Close

(The Hidden House)

The house is hidden behind a river
(inside the city, but not a word to anyone).
The house is empty, a complete mess,
uninhabited for years, the last
falling into miserable dust,
and where you are now able to enter.
This was the house that was
always faded, dilapidated,
when, as a furtive explorer,
you opened the door closed
by time (into your temple),
flame black of ossified subsoil,
a bush in the waters of jumbled grasses
where, lost yourself, you lose the power of speech.
And inside, in the sempiternal night,
even the animals have gone,
everyday things it’s useless to point out.
Tough colours of aquamarine
scattered with fine dust
and jerkily, in a ghostly fashion,
a humble Italy shorn of its socialist ideas.
Everything is distant, inescapable, disfigured.
Poems piled on the table like scattered boxes
are those of Brecht, this I remember.
And like animals escaped from the trap we took everything.

(The Hidden House)

The house is hidden behind a river
(inside the city, but not a word to anyone).
The house is empty, a complete mess,
uninhabited for years, the last
falling into miserable dust,
and where you are now able to enter.
This was the house that was
always faded, dilapidated,
when, as a furtive explorer,
you opened the door closed
by time (into your temple),
flame black of ossified subsoil,
a bush in the waters of jumbled grasses
where, lost yourself, you lose the power of speech.
And inside, in the sempiternal night,
even the animals have gone,
everyday things it’s useless to point out.
Tough colours of aquamarine
scattered with fine dust
and jerkily, in a ghostly fashion,
a humble Italy shorn of its socialist ideas.
Everything is distant, inescapable, disfigured.
Poems piled on the table like scattered boxes
are those of Brecht, this I remember.
And like animals escaped from the trap we took everything.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère