Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Andrea Gibellini

Where Everything

Here is where everything
appears more truthful than any truth

between the trees and grass and sun-dried hay
in a landscape of moles, of holes

and little mounds of earth where a stream of water brings mud and manure
to pupils blinded by the dark. Here is the silence

of crickets, the dark circle of a spent fire,

a slender metal barrier
(a rusting black defence)

still holds the tennis court’s rectangle. Whole gaps

innocently let in the sun –
but this morning it’s overcast, low threatening cloud in the distance,

a feeling of clamour lingering in the air
as after a battle.

Right at the bottom there’s the basketball court half submerged
by precocious jungle, white seats

and cement of the tennis court that dominated the vision with an
intense violet
in a fleeting coming and going of unexpected guests.

Scarlet creeper’s wound faithfully around the fences,
the crazy grasses – the wild ones – the ones that sting,

have constructed an undisturbed environment
in an idyll where there’s no peace, where everything curls under everything.

Gently among the branches, slender as an eye of light caught by the sun,
an unintentional noise of string or the no longer domestic

rustle in the grass, everything is deadened
but, speaking greater than any other speech,

they return from a remote after-life, a fear
of colours never seen.

So that everything can achieve at the right perfection,
gaps are missing in the sheeting,

the glitter of sheet metal bent
(you who love a beauty that’s not there)

and hidden flutters of eyelashes –

the harsh feel of others’ love.

WAAR ALLES

Hier en waar alles
waarachtiger lijkt en is dan al het ware

tussen de bomen en het gras in het door de zon
verdroogde landschap van mollen, kuilen

hoopjes grond waar een beek schroot meldt en modder
in de door duisterflitsen geraakte pupillen. Hier is de stilte

van de krekels, de zwarte cirkel van een gedoofd vuur

een fijnmazig metalen hek
(een verroeste, zwarte beschutting)

begrenst nog de tennisrechthoek. Wijde scheuren

laten de zon veilig passeren –
’t is vanochtend wel bedompt door lage, dreigende wolken, een eind weg

in een lucht van vaag rumoer
als na een veldslag.

Daar achteraf ligt het basketbalveldje half onder
een vroege jungle witte stoelen

en het cement van de tennisbaan veroverde het visioen van dieppaars
in een haastig komen en gaan van onverwachte gasten.

De scharlaken klimop heeft zich trouw in het hekwerk verslingerd
de verlopen kruiden, die wilde die steken

hebben hun habitat ongewijzigd herbouwd
tot een rusteloze idylle waar vanonder alles kreukelt.

Net zichtbaar door de takken heen als een knop licht van de zon geplukt
een onopgemerkt geluid van een stengel of een geritsel

dat het gras niet meer eigen is, is alles stom
maar meer sprekend dan enig ander zeggen

brengt het van een ver hiernamaals een angst
voor nooit geziene kleuren.

Om alles tot ware perfectie te laten komen
ontbreekt er gescheurd blik

het geflonker van verbogen ijzerplaat
(jij die schoonheid bemint die er niet is)

en verborgen geknipper van wimpers –

het harde invoelen van de liefde van derden.

Dovi Ogni Cosa

Qui e dove ogni cosa
appare ed è più vera di ogni vero

tra gli alberi e l’erba e il fieno rinsecchito
dal sole in un paesaggio di talpe, di buchi

di mucchietti di terra dove un rivo d’acqua annuncia letame e fango
nelle pupille folgorate dal buio. Qui è il silenzio

dei grilli, il cerchio nero di un fuoco spento

una sottile barriera metallica
(una protezione arrugginita, nera)

stringe ancora il rettangolo del tennis. Larghi squarci

fanno trapassare innocuo il sole –
poi stamattina è fosco di nubi basse, minacciose, distanti

in un sentore di diffuso clamore
come dopo una battaglia.

Là in fondo c’è il campo da basket semisommerso
da una giungla precoce sedie bianche

e il cemento del tennis conquistava la visione di un viola intenso
in un fuggevole andirivieni di ospiti inattesi.

Le edere scarlatte si sono attorcigliate fedeli ai reticolati
le erbe matte, quelle selvagge, quelle che pungono,

hanno ricostruito il loro ambiente inalterato
in un idillio senza pace dove sotto tutto si increspa.

Sottile tra i rami come un occhio di luce preso dal sole
un rumore di spago inavvertito o un frusciare

non più domestico nell’erba, ogni cosa è muta
ma parlando più di ogni altro dire

tornano da un’aldilà remoto una paura
di colori mai visti.

Perchè tutto arrivi a giusta perfezione
mancano lamine sbrecciate

lo scintillio delle lamiere piegate
(tu che ami la bellezza che non c’è)

e nascosti battiti di ciglia –

il duro sentire dell’amore degli altri.
Close

Where Everything

Here is where everything
appears more truthful than any truth

between the trees and grass and sun-dried hay
in a landscape of moles, of holes

and little mounds of earth where a stream of water brings mud and manure
to pupils blinded by the dark. Here is the silence

of crickets, the dark circle of a spent fire,

a slender metal barrier
(a rusting black defence)

still holds the tennis court’s rectangle. Whole gaps

innocently let in the sun –
but this morning it’s overcast, low threatening cloud in the distance,

a feeling of clamour lingering in the air
as after a battle.

Right at the bottom there’s the basketball court half submerged
by precocious jungle, white seats

and cement of the tennis court that dominated the vision with an
intense violet
in a fleeting coming and going of unexpected guests.

Scarlet creeper’s wound faithfully around the fences,
the crazy grasses – the wild ones – the ones that sting,

have constructed an undisturbed environment
in an idyll where there’s no peace, where everything curls under everything.

Gently among the branches, slender as an eye of light caught by the sun,
an unintentional noise of string or the no longer domestic

rustle in the grass, everything is deadened
but, speaking greater than any other speech,

they return from a remote after-life, a fear
of colours never seen.

So that everything can achieve at the right perfection,
gaps are missing in the sheeting,

the glitter of sheet metal bent
(you who love a beauty that’s not there)

and hidden flutters of eyelashes –

the harsh feel of others’ love.

Where Everything

Here is where everything
appears more truthful than any truth

between the trees and grass and sun-dried hay
in a landscape of moles, of holes

and little mounds of earth where a stream of water brings mud and manure
to pupils blinded by the dark. Here is the silence

of crickets, the dark circle of a spent fire,

a slender metal barrier
(a rusting black defence)

still holds the tennis court’s rectangle. Whole gaps

innocently let in the sun –
but this morning it’s overcast, low threatening cloud in the distance,

a feeling of clamour lingering in the air
as after a battle.

Right at the bottom there’s the basketball court half submerged
by precocious jungle, white seats

and cement of the tennis court that dominated the vision with an
intense violet
in a fleeting coming and going of unexpected guests.

Scarlet creeper’s wound faithfully around the fences,
the crazy grasses – the wild ones – the ones that sting,

have constructed an undisturbed environment
in an idyll where there’s no peace, where everything curls under everything.

Gently among the branches, slender as an eye of light caught by the sun,
an unintentional noise of string or the no longer domestic

rustle in the grass, everything is deadened
but, speaking greater than any other speech,

they return from a remote after-life, a fear
of colours never seen.

So that everything can achieve at the right perfection,
gaps are missing in the sheeting,

the glitter of sheet metal bent
(you who love a beauty that’s not there)

and hidden flutters of eyelashes –

the harsh feel of others’ love.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère