Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Roberto Amato

. . . and yet

. . .  and yet
it happens

when I put my hand
there
where you think you feel a kind of pain
but there’s really nothing. Or at least
I who feel nothing continue to observe the spot
where my finger has found air
or something even more transparent.

But what is it I wanted to tell you?
Is it possible that the words are so disconnected
or
I don’t know
lost between me and you
(allow me an unconscious metaphor)
like carrier pigeons that no-one can train…

. . . en toch

. . . en toch
gebeurt het

wanneer ik een hand op je leg
daar
waar je een eigenaardige pijn lijkt te voelen
en dan blijkt het niets te zijn. Of tenminste
ik die niets voel blijf kijken naar dat punt
waar mijn vinger de lucht raakt
of iets anders dat nog veel transparanter is.

Maar wat wilde ik je ook weer zeggen?
Is het mogelijk dat woorden zo ontkoppeld zijn
of
zou ik niet weten
hoe ze verloren gingen tussen jou en mij
(sta mij een onbewuste metafoor toe)
als postduiven die niemand weet af te richten . . .

… eppure
succede

quando ti metto una mano

dove ti sembra di sentire un dolore particolare
e invece non c’è nulla. O almeno
io che non sento niente resto a guardare
il punto dove il dito ha trovato l’aria
o una cosa ancora più trasparente.

Ma che volevo dirti?
Possibile che le parole siano così scollegate
o
non saprei
perse tra me e te
(permettimi una metafora incosciente)
come piccioni postali che nessuno sa ammaestrare . . .
Close

. . . and yet

. . .  and yet
it happens

when I put my hand
there
where you think you feel a kind of pain
but there’s really nothing. Or at least
I who feel nothing continue to observe the spot
where my finger has found air
or something even more transparent.

But what is it I wanted to tell you?
Is it possible that the words are so disconnected
or
I don’t know
lost between me and you
(allow me an unconscious metaphor)
like carrier pigeons that no-one can train…

. . . and yet

. . .  and yet
it happens

when I put my hand
there
where you think you feel a kind of pain
but there’s really nothing. Or at least
I who feel nothing continue to observe the spot
where my finger has found air
or something even more transparent.

But what is it I wanted to tell you?
Is it possible that the words are so disconnected
or
I don’t know
lost between me and you
(allow me an unconscious metaphor)
like carrier pigeons that no-one can train…
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