Poem
Andrea Inglese
Inventory of air
It’s snowing pollen now and shining like mannaon mountains of flaming ocher, it’s snowing
backlit woolen albumens like taciturn
cotton fields, the down, the tufts,
it’s snowing in cyclone swirls, in whirlwind of light
it’s snowing dandelion flames, flakes, bunches of
air
and people swim, they don’t go
they row, urban fish in trousers and fins,
they float on pollen froth, gowns
like umbrellas shed cotton wool atoms, rapidly
a powder of dust burrows itself away in laces that wrap
the groin, and the sparser spores in the pubis
skim, where I follow them, smelling
the incense of hot simmering flesh:
halos of sea salt between the breasts,
wakes of herbaceous locks, clouds of breath
spiced by smoldering loins,
and gather
with silken rakes droplets
of pollen from eyelashes, and hear the echo
of bulbs of cotton wool that alight
on puddles of pitch, in asphalt gravel, and follow, eye wounded,
the trout blond with shiny boobs
and tight scales, and cut the air
with the oar veering round the streetlight buoy
and busy tritons slip into grots
of subways with shells at their ears
where rumbles the mad sea
of business deals, and on it all
the cotton wool Nile flows, the fury
of pollen on outlines of bodies
on the three-sided San Sepolcro square
on the plane-tree dome with its muffled
rattle, on benches of bipeds all battered
with bafflement, splattered with spunk and pee
in fine rags of linen and velvet
because they are rich with laughs, incontinent
like old men dazed by the blaze
of pollen, oblivious to arthrosis, heel
and toe, sideways, they stroll
a lively tip-tap, and aslant slashes the gold
of the sunset spread out on sedimentary crests,
on the tridents and poles
of the houses, camped out on the balconies
and rivers of air that fondle each other
while the keel of the chest cuts through
the concentric waves of pollen
and the child absorbed in the gulf
of its mother’s arm is choking
on wool and oxygen: a happy
cyclist, holding his breath in the pollen,
twists like a screw, and pike diving
rigidly bounces off windshield
of volvo, and his bianchi perches onto
alien convoys, man at the wheel
belches up on the spot minced pasta and egg, already
a shadow of living, crowning the dashboard
and unto pollen thou shalt return, handfuls
are cast by passersby, so fleshly
is the light that one dies well
in the airy foliage, the rhythm
I too of Eliot feel, it beats
low, in the biological sack, underneath,
while discharges of pollen
torture swimmers and cab drivers,
in the coral cave of the arches
I get drunk on all this manna, I yield
every pore, nerve, vein
to this pollen that dresses the air
to this air that chews on galleries
of light, to this opaque light
through which schools of passersby pass
in flames, unclosing vermillion
gills, in which the cast iron trunks
of the street signs crumble
and the fifteen-floor whales
gulp up exhausted castaways
and for this mutation, miracle,
cataclysm, surreal weapon, for this
excess, access of pollen, meal
that no one has paid for and verified
or battered nails or planed
or typed or pushed drills
or driven tractors, no one
has signed contracts, passed
laws, injected comas, elaborated
selling strategies, yet
it’s coming, sweet apocalypse of pollen
without burying women in mud
or attacking cells or devastating
cerebral nodes, it comes unarmed
without lines of tanks
without deterrent and guerrilla warfare
without an iron hand, it comes
without profit, at a net
loss, it comes, collapses, is gone
I don’t know if its caress can heal
if it breaks the collar, don’t know
if it saves, absolves, if it’s a happy
coin for all cravings, if it’s bread
and wine of infinite hunger and thirst
it is a sheer folly of the air,
a pregnancy of the air, fertile
burial of seed: it doesn’t heal
it certainly drives you mad.
© Translation: 2005, Gabriele Poole
Inventario dell’aria
Inventario dell’aria
Nevica ora polline e luccica come mannain alpe d’ocra incendiata, nevica
controluce albumi di lana come in taciturni
campi di cotone, le lanugini, i bioccoli,
nevica in cenni di ciclone, in baraonda di luce,
nevica fiamme di soffioni, fiocchi, grappoli
d’aria
e nuotano le genti, non vanno
ma vogano, pesci urbani in calzoni e pinne,
galleggiano su schiume di polline, le gonne
ombrèllano atomi d’ovatta, s’intana rapida
una polvere tra le trine che inguantano
l’inguine, e le spore più rade nel pube
spannano, dove io le seguo, fiutando
l’incenso delle carni che ribollono:
gli aloni di salsedine tra i seni, le scie
di chiome erbacee, le nuvole di fiati
speziati da ventri accesi,
e colgo
con rastrelli di seta stille
di polline su ciglia, e odo l’eco
dei bulbi di bambagia che posano
in pozze di nafta, in brecce
di bitume, e seguo, d’occhi ferito,
bionda la trota dalle poppe lucide
e tese squame, e taglio col remo
l’aria girando alla boa del semaforo
e tritoni indaffarati scivolano in grotte
di metrò con conchiglie all’orecchio
dove romba impazzito il mare
di commerci, e su tutto scorre
il nilo di bambagia, la furia
del polline sui corpi scontornati
nella piazza trilatera di San Sepolcro,
sulla cupola di platani a sonaglio
sordo, sulle panche dei bipedi stronchi
di stupore, spanti di piscio e seme
negli stracci belli di lino e velluto
perché ricchi di risa, incontinenti
come vecchi abbagliati nelle vampe
di polline, obliosi d’artrosi, punta
e tacco, di lato, passeggiano un vivo
tip-tap, e sciabola obliquo l’oro
del tramonto adagiato su creste
sedimentarie, sui tridenti e le aste
delle case, a bivacco nei balconi
e fiumi d’aria che si palpano
mentre la chiglia del petto scorre
le onde concentriche di polline
e il bimbo assorto nel golfo
del braccio materno si strozza
di lane e d’ossigeno: un felice
ciclista, in apnea nel polline,
si torce ad elica, e carpiando
rigido rimpalla in parabrezza
di volvo, e s’inasta su alieni
convogli la sua bianchi, erutta
sul posto la trita pasta e l’uovo
l’uomo alla guida, già ombra
di vivo incoronando il cruscotto
e polline tornerai, a manciate
ne gettano i passanti, così carnosa
è la luce che si muore bene
nel fogliame d’aria, il ritmo
anch’io di Eliot lo sento, batte
basso, nel sacco biologico, sotto,
mentre scariche di polline
torturano i natanti e i tassisti
nella conca di corallo del portico,
mi sbronzo di tanta manna, cedo
ogni mio poro, nervo, vena
a questo polline che veste l’aria,
a quest’aria che mastica gallerie
di luce, a questa luce smerigliata
in cui passano branchi di passanti
in fiamme, schiudendo vermiglie
branchie, in cui sfarinano i tronchi
di ghisa delle segnaletiche
e le balene di quindici piani
inghiottono esausti naufraghi
e per questa mutazione, miracolo,
cataclisma, ordigno surreale, per questo
eccesso, accesso di polline, pasto
nessuno ha pagato e verificato
o pestato chiodi o piallato
o digitato o spinto trapani
o condotto trattori, nessuno
ha firmato contratti, decretato
leggi, iniettato coma, formulato
strategie di vendita, eppure
viene, dolce apocalisse di polline
senza seppellire donne sotto fango
o aggredire cellule o devastare
nodi cerebrali, viene disarmato
senza schieramenti di carri
senza deterrente e guerriglia
senza polso fermo, viene
senza profitto, in perdita
secca, viene, si spappola, scompare
non so se cura la sua carezza
se spezza il collare, non so
se salva, se assolve, se è moneta
felice di tutte le brame, se è pane
e vino di fami e seti sterminate,
è una pura follia dell’aria,
gravidanza dell’aria, feconda
sepoltura del seme: non guarisce
fa di certo impazzire.
