Marco Pelliccioli
CATAFAM
She scrapes the cauldron in the sink
hands full of cuts, wounds,
she saves the rust and the crusts
for her seven starving youths.
No golden star comes to fill the night
in the river’s blackened valley,
no yellow moon swells above the sour Mörla,
its fearful color dying silently,
only a mist descending to fill their belly.
We tell fireside stories to the children,
- mother still scraping, hands still bleeding -
better to huddle into the straw and sleep quickly
than hear these horror stories: Maria, who lost a leg,
beats hunger with a golden limb she keeps hidden in the attic.
Maybe the soldiers will come tomorrow
bringing us soap to sell at the market.
There will be milk to soften the crusts
and we will see, reflected on mother’s face,
the peach blossom in the barnyard.
Publisher: First publication on versopolis.com, , 2023
CATAFAM
Ze schraapte de ketel in de gootsteen
de kloven in haar handen, de eeltknobbels,
ze verwijderde de roest, de korsten,
voor haar zeven hongerige zonen.
Geen gouden sterren schitteren
in dit diepe duistere dal
noch stroomt de Mörla zachtjes, of de maan:
haar gele kleur is bang en sterft geruisloos
de mist is neergedaald in inmiddels lege magen.
Men vertelt verhalen aan zijn kroost bij de open haard,
- de moeder die schraapt, de handen van bloed –
het zijn gruwelverhalen: de beenloze Maria
stilt de honger met haar gouden ledemaat verborgen op zolder …
beter is het om neer te vlijen in bedjes van stro.
Wie weet of morgen de soldaten komen
die ons zeep brengen om in het dorp te verkopen,
we zullen met het beetje melk de korsten mengen
om in moeders gezicht de weerspiegeling te zien
van de perzikbloesem op de dorsvloer.
Publisher: 2023, Voor het eerst gepubliceerd op PoetryInternational.com,
CATAFAM
Scrostava il paiolo all’acquaio
le mani tagliate, i calli,
staccava la ruggine, croste,
per i sette figli affamati.
Non brillano stelle dorate
nella valle buia del Serio
né dolce è il fluire della Mörla, o la luna:
il giallore ha paura e muore in silenzio
la nebbia è scesa in pance ormai vuote.
Si raccontano fiabe ai figli al camino,
- la madre che scrosta, le mani di sangue -,
sono fiabe d’orrore: la Maria senza gamba
spegne la fame col suo arto d’oro nascosto in soffitta…
tra brandine di paglia conviene dormire.
Chissa se domani verranno i soldati
a portarci i saponi da vendere al borgo,
ci sarà un po’ di latte a mischiare le croste
per vedere nel volto di nostra madre
il riflesso del pesco scobbiare nell’aia.
From: The Orphan
Publisher: LietoColle - Pordenonelegge,
CATAFAM
She scrapes the cauldron in the sink
hands full of cuts, wounds,
she saves the rust and the crusts
for her seven starving youths.
No golden star comes to fill the night
in the river’s blackened valley,
no yellow moon swells above the sour Mörla,
its fearful color dying silently,
only a mist descending to fill their belly.
We tell fireside stories to the children,
- mother still scraping, hands still bleeding -
better to huddle into the straw and sleep quickly
than hear these horror stories: Maria, who lost a leg,
beats hunger with a golden limb she keeps hidden in the attic.
Maybe the soldiers will come tomorrow
bringing us soap to sell at the market.
There will be milk to soften the crusts
and we will see, reflected on mother’s face,
the peach blossom in the barnyard.
From: The Orphan
Publisher: 2023, First publication on versopolis.com,
CATAFAM
She scrapes the cauldron in the sink
hands full of cuts, wounds,
she saves the rust and the crusts
for her seven starving youths.
No golden star comes to fill the night
in the river’s blackened valley,
no yellow moon swells above the sour Mörla,
its fearful color dying silently,
only a mist descending to fill their belly.
We tell fireside stories to the children,
- mother still scraping, hands still bleeding -
better to huddle into the straw and sleep quickly
than hear these horror stories: Maria, who lost a leg,
beats hunger with a golden limb she keeps hidden in the attic.
Maybe the soldiers will come tomorrow
bringing us soap to sell at the market.
There will be milk to soften the crusts
and we will see, reflected on mother’s face,
the peach blossom in the barnyard.
Publisher: 2023, First publication on versopolis.com,
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