Poem
Massimo Morasso
Never having had true peace
Never having had true peace,tonight, too, I return to my ghosts,
listen to their hypnotic, craggy voices,
that, little by little, merge into one and pierce
the shutters, off-beat, relentless.
All it took was my parents’ death,
and the memories flap
their wings, black birds
watching me, more vigilant than a lighthouse,
from an ulterior, interior sky.
Suddenly,
filtered through air, Kierkegaard appears to me,
a wavering ghost between mirror and bed,
opening the gates of the Unfathomable.
He speaks to me, hollowed out with anguish,
and I’m left there, suspended adrift
in a hostile space between discourse and remorse.
Then his hump becomes a cloud.
The cloud
becomes a question mark.
I turn off the light.
And everyone,
– mom and dad, the birds, Kierkegaard,
the cloud, and even I –
sink into a further darkness
that I can’t describe.
© Translation: 2017, Moira Egan and Damiano Abeni
Never having had true peace,
Senza mai vera pace,
torno anche stanotte ai miei fantasmi,
ne ascolto la voce ipnotica, rupestre,
che a poco a poco si fa una e penetra
le imposte, fuori tempo, inarrestabile.
È bastato che morissero i miei,
e i ricordi
sbattono le ali, uccelli neri
che mi osservano, più vigili di un faro,
da un cielo ulteriore, interiore.
All’improvviso
filtrata l’aria Kierkegaard mi appare,
spettro fluttuante fra lo specchio e il letto
che apre le porte dell’Incomprensibile.
Mi parla, scavato dall’angoscia,
e io rimango lì, sospeso a mezza via
in uno spazio ostile fra discorsi e rimorsi.
Poi la sua gobba si trasforma in una nuvola.
La nuvola,
in un punto di domanda.
Chiudo la luce.
E tutti
-mamma, papà gli uccelli, Kierkegaard
la nuvola io stesso-
ci inabissiamo dentro a un’altra oscurità
che non so dire.
torno anche stanotte ai miei fantasmi,
ne ascolto la voce ipnotica, rupestre,
che a poco a poco si fa una e penetra
le imposte, fuori tempo, inarrestabile.
È bastato che morissero i miei,
e i ricordi
sbattono le ali, uccelli neri
che mi osservano, più vigili di un faro,
da un cielo ulteriore, interiore.
All’improvviso
filtrata l’aria Kierkegaard mi appare,
spettro fluttuante fra lo specchio e il letto
che apre le porte dell’Incomprensibile.
Mi parla, scavato dall’angoscia,
e io rimango lì, sospeso a mezza via
in uno spazio ostile fra discorsi e rimorsi.
Poi la sua gobba si trasforma in una nuvola.
La nuvola,
in un punto di domanda.
Chiudo la luce.
E tutti
-mamma, papà gli uccelli, Kierkegaard
la nuvola io stesso-
ci inabissiamo dentro a un’altra oscurità
che non so dire.
From: L’opera in rosso
Publisher: Passigli Poesia,
Publisher: Passigli Poesia,
Poems
Poems of Massimo Morasso
Close
Never having had true peace
Never having had true peace,tonight, too, I return to my ghosts,
listen to their hypnotic, craggy voices,
that, little by little, merge into one and pierce
the shutters, off-beat, relentless.
All it took was my parents’ death,
and the memories flap
their wings, black birds
watching me, more vigilant than a lighthouse,
from an ulterior, interior sky.
Suddenly,
filtered through air, Kierkegaard appears to me,
a wavering ghost between mirror and bed,
opening the gates of the Unfathomable.
He speaks to me, hollowed out with anguish,
and I’m left there, suspended adrift
in a hostile space between discourse and remorse.
Then his hump becomes a cloud.
The cloud
becomes a question mark.
I turn off the light.
And everyone,
– mom and dad, the birds, Kierkegaard,
the cloud, and even I –
sink into a further darkness
that I can’t describe.
© 2017, Moira Egan and Damiano Abeni
From: L’opera in rosso
From: L’opera in rosso
Never having had true peace
Never having had true peace,tonight, too, I return to my ghosts,
listen to their hypnotic, craggy voices,
that, little by little, merge into one and pierce
the shutters, off-beat, relentless.
All it took was my parents’ death,
and the memories flap
their wings, black birds
watching me, more vigilant than a lighthouse,
from an ulterior, interior sky.
Suddenly,
filtered through air, Kierkegaard appears to me,
a wavering ghost between mirror and bed,
opening the gates of the Unfathomable.
He speaks to me, hollowed out with anguish,
and I’m left there, suspended adrift
in a hostile space between discourse and remorse.
Then his hump becomes a cloud.
The cloud
becomes a question mark.
I turn off the light.
And everyone,
– mom and dad, the birds, Kierkegaard,
the cloud, and even I –
sink into a further darkness
that I can’t describe.
© 2017, Moira Egan and Damiano Abeni
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