© 2001, Andrea Inglese
From: Inventari
Publisher: Editrice Zona,
From: Inventari
Publisher: Editrice Zona,
Poems
Poems of Andrea Inglese
Close
Inventory of air
It’s snowing pollen now and shining like mannaon mountains of flaming ocher, it’s snowing
backlit woolen albumens like taciturn
cotton fields, the down, the tufts,
it’s snowing in cyclone swirls, in whirlwind of light
it’s snowing dandelion flames, flakes, bunches of
air
and people swim, they don’t go
they row, urban fish in trousers and fins,
they float on pollen froth, gowns
like umbrellas shed cotton wool atoms, rapidly
a powder of dust burrows itself away in laces that wrap
the groin, and the sparser spores in the pubis
skim, where I follow them, smelling
the incense of hot simmering flesh:
halos of sea salt between the breasts,
wakes of herbaceous locks, clouds of breath
spiced by smoldering loins,
and gather
with silken rakes droplets
of pollen from eyelashes, and hear the echo
of bulbs of cotton wool that alight
on puddles of pitch, in asphalt gravel, and follow, eye wounded,
the trout blond with shiny boobs
and tight scales, and cut the air
with the oar veering round the streetlight buoy
and busy tritons slip into grots
of subways with shells at their ears
where rumbles the mad sea
of business deals, and on it all
the cotton wool Nile flows, the fury
of pollen on outlines of bodies
on the three-sided San Sepolcro square
on the plane-tree dome with its muffled
rattle, on benches of bipeds all battered
with bafflement, splattered with spunk and pee
in fine rags of linen and velvet
because they are rich with laughs, incontinent
like old men dazed by the blaze
of pollen, oblivious to arthrosis, heel
and toe, sideways, they stroll
a lively tip-tap, and aslant slashes the gold
of the sunset spread out on sedimentary crests,
on the tridents and poles
of the houses, camped out on the balconies
and rivers of air that fondle each other
while the keel of the chest cuts through
the concentric waves of pollen
and the child absorbed in the gulf
of its mother’s arm is choking
on wool and oxygen: a happy
cyclist, holding his breath in the pollen,
twists like a screw, and pike diving
rigidly bounces off windshield
of volvo, and his bianchi perches onto
alien convoys, man at the wheel
belches up on the spot minced pasta and egg, already
a shadow of living, crowning the dashboard
and unto pollen thou shalt return, handfuls
are cast by passersby, so fleshly
is the light that one dies well
in the airy foliage, the rhythm
I too of Eliot feel, it beats
low, in the biological sack, underneath,
while discharges of pollen
torture swimmers and cab drivers,
in the coral cave of the arches
I get drunk on all this manna, I yield
every pore, nerve, vein
to this pollen that dresses the air
to this air that chews on galleries
of light, to this opaque light
through which schools of passersby pass
in flames, unclosing vermillion
gills, in which the cast iron trunks
of the street signs crumble
and the fifteen-floor whales
gulp up exhausted castaways
and for this mutation, miracle,
cataclysm, surreal weapon, for this
excess, access of pollen, meal
that no one has paid for and verified
or battered nails or planed
or typed or pushed drills
or driven tractors, no one
has signed contracts, passed
laws, injected comas, elaborated
selling strategies, yet
it’s coming, sweet apocalypse of pollen
without burying women in mud
or attacking cells or devastating
cerebral nodes, it comes unarmed
without lines of tanks
without deterrent and guerrilla warfare
without an iron hand, it comes
without profit, at a net
loss, it comes, collapses, is gone
I don’t know if its caress can heal
if it breaks the collar, don’t know
if it saves, absolves, if it’s a happy
coin for all cravings, if it’s bread
and wine of infinite hunger and thirst
it is a sheer folly of the air,
a pregnancy of the air, fertile
burial of seed: it doesn’t heal
it certainly drives you mad.
