Poem

Marco Pelliccioli

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OBJECTS, BODIES

With a frozen grocery bag,
shopping and scotch, handle and crutch,
step by step she walks down the street:
the colourless fringe, the yellow of the poplar
wrinkles on her face, cracks in the wall...
A heap of rubble grows bigger day by day,
the wall by Via del Conventino is coming down
nobody cares to fix it, not even her,
as if objects and bodies
had to return to their original form.

DE MENS, DE MATERIE

Met het diepvrieszakje
de aankopen, de kruk, de handvaten, de tape,
stap voor stap langs het voetpad:
de barsten op de muren, de rimpels op het gezicht,
het kleurloze toefje haar, de inmiddels gele populier…
Iedere ochtend viel een grotere berg scherven
van de muur in via Conventino
niemand deed iets, zelfs zij niet,
alsof de mens, de materie,
moesten terugkeren naar hun ware aard.

LE COSE, I CORPI

Con la busta congelata
la spesa, la stampella, il manico, lo scotch,
passo dopo passo lungo il marciapiede:
le crepe sulle mura, le rughe sulla facia,
il ciuffo senza tinta, il pioppo ormai ingiallito…
Un cumulo di cocci cresceva ogni mattina
veniva giù dal muro in via del Conventino
nessuno interveniva, neppure lei,
como se le cose, i corpi,
dovessero tronare al loro vero nome.

Marco Pelliccioli

(Italy, 1982)

“Who are we?”
you ask me now...

Marco Pelliccioli populates his poetry with a wide variety of characters. The place is crowded, one figure after another rooted in the obscenity of our modern age passes by you, visibly unaware of the fundamental changes this era is inflicting on them. They are small representations, fragments of events, expressionistic portraits of characters in their trivial da...