Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Davide Rondoni

Towards Sansepolcro

Perhaps Piero della Francesca turning his gaze
already had in his eyes
            the fiery silk of videos
the pencilled face of the dead of the news
the dark crowd of youngsters in the streets on those nights
in which one looks for light for the black heart and
the glow of a lighter comes, the blue lamp
of a mobile,
and the street in waves in the dark
against the windshield
            the loneliness of a hand open against the window
on floor number ninety –

perhaps he already had our gaze, too
to be able to see in this light Sansepolcro
motionless in its ochre, in the open brown of its fields
and trembling  for the sea that comes
from the valley of Trasimeno and of Metauro,
Urbino on one side, Florence on the other

the resurrection as a movement
already begun in things –

            Life seeks a body, it knows
more than anybody else the young painter
who has the white fever,
he is implored by the flight that loses itself
in the evening, and the regret
that vehemently blows the words against the wall.

Piero who looks at Jesus, and Jesus
who looks at Piero
the resurrection is a face off
between God and his painter,

and the look of the boy is a fan
for us that on the highway
still linger in that turning around
and one almost wouldn’t believe

how calm this valley is
            the fire that is in the air
how clear it is here
            so clear the wind

Verso Sansepolcro

Verso Sansepolcro

Forse Piero della Francesca girando lo sguardo
aveva già negli occhi  
                     la seta infiammata dei video
il viso a lapis dei morti nel notiziario
la folla scura di ragazzi per le vie nelle notti
in cui si cerca luce per il cuore nero e viene
un bagliore di accendino, un lume
azzurro di telefonino,
e le strade a onde nel buio
contro il parabrezza
              la solitudine di una mano aperta sulle vetrate
al piano numero novanta –  

forse aveva già anche il nostro sguardo
per riuscire a vedere in questa luce Sansepolcro
ferma nelle sue ocre, nel bruno aperto dei suoi campi
e tremante per il mare che viene
dalla valle del Trasimeno e del Metauro,
da un lato Urbino, di là Firenze

la resurrezione come un movimento
già iniziato nelle cose –  

                                 La vita cerca un corpo, lo sa  
più di ogni altro il giovane pittore  
che ha la febbre bianca,
lo implora il volo che si perde
nella sera, e il rimpianto
che fa soffiare con veemenza le parole contro il muro.

Piero che guarda Gesù, e Gesù
che guarda Piero
la resurrezione è un faccia a faccia
tra Dio e il suo pittore,

e lo sguardo del ragazzo è un ventaglio  
fino a noi che sulla superstrada
sostiamo ancora in quel girarsi  
e quasi non si crede

a com’è serena questa valle
                   al fuoco che è nell’aria
e a come è chiaro qui,
                             così chiaro il vento
Close

Towards Sansepolcro

Perhaps Piero della Francesca turning his gaze
already had in his eyes
            the fiery silk of videos
the pencilled face of the dead of the news
the dark crowd of youngsters in the streets on those nights
in which one looks for light for the black heart and
the glow of a lighter comes, the blue lamp
of a mobile,
and the street in waves in the dark
against the windshield
            the loneliness of a hand open against the window
on floor number ninety –

perhaps he already had our gaze, too
to be able to see in this light Sansepolcro
motionless in its ochre, in the open brown of its fields
and trembling  for the sea that comes
from the valley of Trasimeno and of Metauro,
Urbino on one side, Florence on the other

the resurrection as a movement
already begun in things –

            Life seeks a body, it knows
more than anybody else the young painter
who has the white fever,
he is implored by the flight that loses itself
in the evening, and the regret
that vehemently blows the words against the wall.

Piero who looks at Jesus, and Jesus
who looks at Piero
the resurrection is a face off
between God and his painter,

and the look of the boy is a fan
for us that on the highway
still linger in that turning around
and one almost wouldn’t believe

how calm this valley is
            the fire that is in the air
how clear it is here
            so clear the wind

Towards Sansepolcro

Perhaps Piero della Francesca turning his gaze
already had in his eyes
            the fiery silk of videos
the pencilled face of the dead of the news
the dark crowd of youngsters in the streets on those nights
in which one looks for light for the black heart and
the glow of a lighter comes, the blue lamp
of a mobile,
and the street in waves in the dark
against the windshield
            the loneliness of a hand open against the window
on floor number ninety –

perhaps he already had our gaze, too
to be able to see in this light Sansepolcro
motionless in its ochre, in the open brown of its fields
and trembling  for the sea that comes
from the valley of Trasimeno and of Metauro,
Urbino on one side, Florence on the other

the resurrection as a movement
already begun in things –

            Life seeks a body, it knows
more than anybody else the young painter
who has the white fever,
he is implored by the flight that loses itself
in the evening, and the regret
that vehemently blows the words against the wall.

Piero who looks at Jesus, and Jesus
who looks at Piero
the resurrection is a face off
between God and his painter,

and the look of the boy is a fan
for us that on the highway
still linger in that turning around
and one almost wouldn’t believe

how calm this valley is
            the fire that is in the air
how clear it is here
            so clear the wind
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère