Matteo BIANCHI
TRADUZIONI
da FISCHI DI MERLO
There’s no relief
for this our end,
Silvia,
Together we’ll
at least be one
with our
disenchanted
second guesses.
*
You looked me over from the feet upwards
– strangely enough –
tenderly empty, your eyes
dunked in illness.
This has no pity,
it’d be a never-ending world
it’d be too good to be true.
You must get out of the scrum!
Grope, struggle
dragged by the collar,
if necessary.
A haze won’t wait,
dismal, it knocks at the door
that spins in the rush.
There’s a crowd at the entrance
pressed by life
under the weight of this extreme,
strange beggared existence.
– You didn’t let me in –
didn’t open up, switched off …
maybe you were jealous
of my staying through time
always the same, careful
before the mirror
of childhood … so what,
we even removed the constancy
of loving each other,
to hold each other in time
bizarre …- I underplay –
I struggle to recognise your soul.
I’ve discarded cigarettes.
I can throw away Now.
For Adriana
*
It’s all about the heart,
and being anxious to understand each other
and the daily disquiet.
Even the smoke from the last cigarette
forcibly exhaled
before sleep…
a bit player in a novel
drawers us into the background.
His. An unseen spasm…
Squashed between fingers,
a dog end alights
on the remains of a plant
ruined from the roots:
instantly it’s fire. Possibly.
If it weren’t for the frost
that beat us by the clock.
You stagger, and confusion
wins the night.
I repeat, though, it’s only smoke
and it can be blown away.
Were it not for the discomfort in it’s kick.
Melancholy.
*
The empathy that drives me to Him, a true compassion ferried along in the course of several sleepless nights, much want, and many a poultice of philosophy, is his presence being un-interchangeable with mine: he has become, and has been always, inseparable from me. But only now do I see him as such, clearly: being the prey of my own impatience, coughing up a sleeping self unknown to me; in this order – imposed by the butler! – in a city, mine, in which fog is really the dust of neglect, in this lack of focus, of new blood. I feel haunted enough to undermine them all.
one among many,
Henry Jekyll
(Translations by Christopher Channing, http://www.chrischanning.net/)
* *
Il neige Noël sur la mer.
Ici, sur la terre, tombe le ciel
Et le crépuscule nous submerge.
Je reste la bouche entr’ouverte
Pas de rive
Dans l’attente
D’un amarrage.
*
Une fleur, prends garde :
Ne croît pas à l’ombre du soleil.
Sans même se toucher.
Que sauront-ils l’un de l’autre?
Et pourtant du giron de pierre
Elle éclot tout pareil;
La terre est preuve d’amour.
En équilibre toujours,
Mais sur la tige.
*
Chasser du souffle les nuées
Des forêts de petit houx
Et en déchirer les tuniques du ciel…
Pourquoi?
Pour le sérum même des glaciers
Réduits à l’état de diamants,
Pour faire baisser la fièvre
D’avoir un «tiens»
Et non deux «tu l’auras».
*
Faisons ainsi:
Toi éteins la Lune,
Moi je recueille les tessons
D’étoiles explosées
Et je roule le ciel,
Persan de haute lice.
Ma Lune
S’est perdue.
Me reste
L’habituelle obscurité
Viciée
Et sur-viciée.
(Traductions de Antoine Isenbrandt-Pitton)