Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Antonella Anedda

Earth

Round, frozen in its oceans, transparent
like a cell under the microscope
or horizontal with mountains planted firmly above fields
with the tongue of rivers and the stretched out sea.

Every now and then I have an inkling of vertigo:
we’re turning faster. Asleep, I cry out “I’m falling”
and then I feel space, blackness, the stars at the nape of my neck,
fear which vomits forth a thousand spheres.

“Oh that would be hell” you say and doze off.
So I meditate on hell. It’s enough if the curtain’s weight
tugs the rings along the glass . . . with precision I see:
the marching of a line of ants, the vast starry night.

I try to take hold of hell by its border
(a strip of black, emptiness, fear)
to make it whirl in the courtyard as the fir-tree does in the sky
to become the insect that I’ve always been:
that’s born and forgets itself in the air.

Una terra

Una terra

Tonda, gelida dei suoi oceani, trasparente
come una cellula sotto il microscopio
eppure orizzontale
con monti posati saldamente sopra i prati
con la lingua dei fiumi e il mare steso.

Solo a volte sospetto la vertigine:
ruotiamo più veloci. Dormendo grido “cado”
e là sento lo spazio, il nero, le stelle sulla nuca
lo spavento che vomita se stesso in mille sfere.

“Oh quello è l’inferno”, dici e ti addormenti.
Medito sull’inferno allora. Basta che muova il peso della tenda
facendo scorrere gli
anelli lungo il vetro. Vedo con esattezza:
un filo di formiche, la loro marcia, la grande notte stellata.

Provo a prendere l’inferno per un lembo (un po’ di nero, il vuoto, lo spavento)
per
farlo vorticare nel cortile
perché l’abete ruoti fino al cielo
per essere l’insetto che sono sempre stata:
che nasce e si dimentica nell’aria.
Close

Earth

Round, frozen in its oceans, transparent
like a cell under the microscope
or horizontal with mountains planted firmly above fields
with the tongue of rivers and the stretched out sea.

Every now and then I have an inkling of vertigo:
we’re turning faster. Asleep, I cry out “I’m falling”
and then I feel space, blackness, the stars at the nape of my neck,
fear which vomits forth a thousand spheres.

“Oh that would be hell” you say and doze off.
So I meditate on hell. It’s enough if the curtain’s weight
tugs the rings along the glass . . . with precision I see:
the marching of a line of ants, the vast starry night.

I try to take hold of hell by its border
(a strip of black, emptiness, fear)
to make it whirl in the courtyard as the fir-tree does in the sky
to become the insect that I’ve always been:
that’s born and forgets itself in the air.

Earth

Round, frozen in its oceans, transparent
like a cell under the microscope
or horizontal with mountains planted firmly above fields
with the tongue of rivers and the stretched out sea.

Every now and then I have an inkling of vertigo:
we’re turning faster. Asleep, I cry out “I’m falling”
and then I feel space, blackness, the stars at the nape of my neck,
fear which vomits forth a thousand spheres.

“Oh that would be hell” you say and doze off.
So I meditate on hell. It’s enough if the curtain’s weight
tugs the rings along the glass . . . with precision I see:
the marching of a line of ants, the vast starry night.

I try to take hold of hell by its border
(a strip of black, emptiness, fear)
to make it whirl in the courtyard as the fir-tree does in the sky
to become the insect that I’ve always been:
that’s born and forgets itself in the air.
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