Just to be by you
I wish I were the dream
you forget upon awakening.
      ---------------------
Pour rester aupres de toi
je voudrais être le rêve
que tu oublies à ton réveil
      ----------------------
Con tal que pueda quedarme junto a tí
ser querría tu sueño
ese que al despertar olvidas.
      ----------------------
Только чтобы быть близко к тебе
Я хотел бы быть сном
Тем, что ты забыла впробуждении
      ----------------------

Numai ca sa-ti stau alaturi
as vrea sa fiu visul
ce-l uiti cand te trezesti

Now I have something mine:
your beautiful belly button
north cardinal point
of the primordial desire
icon of the rebel pleasure
eye of your skin
lash-less scoundrel
with a zucchini*-shaped cap
hostel or five-star hotel
skipping small bean
juicy little diamond of the eros
over the sugary gore.

*courgette
The kiss coming from your finger
is an alien signal.

emotion of the first contact.

wonder. want for feel.
amazement. want for all.
You are like the marble around the well
turning and turning but never falling
into the hole where pigeons drink.

even the finger pushing it you are and six times
I love you love you again and would love you in rhyming rimes.

that sweet time of the marble
                                glass iris in the round
can come back and it will.

[Note by the translator] = The poet is referring to a child’s play common in Venice, his town. Each child has his own personal marble, which should be pushed along a well border with two fingers without falling into the hole where pigeons always go and drink rainwater. These holes are usually also full of rubbish and if the marble falls in there, the owner has to take it out with his own hands.
Time flows through river sluices
we were there abstracted and
your and my face were winter portraits
facing west while my tachycardiac heart
and the back of your hands tingled
in vocative consonances.

in boundless rooms in mossy halls in crumbling holes
does not lie feeling but its contemplation.

lyric intuition pure crocean* intuition.

rebel inspiration originating
beautiful but lonely words
lonely words of sun.

* Benedetto Croce (1866-1952), Italian philosopher.
Let the dusk
swallow the milk-white clouds
move to the mirror so that you are reflected
in the orange disc of the day falling asleep.

from here I will see you like afrodite
like a divine vision taking my breath away.

I will breathe in deeply in order not to die
I will pray the exhausted sun
to get away from his sleep
thus I will be adoring you in a never-ending sunset.
To you sleeping beside me

A caress expected in the dark
made the room a moonlight night
for a while.
turn away so that you can’t hear me:
the sky is recalling tears
rousing ghosts sleeping in my prisons
behind saline water bars harder than steel.
is it just the beginning? just the beginning.
in the woods hanging in your eyes filled with blue consternation
I’m afraid an immutable farewell immutable winter dwells.

                                                                                 - good night -
Here all begins

Here all begins.
the comings and goings of faint sunsets
and of dark-sick sunrises
mark my children’s age.
living is like recovering
always: waiting
is the one remedy to madness.
or is like a pawnshop
where they lend you one third of good,
and every six months you renew your heart
for a helpless smile.
I realise I’m growing old
by settled loans,
by paid and unpaid bills
by higher and higher dental expenses
by car and boiler wear and tear
by scrape and win lottery useless cards
by evenings in web
seeking in the virtual the real.
I still trust you Leopardi,
but no more the vigour of the past
memory is a piteous curse
timeless without dimensions,
melancholy gave her chair
to the teacher of all teachers: the instant.
on him I depend, from him I learn
now... the friendly art.
In a natural contrary

In a natural contrary is a river reversed
from ocean to source: it flows down.
nor of sweet, nor of salted water is its way
not half-blood water but biologic swill
where even an eel, in the natural contrary,
spinster and misanthrope for choice
would crave descent.
beyond all intentions I observe you
with caudal fin of broad glory: you swim
by gills of less visible pain: you breath.
from source to ocean : you rise.
It's a matter of taking stocks, you said
to stun even the sacrosanct left.
coffee with milk was and is bitter, and tea with milk too
and there is a reason: we do not put sugar.
but among one thousand and one different conclusions
our sexes have an absolute value
certainly not that past cuckolding
cherishing in orgasm a new sunrise.
                     It was ashes

It was ashes even before flaming
that understanding meditated as undying.
You had veiled intentions
trunks because, flat emotions
frail sliding matches.
with your head bowed
waiting for ashes
you insist on setting fire to tomorrow
incombustible as today.

And from the dormitory quarter,
where at night you lay my
sprawled body
insomnia dreariness comes up
and the suspicion that speech
opposes, defeated, to nothingness.

planting oneself in sexless grounds
provokes hardly visible burns.
You could, reasoning, call them:
stratified solitudes.
they form oblique guidelines
like indifferent glances.
                          I’ve never loved!
          I – have – never – loved – anyone!

From the cirrus at the first floor
I descended, as damned soul

to the basement, accompanied by a Virgilio in skirt
met at the station one night in august.
is hell the right punishment to the unjust
(or bonus) to sweet idleness?
I’ve never loved!
I – have – never – loved – anyone!
wells, your black eyes, abysses
ravines, but woman’s gifts;
prizes I wish I could always have for my career
as stubborn idler.
do you know my interest in you is there
under the goblet your lightly drawn belly?
in your breast just glimpsed?
I am not talking about love
let’s leave that to poets
but about flesh and passion
about repeated orgasms
about animal heats and sweaty skins
about liquids dried on sheets.
and I do not bag pardon for my lust
but robust loins.
Of your darkness I have but a flash:

                                                           I
                                                           rang
                                                           you
                                                           did
                                                           not
                                                           answer.
High in the sky I am holding out
an hollow thought, ignoring the rowdy sun.
and I am waiting for dread to cease
when the humble moon climbs.
                                 Ah Wagner!

I am moving as I can, in this hell!
memory is abandoning it day after day!
ah wagner!
I am moving as I can, in this hell:
among traps and violin chords
among brass and tricks covered with roses
I am following the memory abandoning it.
it is the same story without story
I am trying a non-existing reason:
death, her death, unavoidable
life, my life, avoidable.
ah wagner!
        (28 July 1996)

This is a sourish coloured day
with aluminium grey sound
tasting deaf
rain recycled from a far storm
does not ask for my permission
to join my birthday:
no harm done. I have not prepared any cake.

translated in English by Sandra Michelacci
Ahora tengo algo mío:
tu hermoso ombligo
punto cardinal del norte
del deseo primordial
icono del placer rebelde
ojo de tu piel
bribón sin pestañas
con una forma de zucchini que tapa
hostería o hotel de cinco estrellas
pequeño frijol saltarín
pequeño diamante jugoso del eros
sobre la corneada azucarada.
Твоих пальцев прикосновение -
Непонятное ощущение.

Возбуждение при первом контакте

Чудо. Чувство желания.
Изумление. Его понимание.
                  (28 Июль 1996)

Этот кисло окрашенный день,
С алюм
иневым серым звучанием
Испытывающим беззвучие
Дождь, пришедший с далекой бурей

Не спрашивает моего разрешения
День рождения мой посетить:
Нет урона. Hо так же нет торта.

translated in Russian by Victoria Kusnetsova
Ajunge sa spui ca te scufunzi
poate restul lumii se inalta.

cu tine traiesc in pas de dans
de aici de la frontiera
care incepe la hanul cu postalioane
unde lumea pare nesfarsita
si apele sarate ale lagunei nu vad
sa scalde nici una din frumoasele tale insule.
nu-ti pronunt numele
nu-ti scriu numele
dar ma gandesc la tine si te deplang
si uneori te plang.

translated by Angi  Doicescu-Ciurea
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