Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Gian Mario Villalta

DEDICATION: 2.

The house open in the breath of the rain
and you imagine yourself naked in a blanket
of clouds, white, with no sign
of tenderness and earth
– and  you feel
like pressing your mind against the wood
and feel moved, in every severed fiber
like only wood could do.
Motionless  framed by the shutters
Sitting in the kitchen mindful outside.

Help me do without them:
these are the shoes,
here the crease in the strap
where you attached your watch, the card
with the thinned shadow of the keys.

Now even household
objects, spaces and movements,
are only repeated, like the gestures,
the phrases – in the rectangles
of rain there is no inside.
The sills. A dam of silence.

DEDICA: 2.

DEDICA: 2.

La casa aperta nel respiro della pioggia
e ci si pensa nudi dentro una coperta
di nubi, bianchi, senza un segno
di tenerezza e terra
– mentre viene
da premere la mente contro il legno
e commuovere, come solo il legno
potrebbe, ogni fibra tagliata.
Fermi nel riquadro delle imposte.
Seduti in cucina attenti fuori.

Aiutami a farne a meno:
queste sono le scarpe,
qui la piega del cinturino
dove allacciavi l’orologio, la tessera
con l’ombra assottigliata delle chiavi.

Adesso anche gli oggetti
di casa, gli spazi e i movimenti,
sono soltanto ripetuti, come i gesti,
le frasi – nei rettangoli
di pioggia non c’è un dentro.
I davanzali. Una diga di silenzio.
Close

DEDICATION: 2.

The house open in the breath of the rain
and you imagine yourself naked in a blanket
of clouds, white, with no sign
of tenderness and earth
– and  you feel
like pressing your mind against the wood
and feel moved, in every severed fiber
like only wood could do.
Motionless  framed by the shutters
Sitting in the kitchen mindful outside.

Help me do without them:
these are the shoes,
here the crease in the strap
where you attached your watch, the card
with the thinned shadow of the keys.

Now even household
objects, spaces and movements,
are only repeated, like the gestures,
the phrases – in the rectangles
of rain there is no inside.
The sills. A dam of silence.

DEDICATION: 2.

The house open in the breath of the rain
and you imagine yourself naked in a blanket
of clouds, white, with no sign
of tenderness and earth
– and  you feel
like pressing your mind against the wood
and feel moved, in every severed fiber
like only wood could do.
Motionless  framed by the shutters
Sitting in the kitchen mindful outside.

Help me do without them:
these are the shoes,
here the crease in the strap
where you attached your watch, the card
with the thinned shadow of the keys.

Now even household
objects, spaces and movements,
are only repeated, like the gestures,
the phrases – in the rectangles
of rain there is no inside.
The sills. A dam of silence.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère