Poem
Gian Mario Villalta
DEDICATION: 4.
If really a web of thoughtsand time is that which ties us,
what does this iron dig
in a tissue that’s so light?
Thready voice, thread of breath
only keep them close.
Wool thread, milk thread
sew the white of the trees
and the fragile shadows of dawn all the way to the sound
of the water running, the uneven whispering of silverware
Copper thread – light!
Iron thread – twist!
Of this coming day on the wrists
leave a sign, on the ankles, tighten
where the cold invades.
A thread of phrases that bring the comfort
of a common stupidity.
Thread you who lose the number, the comparison
of places and seasons, that light
that burns our photos,
the shape of the forehead and the fingers
in my thoughts, thread
of blood, thread of cells, helix,
here: hands out to see
where the burn courts the metal,
where it is rough, broken
the junction of the sky and the house:
I was ashamed of my dialect,
I was ashamed of the Italian language –
of having live seed inside me
mute broken thread of darkness –
darker and darker inside the breath.
© Translation: 2004, Gabriele Poole
DEDICA: 4.
DEDICA: 4.
Se è davvero una trama di pensierie di tempo che ci lega,
che cosa scava questo ferro
dentro un tessuto così leggero?
Filo di voce, filo di fiato
solo tieni vicini.
Filo di lana, filo di latte
cuci il bianco degli alberi
e le ombre fragili dell’alba fino al suono
dell’acqua che scorre, al bisbiglio ineguale delle stoviglie.
Filo di rame – accendi!
Filo di ferro – attorci!
Di questo giorno che viene sui polsi
lascia un segno, sulle caviglie, stringi
dove il freddo invade.
Filo di frasi che portano il conforto
di una stupidità comune.
Filo che perdi il numero, il confronto
dei posti e le stagioni, quella luce
che brucia le nostre foto,
la forma della fronte e delle dita
nei miei pensieri, filo
di sangue, filo di cellule, elica,
ecco: le mani fuori per vedere
dove l’ustione corteggia il metallo,
dove è ruvida, rotta
la giuntura del cielo e la casa:
mi vergognavo del mio dialetto,
mi vergognavo della lingua italiana –
di avere seme vivo dentro di me
muto rotto filo di buio –
sempre più buio dentro il respiro.
© 2004, Gian Mario Villalta
Poems
Poems of Gian Mario Villalta
Close
DEDICATION: 4.
If really a web of thoughtsand time is that which ties us,
what does this iron dig
in a tissue that’s so light?
Thready voice, thread of breath
only keep them close.
Wool thread, milk thread
sew the white of the trees
and the fragile shadows of dawn all the way to the sound
of the water running, the uneven whispering of silverware
Copper thread – light!
Iron thread – twist!
Of this coming day on the wrists
leave a sign, on the ankles, tighten
where the cold invades.
A thread of phrases that bring the comfort
of a common stupidity.
Thread you who lose the number, the comparison
of places and seasons, that light
that burns our photos,
the shape of the forehead and the fingers
in my thoughts, thread
of blood, thread of cells, helix,
here: hands out to see
where the burn courts the metal,
where it is rough, broken
the junction of the sky and the house:
I was ashamed of my dialect,
I was ashamed of the Italian language –
of having live seed inside me
mute broken thread of darkness –
darker and darker inside the breath.
© 2004, Gabriele Poole
DEDICATION: 4.
If really a web of thoughtsand time is that which ties us,
what does this iron dig
in a tissue that’s so light?
Thready voice, thread of breath
only keep them close.
Wool thread, milk thread
sew the white of the trees
and the fragile shadows of dawn all the way to the sound
of the water running, the uneven whispering of silverware
Copper thread – light!
Iron thread – twist!
Of this coming day on the wrists
leave a sign, on the ankles, tighten
where the cold invades.
A thread of phrases that bring the comfort
of a common stupidity.
Thread you who lose the number, the comparison
of places and seasons, that light
that burns our photos,
the shape of the forehead and the fingers
in my thoughts, thread
of blood, thread of cells, helix,
here: hands out to see
where the burn courts the metal,
where it is rough, broken
the junction of the sky and the house:
I was ashamed of my dialect,
I was ashamed of the Italian language –
of having live seed inside me
mute broken thread of darkness –
darker and darker inside the breath.
© 2004, Gabriele Poole
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