Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Davide Rondoni

New York

                Central Park, end of fall, trees
of electric silk and the color of blood
in the cold blue of the sky which rise
open

then slowly turn off
            shadow
that is coming, air
that is darkening

And the frozen crown
of the skyscrapers begins to shine
over the darker crowd in the streets.

I ask Oonagh: why do wear your hair like this,
gray at thirty
But dancing she moves the ashes of her head
and her unthinkable sky-blue eyes
draws a magic circle
around Manhattan, makes a fire of herself
and spreads her arms, oars, wings

in the ocean of the evening voices.

You hear her cry out of invisible boats.
In the dark bay.

New York

New York

                                         Central Park, fine autunno, alberi
di seta elettrica e color sangue
nel freddo azzurro del cielo che salgono
si aprono

poi piano che si spengono,
                       ombra
che sta venendo, aria
che si oscura.

E inizia a splendere la corona  
ghiacciata dei grattacieli
sulla folla più cupa nelle strade.

Io chiedo a Oonagh: perché tieni i capelli così,
grigi a trent’anni.
Ma lei ballando muove la cenere della testa
e gli occhi celesti impensabili
fa un cerchio magico  
a Manhattan, fa di sé un incendio
e apre braccia, remi, ali

nell’oceano delle voci della sera.

Senti che grida di barche invisibili.
Nella baia nera.
Close

New York

                Central Park, end of fall, trees
of electric silk and the color of blood
in the cold blue of the sky which rise
open

then slowly turn off
            shadow
that is coming, air
that is darkening

And the frozen crown
of the skyscrapers begins to shine
over the darker crowd in the streets.

I ask Oonagh: why do wear your hair like this,
gray at thirty
But dancing she moves the ashes of her head
and her unthinkable sky-blue eyes
draws a magic circle
around Manhattan, makes a fire of herself
and spreads her arms, oars, wings

in the ocean of the evening voices.

You hear her cry out of invisible boats.
In the dark bay.

New York

                Central Park, end of fall, trees
of electric silk and the color of blood
in the cold blue of the sky which rise
open

then slowly turn off
            shadow
that is coming, air
that is darkening

And the frozen crown
of the skyscrapers begins to shine
over the darker crowd in the streets.

I ask Oonagh: why do wear your hair like this,
gray at thirty
But dancing she moves the ashes of her head
and her unthinkable sky-blue eyes
draws a magic circle
around Manhattan, makes a fire of herself
and spreads her arms, oars, wings

in the ocean of the evening voices.

You hear her cry out of invisible boats.
In the dark bay.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère