Word

Word

S.Quasimodo

Pic from here

You laugh at me, flaying myself for words,
bending around me in the straining elms,
the blue edge of skies and hills
and quivering waters’ voices,
wiling my youth
with clouds and hues
the light submerges.

I know you. Waylost in you
beauty lifts your breasts,
scoops to your hips and in gentle sweep
spreads over you shy sex,
flows down in harmony of forms
to the ten shells of your lovely feet.

But wait; if i take you,
you too become word to me, and sadness.

Salvatore Quasimodo – Traslation by Jack Bevan

This is one of the best poems I ever read. Better: one of my favourite poems.

So sensual and so sad both. Almost densperated. That “I know you” (Ti so in the original Italian version) bring us into a deep intimacy and meantime into an immense sadness.

Those two last lines are almost unberable and filled with a so great pain… Well, rereading it in these so strange days makes me understand better the poet and feel a sharp melancholy.

Original version (Italian)

Parola

Tu ridi che per sillabe mi scarno
e curvo cieli e colli, azzurra siepe
a me d’intorno, e stomir d’olmi
e voci d’acque trepide;
che giovinezza inganno
con nuvole e colori
che la luce sprofonda.

Ti so. In te tutta smarrita
alza bellezza i seni,
s’incava ai lombi e in soave moto
s’allarga per il pube timoroso,
e ridiscende in armonia di forme
ai piedi belli con dieci conchiglie.

Ma se ti prendo, ecco:
parola tu pure mi sei e tristezza.

Bad strong coffee

crema-for-espresso.jpg

Pic from here

Strong black coffee I drank.
Now my mouth tastes bitter and thus
other lips would find testing my ones

To stand up, to be really upright
in this so weird, ill and naughty world
I need hugs and too cuddles: so blight
drops and I can be better than odd

No one can stand up, upright alone
each of us is just only a poor thing
our lives are all like a weak moan
we are as bird without any wing

Human beings … are such some poor thing
women, men, always thus: error prone
enough fragile to fall down, to cling
each day to someone else as a stone

Strong black coffee I am.
Like my mouth, tastes bitter me too.
Other lips wouldn’t test my ones more

SL, Elven Forest. June, 10th 2022

Pentecost strong wind

vento-in-montagna_cosc3a8-800x532-1

Pic from here

This strong wind now is ruffling
each leaf of any tree and sweeps up
my hair too. There’s a wave
made by freshness that strikes all my world

You are strong wind perturbing
every day my life and you sweep up
my sad being. You’re a wave
made by sweetness, comforting my world

Like a strong wind you’re ruffling
every leaf, every day and replace
my thoughts too. Your sweet wave
moves to love: you’re my world

But your strong wind is thinning
days and things to themselves and trips up
my conscience. Be a wave
again, go toward God and his world

You, my strong wind, don’t take
each aspect of my life, so please break
this my evil and be you the wave
that directs my old keel the world

June, 4th 2022

Italian version

Eros

amplesso-stefania-nicolini-600x799-1

Paint by Stefania Nicolini

I feel softness and urge takes my chest,
need to see your skin and to touch you
without fabric in between; dismay
into your gloomy eyes could calm down

I still crave love from you and your flesh
even modest I want lead to tense
up to a powerful shiver; your hands
come onto me, to frisk me everywhere

I am yours. Without veils I await
you, your lips cover through all the body
I give you. You drive me to that spasm
I yearn for, so maybe anguish breaks

My breast gives itself to you as well
my mouth and my round navel and my
narrow hole that makes female your wife.
You fill sweetness with love

We came to our evening, yet I
want you as when I gave myself to
you first time and we were really one:
body, soul, eyes and I was twenty

My first embrace was clumsy because
inexpert, we discovered flesh.
Our life then mutated its course.
Bring me to God again: I love you

Give me peace, restore me again, more;
I’m more wrinkled respect at that time
but expert. Love gasp takes me indeed;
You give me only each thing and we

will be concert

May, 29th 2022

Italian version

Breath me, by Sia

Breath me

Sia Kate Isobelle Furler

sia-1

Pic from here

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there’s no-one else to blame

Be my friend, hold me
Wrap me up, enfold me
I am small and needy
Warm me up and breathe me

Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found
Yeah I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Be my friend,…

 

 

May, 8th 2022

 

Ser poeta, by Florbela Espanca

Ser poeta
F. Espanca

Pic from here

To be a poet is to be loftier, to be greater
To be greater than men! To bite like those who kiss!
To be a beggar and to give like he who is
King of the Kingdom of the Nearby and Faraway Pains!

To be a poet is to have the splendor a thousand desires
And to not even know what one wants!
To have here deep within a star that burns bright,
To have the talons and the wings of a condor!

To be a poet is to hunger, to thirst for the Infinite!
For helm, the mornings of gold and satin…
To be a poet is to condense the world into one sole shout!

And to love you, thus, madly…
To be a poet is to be the soul and the blood and the life in me
And to proclaim it to all the world, singing!

Florbela Espanca

Original version (Portuguese)

Ser poeta

Ser poeta é ser mais alto, é ser maior
Do que os homens! Morder como quem beija!
É ser mendigo e dar como quem seja
rei do reino de aquém e de além dor!

É ter de mil desejos o esplendos
e não saber sequer que se deseja!
É ter cá dentro um astro que flameja,
è ter garras e asas de condor!

É ter fome, é ter sede de Infinito!
Por elmo, as manhãs de oiro e cetim…
É condensar o mundo num só grito!

E é amar-te assim perdidamente…
É seres alma e sangue e vida em mim
E dizê-lo cantando a toda a gente!

https://youtu.be/DzeD-fO3DcM

I see

DSCN1892-min

JB, February 2020

I see turgors in grass in my garden
waiting for spring and their life explosion
I see lizards enjoying firsts warm suns
stretching bodies to taste their new lives

I see bees looking for early flowers
to prepare their next lives at this time
after winter’s blind darkness. Sleep. Cold.
I see nature that wants to be alive

I feel turgors in my lazy soul
I see tulips now ready to burst.
My two lips are so dried after winter
with no flesh love. I’m puzzled again

I see wars also in Europe where we
lost real freedom denying view of truth
looking for power, money. Nonsenses.
Where messiahs are now kings so proud. Fakes.

I see mankind so weak, I see sins
everywhere, in my soul, in each one.
Our fight against faith brought those fruits
under so lovely blue deep nice skies

I see people alone in their cages
built by evil and alien bad strengths
against peace, Beauty, sense. Against God.
After this so long Lent we need more

February, 28th 2022

Itch ‘n wish

s-l1600

I got this photo here.

Well: this is Wish 2, (very!) less serious than the previous one. It’s only a play, a joke. Is it?. Please, refer to the pic to fully understand its title. LOL.

I wish to be wish
as a witch you can catch
in a wood, near that birch
which loves a hard, tall beech
while we can see a bitch
going fast to a beach

I’m emotions and skin, I’m an itch
and my body wants twitch
among your hands: bewitch
me.

My flesh is like a glitch
as an old broken kitsch.
Take me, fill my deep niche:
I want feel that sweet stitch.

You can make me to switch
so my joy grows so rich

Helpless, I’m part of us.
Don’t you let I unhitch

February, 18th 2022

The Seventh, by József Attila

The Seventh
J. Attila

Pic from here

If you set out in this world,
better be born seven times.
Once, in a house on fire,
once, in a freezing flood,
once, in a wild madhouse,
once, in a field of ripe wheat,
once, in an empty cloister,
and once among pigs in sty.
Six babes crying, not enough:
you yourself must be the seventh.

When you must fight to survive,
let your enemy see seven.
One, away from work on Sunday,
one, starting his work on Monday,
one, who teaches without payment,
one, who learned to swim by drowning,
one, who is the seed of a forest,
and one, whom wild forefathers protect,
but all their tricks are not enough:
you yourself must be the seventh.

