Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Roberto Amato

This past night I found myself drowning in quicksand

This past night I found myself drowning in quicksand
the bed
kept falling to one side
and there was no safety even on the deck of the pillow
where she who thought she was sailing
towards Jerusalem
kept standing on the tips of her toes
and stretching her arms crucified like a tree
and letting the wind billow her muslin nightdress
(she has always been obsessed with ships and voyages)

         this past night I was thinking
         that Venice is not on the water: the sky is reflected
         in the desert
         (that’s how a mirage works) the hot air rises
         and ripples
         and the light (some say) is refracted
         that’s how gondoliers are created
         and the houses that sway back and forth

         and then there are the trees that grow on the bottom
         of the lagoon
         and the leaves
         sometimes unravel in the currents
         like the waves in Evelina’s hair

Ik groef vannacht in beweeglijke zandmassa’s

Ik groef vannacht in beweeglijke zandmassa’s
het bed
zakte door naar één kant
er was geen redding mogelijk, zelfs niet langs de brug van het hoofdkussen
waar zij dacht te navigeren
richting Jeruzalem
ze richtte zich op, ging op haar tenen staan
nam de positie van een kruis aan, net als een boom
en liet toe dat de wind haar blouse van mousseline liet opbollen
(ze was altijd al gek op schepen en reizen)

           afgelopen nacht bedacht ik
           dat Venetië niet op het water drijft: de hemel weerspiegelt zich
           in de woestijn
           (dat is het effect van een luchtspiegeling) warme lucht stijgt op
           en krinkelt
           en het licht (zeggen ze) breekt
           zo vormen zich gondeliers
           en deinende huizen

           en dan heb je nog bomen die groeien op de bodem
           van de lagune
           en bladeren
           die opgaan in de stroming
           zoals de golvende haren van Evelina

Io questa notte sprofondavo nelle sabbie mobili
il letto
si piegava su un fianco
e non c’era salvezza nemmeno sulla tolda del guanciale
dove lei che credeva di navigare
verso Gerusalemme
si sollevava sulle punte dei piedi
e si metteva in croce come un albero
e lasciava che il vento le gonfiasse la camicia di mussola
(ha sempre avuto questa mania delle navi e dei viaggi)

         questa notte pensavo
         che Venezia non è sull’acqua: il cielo si riflette
         nel deserto
         (così funzionano i miraggi) l’aria calda si alza
         e si increspa
         e la luce (dicono) ha queste rifrazioni
         così si formano i gondolieri
         e le case che dondolano

        e poi ci sono gli alberi che crescono sul
        fondo della laguna
        e le foglie
        qualche volta si sciolgono alle correnti
        come i capelli mossi di Evelina
Close

This past night I found myself drowning in quicksand

This past night I found myself drowning in quicksand
the bed
kept falling to one side
and there was no safety even on the deck of the pillow
where she who thought she was sailing
towards Jerusalem
kept standing on the tips of her toes
and stretching her arms crucified like a tree
and letting the wind billow her muslin nightdress
(she has always been obsessed with ships and voyages)

         this past night I was thinking
         that Venice is not on the water: the sky is reflected
         in the desert
         (that’s how a mirage works) the hot air rises
         and ripples
         and the light (some say) is refracted
         that’s how gondoliers are created
         and the houses that sway back and forth

         and then there are the trees that grow on the bottom
         of the lagoon
         and the leaves
         sometimes unravel in the currents
         like the waves in Evelina’s hair

This past night I found myself drowning in quicksand

This past night I found myself drowning in quicksand
the bed
kept falling to one side
and there was no safety even on the deck of the pillow
where she who thought she was sailing
towards Jerusalem
kept standing on the tips of her toes
and stretching her arms crucified like a tree
and letting the wind billow her muslin nightdress
(she has always been obsessed with ships and voyages)

         this past night I was thinking
         that Venice is not on the water: the sky is reflected
         in the desert
         (that’s how a mirage works) the hot air rises
         and ripples
         and the light (some say) is refracted
         that’s how gondoliers are created
         and the houses that sway back and forth

         and then there are the trees that grow on the bottom
         of the lagoon
         and the leaves
         sometimes unravel in the currents
         like the waves in Evelina’s hair
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