Poem
Antonella Anedda
Nocturnes
July, NightThat evil may decompose like the hamster buried in a shoebox in the garden’s earth.
That the fright destined for others come to me tonight.
I see her, this woman who for hours stared at the tv
on and now screams at another body in twilight
immobile in the colourless armchair.
October, Night
Accept this silence: the word caught in the dark of the throat like a stiffened animal, like
the stuffed boar that sparkled in the cellar during October storms. Livid and woven with
straw, the dry heart, smokeless, yet against the flash of lightning that nailed the door,
each time in the same exact point where death had begun: the futile backstepping,
body aflame, the hunter’s kick on its side.
Close your eyes. Think: hare and fox and wolf, call the beasts,
chased down they race
over the flatlands and are in the slingshot of dying or falling
asleep exhausted inside the
den where only the hunted know true night, true breath.
© Translation: 2000, Antonella Anedda
Notturni
Notturni
luglio, nottePerché il male si scomponga come il criceto sepolto in una scatola di scarpe nella terra dell’orto.
Perché arrivi a me stanotte lo spavento destinato ad altri.
La vedo, questa donna che per ore ha fissato il televisore acceso
e ora grida contro un altro corpo in penombra
immobile sulla poltrona senza colore.
ottobre, notte
Accetta questo silenzio: la parola stretta nel buio della gola come una bestia irrigidita, come il
cinghiale imbalsamato che nei temporali di ottobre scintillava in cantina. Livido e intrecciato di
paglia, il cuore secco, senza fumo, eppure contro il fulmine che inchiodava la porta, ogni volta
nel punto esatto in cui era iniziata la morte: l’inutile indietreggiare, il corpo ardente, il calcio
del cacciatore sul suo fianco.
Chiudi gli occhi. Pensa: lepre, e volpe e lupo chiama le bestie che cacciate corrono sulla terra
rasa e sono nella fionda del morire o dell’addormentarsi sfinite nella tana dove solo chi è
inseguito conosce davvero la notte davvero il respiro.
© 1999, Antonella Anedda
From: Notti di pace occidentale
Publisher: Donzelli, Roma
From: Notti di pace occidentale
Publisher: Donzelli, Roma
Poems
Poems of Antonella Anedda
Close
Nocturnes
July, NightThat evil may decompose like the hamster buried in a shoebox in the garden’s earth.
That the fright destined for others come to me tonight.
I see her, this woman who for hours stared at the tv
on and now screams at another body in twilight
immobile in the colourless armchair.
October, Night
Accept this silence: the word caught in the dark of the throat like a stiffened animal, like
the stuffed boar that sparkled in the cellar during October storms. Livid and woven with
straw, the dry heart, smokeless, yet against the flash of lightning that nailed the door,
each time in the same exact point where death had begun: the futile backstepping,
body aflame, the hunter’s kick on its side.
Close your eyes. Think: hare and fox and wolf, call the beasts,
chased down they race
over the flatlands and are in the slingshot of dying or falling
asleep exhausted inside the
den where only the hunted know true night, true breath.
© 2000, Antonella Anedda
From: Notti di pace occidentale
From: Notti di pace occidentale
Nocturnes
July, NightThat evil may decompose like the hamster buried in a shoebox in the garden’s earth.
That the fright destined for others come to me tonight.
I see her, this woman who for hours stared at the tv
on and now screams at another body in twilight
immobile in the colourless armchair.
October, Night
Accept this silence: the word caught in the dark of the throat like a stiffened animal, like
the stuffed boar that sparkled in the cellar during October storms. Livid and woven with
straw, the dry heart, smokeless, yet against the flash of lightning that nailed the door,
each time in the same exact point where death had begun: the futile backstepping,
body aflame, the hunter’s kick on its side.
Close your eyes. Think: hare and fox and wolf, call the beasts,
chased down they race
over the flatlands and are in the slingshot of dying or falling
asleep exhausted inside the
den where only the hunted know true night, true breath.
© 2000, Antonella Anedda
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