Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Silvia Bre

That all this meaning exists and gets lost

That all this meaning exists and gets lost
is told by memory which vanishes
the ever-changing turmoil that makes you cry
the foaming that shines on top
of some consonants
and by the gaze that attenuates all
of Morandi’s bottles, the Base of the World
that erases the fatigue of exhibiting oneself            
and the question unanswered,
seven minutes of eternal discordance
and every single line by Giorgio Agamben
– scattered things that have come to combine
gestures of others who are about to leave –
I think of the shoes worn by Vincent
of Alfonso’s black figures in procession
in front of the massacre of his innocence
like lieges honoring a king
of the one who clearly preferred not to
of Artaud’s missing teeth
I think of Rimbaud, that storm
which has lost its meaning also for me.

That all this meaning exists and gets lost

Che tutto questo senso c’è e va perso
lo dice la memoria che svapora
il turbinio cangiante che fa piangere
lo schiumare che brilla in cima
a qualche consonante
e il guardare che assottiglia tutte
le bottiglie di Morandi, lo Zoccolo del Mondo
che annulla la fatica di esibirsi
e la domanda unanswered,
sette minuti di eterna discordanza
e ogni singola riga di Giorgio Agamben
– cose sparse venute a tenersi
gesti d’altri sul punto di andare –
penso alle scarpe portate da Vincent
alle nere figure di Alfonso in processione
davanti all strage della sua innocenza
come sudditi in onore di un re
a chi lampante preferiva il no
ai buchi tra i denti di Artaud
penso a Rimbaud, quel temporale
che ha smesso di parlare anche per me.
Close

That all this meaning exists and gets lost

That all this meaning exists and gets lost
is told by memory which vanishes
the ever-changing turmoil that makes you cry
the foaming that shines on top
of some consonants
and by the gaze that attenuates all
of Morandi’s bottles, the Base of the World
that erases the fatigue of exhibiting oneself            
and the question unanswered,
seven minutes of eternal discordance
and every single line by Giorgio Agamben
– scattered things that have come to combine
gestures of others who are about to leave –
I think of the shoes worn by Vincent
of Alfonso’s black figures in procession
in front of the massacre of his innocence
like lieges honoring a king
of the one who clearly preferred not to
of Artaud’s missing teeth
I think of Rimbaud, that storm
which has lost its meaning also for me.

That all this meaning exists and gets lost

That all this meaning exists and gets lost
is told by memory which vanishes
the ever-changing turmoil that makes you cry
the foaming that shines on top
of some consonants
and by the gaze that attenuates all
of Morandi’s bottles, the Base of the World
that erases the fatigue of exhibiting oneself            
and the question unanswered,
seven minutes of eternal discordance
and every single line by Giorgio Agamben
– scattered things that have come to combine
gestures of others who are about to leave –
I think of the shoes worn by Vincent
of Alfonso’s black figures in procession
in front of the massacre of his innocence
like lieges honoring a king
of the one who clearly preferred not to
of Artaud’s missing teeth
I think of Rimbaud, that storm
which has lost its meaning also for me.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère