Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Davide Rondoni

An Italian Evening

The chequered tablecloth in the white  
light.
And in the evening.
               It would be enough to see
                       it is evening,
see it at all the tables
of the building
half littered from dinner
or empty with only the remote control
reflected in the blank screen.

It would be enough for the fists clenched without a glass
to open –  
         suddenly
they would turn over to beg
beating on the table
and on the flat bone of loneliness.

                     One would see
many men,
many men with their heads bent, thick
tongues,
       silent before the screen, in the white light,
of the evening.
Her goat muzzle, spring would
put it in those hands to graze,
confident.

Sera italiana

Sera italiana

La tovaglia quadrettata nella luce
bianca.
E nella sera.
                 Basterebbe vedere
                                          che è sera,
vederla a tutti i tavoli
del condominio
mezzo ingombri dalla cena
o spogli con su il telecomando
riflessi nel video spento.

Basterebbe ai pugni chiusi senza bicchiere
per aprirsi -
                  di scatto
si rovescerebbero a mendicare
battendo sul tavolo
e sull\'osso piatto della solitudine.

                                      Si vedrebbero
molti uomini,
molti uomini dalla fronte bassa, dalla grossa
lingua,
        muti ai video, alla luce bianca,
dentro la sera.
Il suo muso di capretta la primavera
metterebbe a brucare in quelle mani,
confidente.
Close

An Italian Evening

The chequered tablecloth in the white  
light.
And in the evening.
               It would be enough to see
                       it is evening,
see it at all the tables
of the building
half littered from dinner
or empty with only the remote control
reflected in the blank screen.

It would be enough for the fists clenched without a glass
to open –  
         suddenly
they would turn over to beg
beating on the table
and on the flat bone of loneliness.

                     One would see
many men,
many men with their heads bent, thick
tongues,
       silent before the screen, in the white light,
of the evening.
Her goat muzzle, spring would
put it in those hands to graze,
confident.

An Italian Evening

The chequered tablecloth in the white  
light.
And in the evening.
               It would be enough to see
                       it is evening,
see it at all the tables
of the building
half littered from dinner
or empty with only the remote control
reflected in the blank screen.

It would be enough for the fists clenched without a glass
to open –  
         suddenly
they would turn over to beg
beating on the table
and on the flat bone of loneliness.

                     One would see
many men,
many men with their heads bent, thick
tongues,
       silent before the screen, in the white light,
of the evening.
Her goat muzzle, spring would
put it in those hands to graze,
confident.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère