Poetry International Poetry International
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.

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.
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.

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.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère