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.
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.
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
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!
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
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.
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!
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:
The skin of the angels 
