Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Roberto Amato

The water is as green as an infusion

The water is as green as an infusion
an overcooked nettle chowder: it was boiled for much too long
and for . . .
a time that was so interminable it can no longer
be measured
with the kitchen clocks

        of the fish not even the bones remain
        and the red of the plaster can do nothing but reflect
        itself in the blue canals – I tell the astonished
        the inattentive
        Evelina
        – where could all these houses dissolve?
        is there any place else?
        a different casserole?

        nothing is left of the world but this chowder
        of houses
        spiced with the black prow of a gondola
        and there is no animal nor man nor plant
        nor algae shaped like fish
        nor lichen nor mussel
        nor black claw
        that floats or grazes this
        water

Het water heeft de groene kleur van kruidenthee

Het water heeft de groene kleur van kruidenthee
een soep van tot moes gekookte brandnetels die te lang op het vuur heeft gestaan
en vanwege . . .
een oneindig opgeschorte tijd die niet meer
meetbaar is
met kookwekkers

         is zelfs de graat van de vissen stuk gekookt
         en het rood van het pleisterkalk kan zich
         alleen maar spiegelen in de hemelse grachten – ik zeg het tegen de
         perplexe
         verstrooide
         Evelina
         – waar zouden al deze huizen zich oplossen?
         is er een betere plek?
         een andere vuurvaste schaal?

         van de wereld is alleen deze groentesoep van huizen
         overgebleven
         gekruid met de zwarte hoorn van een gondel
         en er is geen dier, mens, plant
         of alg met het uiterlijk van een vis
         een korstmos of mossel
         een zwarte nagel
         die drijft of dit water bekrast

L’acqua è verde come un infuso
una minestra di ortiche sfatte: la bollitura è andata troppo oltre
e per . . .
un tempo infinitamente protratto che non è più
misurabile
dagli orologi delle cucine

         dei pesci non è rimasta neppure la lisca
         e il rosso degli intonaci non può che specchiarsi
         nei canali celesti – io lo dico all’attonita
         alla svagata
         Evelina
         – dove potrebbero sciogliersi tutte queste case?
         c’è un altro luogo?
         una pirofila diversa?

         del mondo non è rimasta che questa minestra
         di case
         speziata dal corno nero di una gondola
         e non c’è un animale un uomo o una pianta
         o un’alga dalla fattura di pesce
         un lichene o un mitilo
         un’unghia nera
         che galleggi o che graffi questa
         acqua
Close

The water is as green as an infusion

The water is as green as an infusion
an overcooked nettle chowder: it was boiled for much too long
and for . . .
a time that was so interminable it can no longer
be measured
with the kitchen clocks

        of the fish not even the bones remain
        and the red of the plaster can do nothing but reflect
        itself in the blue canals – I tell the astonished
        the inattentive
        Evelina
        – where could all these houses dissolve?
        is there any place else?
        a different casserole?

        nothing is left of the world but this chowder
        of houses
        spiced with the black prow of a gondola
        and there is no animal nor man nor plant
        nor algae shaped like fish
        nor lichen nor mussel
        nor black claw
        that floats or grazes this
        water

The water is as green as an infusion

The water is as green as an infusion
an overcooked nettle chowder: it was boiled for much too long
and for . . .
a time that was so interminable it can no longer
be measured
with the kitchen clocks

        of the fish not even the bones remain
        and the red of the plaster can do nothing but reflect
        itself in the blue canals – I tell the astonished
        the inattentive
        Evelina
        – where could all these houses dissolve?
        is there any place else?
        a different casserole?

        nothing is left of the world but this chowder
        of houses
        spiced with the black prow of a gondola
        and there is no animal nor man nor plant
        nor algae shaped like fish
        nor lichen nor mussel
        nor black claw
        that floats or grazes this
        water
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