If you want to find a woman,
let seven men go for her.
One, who gives heart for words,
one, who takes care of himself,
one, who claims to be a dreamer,
one, who through her skirt can feel her,
one, who knows the hooks and snaps,
one, who steps upon her scarf:
let them buzz like flies around her.
You yourself must be the seventh.

If you write and can afford it,
let seven men write your poem.
One, who builds a marble village,
one, who was born in his sleep,
one, who charts the sky and knows it,
one, whom words call by his name,
one, who perfected his soul,
one, who dissects living rats.
Two are brave and four are wise;
You yourself must be the seventh.

And if all went as was written,
you will die for seven men.
One, who is rocked and suckled,
one, who grabs a hard young breast,
one, who throws down empty dishes,
one, who helps the poor win;
one, who worked till he goes to pieces,
one, who just stares at the moon.
The world will be your tombstone:
you yourself must be the seventh.

József Attila

Original version (Hungarian)

A hetedik

E világon ha ütsz tanyát,
hétszer szűljön meg az anyád!
Egyszer szűljön égő házban,
egyszer jeges áradásban,
egyszer bolondok házában,
egyszer hajló, szép búzában,
egyszer kongó kolostorban,
egyszer disznók közt az ólban.
Fölsír a hat, de mire mégy?
A hetedik te magad légy!

Ellenség ha elődbe áll,
hét legyen, kit előtalál.
Egy, ki kezdi szabad napját,
egy, ki végzi szolgálatját,
egy, ki népet ingyen oktat,
egy, kit úszni vízbe dobtak,
egy, ki magva erdőségnek,
egy, kit őse bőgve védett,
csellel, gánccsal mind nem elég, –
a hetedik te magad légy!

Szerető után ha járnál,
hét legyen, ki lány után jár.
Egy, ki szivet ad szaváért,
egy, ki megfizet magáért,
egy, ki a merengőt adja,
egy, ki a szoknyát kutatja,
egy, ki tudja, hol a kapocs,
egy, ki kendőcskére tapos, –
dongják körül, mint húst a légy!
A hetedik te magad légy.

Ha költenél s van rá költség,
azt a verset heten költsék.
Egy, ki márványból rak falut,
egy, ki mikor szűlték, aludt,
egy, ki eget mér és bólint,
egy, kit a szó nevén szólít,
egy, ki lelkét üti nyélbe,
egy, ki patkányt boncol élve.
Kettő vitéz és tudós négy, –
a hetedik te magad légy.

S ha mindez volt, ahogy írva,
hét emberként szállj a sírba.
Egy, kit tejes kebel ringat,
egy, ki kemény mell után kap,
egy, ki elvet üres edényt,
egy, ki győzni segít szegényt,
egy, ki dolgozik bomolva,
egy, aki csak néz a Holdra:
Világ sírköve alatt mégy!
A hetedik te magad légy.

My friend Sharrow told me that she sees relationships between my stuff “Wish” and this poem by J.Attila; she also proposed me a different translation of the last verse of each stanza: “You to be the seventh, yourself!”; really I like more her versione.

She also shared me a song using Attila’s poem as lyric, this one.

I think this interesting Hungarian poet should be better known!

Thank you Sharrow.

Wish

wish

JB, Elven Forest, today

When the night quickly comes like a ghost,
a dark velvet or silence, old veil
often bringing us pain memories …
I wish to be your wish and desire

When the moon rises so large and white
like a girl in love yet pure and chaste
and we feel to be such a poor thing …
I too wish to be wish and desire

When my purple spreads through all my neck
and my cheeks and elsewhere too
there where you want to touch my shy skin …
I must be your wish and your desire

When the fog deletes trees and each thing
in this world and we are like blind cats
without home, with no sense and no hope …
I want to be your wish and desire

When the death strikes so hard just near us
stealing from us what we need so much
and I shiver with fear and with cold …
I need to be your wish and desire

January, 1st 2022

My dear friend Terry made this beautiful photo after she read my words:

wish_terry