© 2005, Gabriele Poole
From: Inventari
From: Inventari
Inventory of air
It’s snowing pollen now and shining like mannaon mountains of flaming ocher, it’s snowing
backlit woolen albumens like taciturn
cotton fields, the down, the tufts,
it’s snowing in cyclone swirls, in whirlwind of light
it’s snowing dandelion flames, flakes, bunches of
air
and people swim, they don’t go
they row, urban fish in trousers and fins,
they float on pollen froth, gowns
like umbrellas shed cotton wool atoms, rapidly
a powder of dust burrows itself away in laces that wrap
the groin, and the sparser spores in the pubis
skim, where I follow them, smelling
the incense of hot simmering flesh:
halos of sea salt between the breasts,
wakes of herbaceous locks, clouds of breath
spiced by smoldering loins,
and gather
with silken rakes droplets
of pollen from eyelashes, and hear the echo
of bulbs of cotton wool that alight
on puddles of pitch, in asphalt gravel, and follow, eye wounded,
the trout blond with shiny boobs
and tight scales, and cut the air
with the oar veering round the streetlight buoy
and busy tritons slip into grots
of subways with shells at their ears
where rumbles the mad sea
of business deals, and on it all
the cotton wool Nile flows, the fury
of pollen on outlines of bodies
on the three-sided San Sepolcro square
on the plane-tree dome with its muffled
rattle, on benches of bipeds all battered
with bafflement, splattered with spunk and pee
in fine rags of linen and velvet
because they are rich with laughs, incontinent
like old men dazed by the blaze
of pollen, oblivious to arthrosis, heel
and toe, sideways, they stroll
a lively tip-tap, and aslant slashes the gold
of the sunset spread out on sedimentary crests,
on the tridents and poles
of the houses, camped out on the balconies
and rivers of air that fondle each other
while the keel of the chest cuts through
the concentric waves of pollen
and the child absorbed in the gulf
of its mother’s arm is choking
on wool and oxygen: a happy
cyclist, holding his breath in the pollen,
twists like a screw, and pike diving
rigidly bounces off windshield
of volvo, and his bianchi perches onto
alien convoys, man at the wheel
belches up on the spot minced pasta and egg, already
a shadow of living, crowning the dashboard
and unto pollen thou shalt return, handfuls
are cast by passersby, so fleshly
is the light that one dies well
in the airy foliage, the rhythm
I too of Eliot feel, it beats
low, in the biological sack, underneath,
while discharges of pollen
torture swimmers and cab drivers,
in the coral cave of the arches
I get drunk on all this manna, I yield
every pore, nerve, vein
to this pollen that dresses the air
to this air that chews on galleries
of light, to this opaque light
through which schools of passersby pass
in flames, unclosing vermillion
gills, in which the cast iron trunks
of the street signs crumble
and the fifteen-floor whales
gulp up exhausted castaways
and for this mutation, miracle,
cataclysm, surreal weapon, for this
excess, access of pollen, meal
that no one has paid for and verified
or battered nails or planed
or typed or pushed drills
or driven tractors, no one
has signed contracts, passed
laws, injected comas, elaborated
selling strategies, yet
it’s coming, sweet apocalypse of pollen
without burying women in mud
or attacking cells or devastating
cerebral nodes, it comes unarmed
without lines of tanks
without deterrent and guerrilla warfare
without an iron hand, it comes
without profit, at a net
loss, it comes, collapses, is gone
I don’t know if its caress can heal
if it breaks the collar, don’t know
if it saves, absolves, if it’s a happy
coin for all cravings, if it’s bread
and wine of infinite hunger and thirst
it is a sheer folly of the air,
a pregnancy of the air, fertile
burial of seed: it doesn’t heal
it certainly drives you mad.
© 2005, Gabriele Poole
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