Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Antonella Anedda

III

Before supper, before the lamps warm the beds and the trees’
foliage absorbs the dark and the night’s abandoned. In the
curtailed space of dusk whole seasons pass by unrecognized. Then
the sky’s freighted with clouds and air-currents drum at
brambles and stumps. A storm shadow beats against the window
panes. Water drenches the shrubs and the animals stagger
over wet leaves. Pine shadows fall on the paving stones; the
water’s frozen – forest water. Time stays, disperses. Suddenly in the
solemn quiet of the avenues, in the hollow fountains, in
the pavilions lit up all night, the hospital has the blaze of
a St. Petersburg winter residence.


There’ll be a worse nightmare
half-closed between the day’s leaves
which will slam no door and the nails
hammered home when life began
will hardly bend.
There’ll be an assassin stretched out in the gallery,
his face between the sheets, the weapon at one side
Slowly the kitchen will open itself up
without the crash of broken glass
in the silence of a winter afernoon.
There’ll be no bile or bitterness, just
– for one moment – the crockery
will loom with a marine splendour.

Then will be the time to draw near, perhaps to climb up
there where the future narrows
to a shelf packet with jars,
to the capsized air of the courtyard
to the cramped flight of the goose
with the melancholy of a night-time skater
who knows how in that moment
the body aligns itself with the ice
so as to turn away, and go.

III

III

Prima di cena, prima che le lampade scaldino i letti e il fogliame
degli alberi sia verde-buio e la notte deserta. Nel breve spazio del
crepuscolo passano intere sconosciute stagioni; allora il cielo si carica
di nubi,  di correnti che sollevano ceppi e rovi. Contro i vetri della
finestra batte l’ombra di una misteriosa bufera. L’acqua rovescia i
cespugli, le bestie barcollano sulle foglie bagnate. L’ombra dei pini si
abbatte sui pavimenti; l’acqua è gelata, di foresta. Il tempo sosta,
dilegua. Di colpo, nella quiete solenne dei viali, nel vuoto delle
fontane, nei  padiglioni illuminati per tutta la notte, l’ospedale ha lo
sfolgorio di una pietroburghese residenza invernale.


Ci sarà un incubo peggiore
socchiuso tra i fogli dei giorni
non sbatterà nessuna porta
e i chiodi piantati all’inizio della vita
si piegheranno appena.
Ci sarà un assassino disteso sul ballatoio
il viso tra le lenzuola, l’arma posata di lato.
Lentamente si schiuderà la cucina
senza fragore di vetri infranti
nel silenzio del pomeriggio invernale.
Non sarà l’amarezza, né il rancore, solo
– per un attimo – le stoviglie
si faranno immense di splendore marino.

Allora occorrerà avvicinarsi, forse salire
là dove il futuro si restringe
alla mensola fitta di vasi
all’aria rovesciata del cortile
al volo senza slargo dell’oca,
con la malinconia del pattinatore notturno
che a un tratto conosce
il verso del corpo e del ghiaccio
voltarsi appena, andare.
Close

III

Before supper, before the lamps warm the beds and the trees’
foliage absorbs the dark and the night’s abandoned. In the
curtailed space of dusk whole seasons pass by unrecognized. Then
the sky’s freighted with clouds and air-currents drum at
brambles and stumps. A storm shadow beats against the window
panes. Water drenches the shrubs and the animals stagger
over wet leaves. Pine shadows fall on the paving stones; the
water’s frozen – forest water. Time stays, disperses. Suddenly in the
solemn quiet of the avenues, in the hollow fountains, in
the pavilions lit up all night, the hospital has the blaze of
a St. Petersburg winter residence.


There’ll be a worse nightmare
half-closed between the day’s leaves
which will slam no door and the nails
hammered home when life began
will hardly bend.
There’ll be an assassin stretched out in the gallery,
his face between the sheets, the weapon at one side
Slowly the kitchen will open itself up
without the crash of broken glass
in the silence of a winter afernoon.
There’ll be no bile or bitterness, just
– for one moment – the crockery
will loom with a marine splendour.

Then will be the time to draw near, perhaps to climb up
there where the future narrows
to a shelf packet with jars,
to the capsized air of the courtyard
to the cramped flight of the goose
with the melancholy of a night-time skater
who knows how in that moment
the body aligns itself with the ice
so as to turn away, and go.

III

Before supper, before the lamps warm the beds and the trees’
foliage absorbs the dark and the night’s abandoned. In the
curtailed space of dusk whole seasons pass by unrecognized. Then
the sky’s freighted with clouds and air-currents drum at
brambles and stumps. A storm shadow beats against the window
panes. Water drenches the shrubs and the animals stagger
over wet leaves. Pine shadows fall on the paving stones; the
water’s frozen – forest water. Time stays, disperses. Suddenly in the
solemn quiet of the avenues, in the hollow fountains, in
the pavilions lit up all night, the hospital has the blaze of
a St. Petersburg winter residence.


There’ll be a worse nightmare
half-closed between the day’s leaves
which will slam no door and the nails
hammered home when life began
will hardly bend.
There’ll be an assassin stretched out in the gallery,
his face between the sheets, the weapon at one side
Slowly the kitchen will open itself up
without the crash of broken glass
in the silence of a winter afernoon.
There’ll be no bile or bitterness, just
– for one moment – the crockery
will loom with a marine splendour.

Then will be the time to draw near, perhaps to climb up
there where the future narrows
to a shelf packet with jars,
to the capsized air of the courtyard
to the cramped flight of the goose
with the melancholy of a night-time skater
who knows how in that moment
the body aligns itself with the ice
so as to turn away, and go.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère