Poem
Gian Mario Villalta
DEDICATION: 6.
They taste of ashes the lips and of sandin the hollow of sleep, they taste like they know
how everything opens and one sinks into the night
along with the house
mute.
What’s in the rock?
Far away the clouds swim –
hands empty the sky. What’s inside
the rock?
They taste of water, the lips, of plain
and of cold milk, waiting, the unreadable writing of stubble
they know how to speak to the rock,
how the rock
listens.
Nobody helps our god to go on with
creation,
nobody fishes him any longer from the bottom of evil
with the soul-hook: even a single one
of these morsels he would spit out again: breath
and clay,
the black seeds of our sleep.
What’s inside
the bread, what dies
in the bread?
Even the rock grows, a
a limestone word drop white
on white – nobody helps our god
to write again –
and the sky, the grass, what
should I be surprised of.
© Translation: 2004, Gabriele Poole
DEDICA: 6.
DEDICA: 6.
Sanno di cenere le labbra e sabbianell’incàvo del sonno, sanno come
si apre tutto e si affonda nella notte
insieme con la casa
muti.
Cosa c’è nella pietra?
Lontane nuotano nuvole –
mani vuotano il cielo. Cosa c’è dentro
la pietra?
Sanno di acqua, le labbra, di pianura
e latte freddo, attesa, indecifrabile scrittura delle stoppie,
sanno come si parla alla pietra,
come la pietra
ascolta.
Nessuno aiuta il nostro dio a continuare
la creazione,
nessuno più lo pesca in fondo al male
con l’anima-uncino: anche uno solo
di questi bocconi risputerebbe: alito
e argilla,
i semi neri del nostro sonno.
Cosa c’è dentro
il pane, cosa muore
nel pane?
Anche la pietra cresce, una parola
calcarea goccia bianco
su bianco – nessuno aiuta il nostro dio
a scrivere ancora –
e il cielo, l’erba, di che cosa
devo meravigliarmi.
© 2004, Gian Mario Villalta
Poems
Poems of Gian Mario Villalta
Close
DEDICATION: 6.
They taste of ashes the lips and of sandin the hollow of sleep, they taste like they know
how everything opens and one sinks into the night
along with the house
mute.
What’s in the rock?
Far away the clouds swim –
hands empty the sky. What’s inside
the rock?
They taste of water, the lips, of plain
and of cold milk, waiting, the unreadable writing of stubble
they know how to speak to the rock,
how the rock
listens.
Nobody helps our god to go on with
creation,
nobody fishes him any longer from the bottom of evil
with the soul-hook: even a single one
of these morsels he would spit out again: breath
and clay,
the black seeds of our sleep.
What’s inside
the bread, what dies
in the bread?
Even the rock grows, a
a limestone word drop white
on white – nobody helps our god
to write again –
and the sky, the grass, what
should I be surprised of.
© 2004, Gabriele Poole
DEDICATION: 6.
They taste of ashes the lips and of sandin the hollow of sleep, they taste like they know
how everything opens and one sinks into the night
along with the house
mute.
What’s in the rock?
Far away the clouds swim –
hands empty the sky. What’s inside
the rock?
They taste of water, the lips, of plain
and of cold milk, waiting, the unreadable writing of stubble
they know how to speak to the rock,
how the rock
listens.
Nobody helps our god to go on with
creation,
nobody fishes him any longer from the bottom of evil
with the soul-hook: even a single one
of these morsels he would spit out again: breath
and clay,
the black seeds of our sleep.
What’s inside
the bread, what dies
in the bread?
Even the rock grows, a
a limestone word drop white
on white – nobody helps our god
to write again –
and the sky, the grass, what
should I be surprised of.
© 2004, Gabriele Poole
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