Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Andrea Gibellini

Is Everything Secret?

You follow the channel between dangerous balustrades,
squashing leeches that cling

crazily as cupping glasses to
stringy legs as bent as a soccer player’s.

By bicycle you reached the crumbling country house
and the view high up there

– before any heat, before any spring –

the magnificent and spectral place of torture,
composed of crumbling plaster and dried scum of stagnant water.

Then we climbed like hunters
– gravel scattered on small dusty dunes –

with air rifles and ball of wire
to wait for the green lizard’s sideways slither.

The ordinary behind the unheard heartbeat and chirping
by the forgotten ruin’s gate.

And how vomit and guts left hanging in the sun
Still hang about the heart of a gloomy heart.

IS ER IETS NIET GEHEIM?

Volg het kanaal tussen gevaarlijke weringen
en verjaag de bloedzuigers die zich waanzinnig

in de open wind vasthouden aan de
kromgetrokken voetballers’ spillebenen

Op de fiets heb je met het uitzicht daar
hoog boven het vervallen landhuis gepasseerd

– voor iets van hitte, iets van lente –

schitterende spookachtige folterplaats
in afgebrokkeld pleisterwerk dat oplicht in waterplassen.

Toen hebben we geklommen voor het jagerswerk
– rondom kiezels op stoffig zand –

met windbuksen en ijzeren spaak:
het wachten was op de slinkse salamanderstaart.

Gewoon gedoe achter ongehoorde hartschrik en gekwetter
voor het hek onder vergeten roest.

En hoe zoemt nog het hart van een harteschim
van braaksel en darmen in de zon gehangen.

OGNI COSA È SEGRETA?

Segui il canale fra balaustre pericolose
e scaccia le sanguisughe che forsennate

si attaccano a ventosa sulle
filiformi gambe arcuate da giocatore.

Con la bicicletta superavi con
lo sguardo là in alto la villa diroccata

– prima di ogni caldo, di ogni primavera –

magnifica e spettrale luogo di tortura
fatta di calcinacci e pelle riarsa d’acque stagnanti.

Poi siamo saliti col fare dei cacciatori
– e ghiaia dintorno su piccole dune polverose –

con fucili ad aria compressa e spago di ferro:
si aspettava la coda di traverso del ramarro.

L’ordinario dietro l’inaudito batticuore e cinguettìo
davanti al cancello di ruggine dimenticato.

E come ronza il cuore di un cuore tenebroso
ancora di vomito e budella appese al sole.
Close

Is Everything Secret?

You follow the channel between dangerous balustrades,
squashing leeches that cling

crazily as cupping glasses to
stringy legs as bent as a soccer player’s.

By bicycle you reached the crumbling country house
and the view high up there

– before any heat, before any spring –

the magnificent and spectral place of torture,
composed of crumbling plaster and dried scum of stagnant water.

Then we climbed like hunters
– gravel scattered on small dusty dunes –

with air rifles and ball of wire
to wait for the green lizard’s sideways slither.

The ordinary behind the unheard heartbeat and chirping
by the forgotten ruin’s gate.

And how vomit and guts left hanging in the sun
Still hang about the heart of a gloomy heart.

Is Everything Secret?

You follow the channel between dangerous balustrades,
squashing leeches that cling

crazily as cupping glasses to
stringy legs as bent as a soccer player’s.

By bicycle you reached the crumbling country house
and the view high up there

– before any heat, before any spring –

the magnificent and spectral place of torture,
composed of crumbling plaster and dried scum of stagnant water.

Then we climbed like hunters
– gravel scattered on small dusty dunes –

with air rifles and ball of wire
to wait for the green lizard’s sideways slither.

The ordinary behind the unheard heartbeat and chirping
by the forgotten ruin’s gate.

And how vomit and guts left hanging in the sun
Still hang about the heart of a gloomy heart.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère