Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Roberto Baronti Marchiò

IN THE BASEMENT

I discover in the basement
the objects left years ago,
stored away as reminders.
The film ticket,
the map of London,
the sunglasses.
The memos, the notes
written hastily
to prevent them escaping
from one with my
own handwriting.

They were supposed to tell me something
but now they tell me nothing.
A wall of imprints
yellowed, torn, rusted.
A savana of objects and souvenirs.
They too have aged
and like me
have no memory.

But I continue to follow myself
along the steep paths
of distant memories
and in this velodrome
I chase a self
that is always in front of me
and see him in the distance
only from behind.

In cantina

In cantina

Ritrovo in cantina
gli oggetti lasciati anni fa,
riposti a memoria.
Il biglietto del cinema,
la cartina di Londra,
gli occhiali da sole.
Gli appunti, le note
scritte di fretta
per non farle fuggire
da uno con la mia
stessa grafia.

Dovevano dirmi qualcosa
ma ora non dicono niente.
Un muro di impronte
ingiallite, strappate, ossidate,
una savana di oggetti e ricordi.
Sono invecchiati anche loro
e come me
non hanno memoria.

Ma continuo a seguirmi
per i sentieri scoscesi
di distanti ricordi,
e in questo velodromo
inseguo un me stesso
che è sempre avanti
e vedo lontano
soltanto di schiena.
Close

IN THE BASEMENT

I discover in the basement
the objects left years ago,
stored away as reminders.
The film ticket,
the map of London,
the sunglasses.
The memos, the notes
written hastily
to prevent them escaping
from one with my
own handwriting.

They were supposed to tell me something
but now they tell me nothing.
A wall of imprints
yellowed, torn, rusted.
A savana of objects and souvenirs.
They too have aged
and like me
have no memory.

But I continue to follow myself
along the steep paths
of distant memories
and in this velodrome
I chase a self
that is always in front of me
and see him in the distance
only from behind.

IN THE BASEMENT

I discover in the basement
the objects left years ago,
stored away as reminders.
The film ticket,
the map of London,
the sunglasses.
The memos, the notes
written hastily
to prevent them escaping
from one with my
own handwriting.

They were supposed to tell me something
but now they tell me nothing.
A wall of imprints
yellowed, torn, rusted.
A savana of objects and souvenirs.
They too have aged
and like me
have no memory.

But I continue to follow myself
along the steep paths
of distant memories
and in this velodrome
I chase a self
that is always in front of me
and see him in the distance
only from behind.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère