Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Gian Mario Villalta

Passage from the East

Steel, thuds, fragments
water that cackles in the tubes
and deeper down the breath
redesigns the quadrant
behind the fittings that crowd
the room of the eyes and the sky
if it touches the earth
and the black line
that lacerates the voice on the door-step.

The iron of obtuse months – the crew
gossiping on the scaffolding –
of thirst that sucks the pulp
from the fruit of bitterness
always in furious haste and again
tolla,  I-beams, cement,
the loudspeaker, the light
of the questions while half-asleep,
another unnerved
to-and-fro on the scaffolding, until, not expected
again the sky of the puppies
those eyes to open the day
up to the hardened sods of the dark.

November sweet butcher
has a purple nipple, covers the mother
with the checkered tarpaulin

Passaggio da est

Passaggio da est

Acciaio, tonfi, cocci,
acqua che chioccia nei tubi
e più in fondo il respiro
ridisegna il quadrante
dietro gli arredi che affollano
la stanza degli occhi e il cielo
se tocca la terra
è la linea nera
che lacera la voce sulla soglia.

Il ferro di mesi ottusi – la ciurma
cianciante sull’impalcatura –
di sete che succhia la polpa
dal frutto dell’amarezza
sempre di furia e ancora
tolla, putrelle, calce,
l’altoparlante, la luce
delle domande nei dormiveglia,
un altro snervato
viavài sui ponteggi, finché, non atteso
di nuovo il cielo dei cuccioli
quegli occhi da schiudere l’oggi
fino alle zolle indurite di buio.

Novembre dolcissimo macellaio
ha un capezzolo viola, ricopre la madre
con l’incerata a quadretti.
Close

Passage from the East

Steel, thuds, fragments
water that cackles in the tubes
and deeper down the breath
redesigns the quadrant
behind the fittings that crowd
the room of the eyes and the sky
if it touches the earth
and the black line
that lacerates the voice on the door-step.

The iron of obtuse months – the crew
gossiping on the scaffolding –
of thirst that sucks the pulp
from the fruit of bitterness
always in furious haste and again
tolla,  I-beams, cement,
the loudspeaker, the light
of the questions while half-asleep,
another unnerved
to-and-fro on the scaffolding, until, not expected
again the sky of the puppies
those eyes to open the day
up to the hardened sods of the dark.

November sweet butcher
has a purple nipple, covers the mother
with the checkered tarpaulin

Passage from the East

Steel, thuds, fragments
water that cackles in the tubes
and deeper down the breath
redesigns the quadrant
behind the fittings that crowd
the room of the eyes and the sky
if it touches the earth
and the black line
that lacerates the voice on the door-step.

The iron of obtuse months – the crew
gossiping on the scaffolding –
of thirst that sucks the pulp
from the fruit of bitterness
always in furious haste and again
tolla,  I-beams, cement,
the loudspeaker, the light
of the questions while half-asleep,
another unnerved
to-and-fro on the scaffolding, until, not expected
again the sky of the puppies
those eyes to open the day
up to the hardened sods of the dark.

November sweet butcher
has a purple nipple, covers the mother
with the checkered tarpaulin
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
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