Poem
Gian Mario Villalta
DEDICATION: 7.
Thus one absents out of spitefrom a house, thus one leaves
to soil it,
leaving there everything for ever
in the disorder of any usual day.
One last time the new jacket
put it back in the dresser, with a smile: this
is how one should, I thought.
A line, a “See you later”: like this.
At the hospital, the body – smaller
and already elsewhere, someone else.
Recognize who?
I said “Yes,” and thought “No – it’s someone else.”
The finite pain.
Watching TV the whole night
for one night, four nights,
to confound the senses, sleep.
The asphalt a few steps away.
Soft – everywhere – the street.
“In there, he’s in there,” it blinds.
Now the hole, the shovel strokes.
I wasn’t able to.
And the looks, the hands that touch where never
among strangers: the neck,
the hollow of the arm.
© Translation: 2004, Gabriele Poole
DEDICA: 7.
DEDICA: 7.
Così si manca per astioda una casa, così si va via
per sporcarla,
lasciando là tutto per sempre
nel disordine di ogni giorno.
Un’ultima volta la giacca nuova,
riporla nell’armadio, con un sorriso: così
si dovrebbe, ho pensato.
Una battuta, un “A dopo”: così.
In ospedale, il corpo – più piccolo
e già altrove, un altro.
Riconoscere chi?
Ho detto “Sì”, pensato “No – è un altro”.
Il dolore finito.
Guardare la notte intera la televisione
per una notte, quattro notti,
per confondere i sensi, il sonno.
L’asfalto a poche spanne.
Molle – ovunque – la strada.
“Là dentro, è là dentro”, acceca.
Adesso la buca, i colpi di pala.
Non ho potuto.
E gli sguardi, le mani che toccano dove mai
tra estranei: il collo,
l’interno del braccio.
© 2004, Gian Mario Villalta
Poems
Poems of Gian Mario Villalta
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DEDICATION: 7.
Thus one absents out of spitefrom a house, thus one leaves
to soil it,
leaving there everything for ever
in the disorder of any usual day.
One last time the new jacket
put it back in the dresser, with a smile: this
is how one should, I thought.
A line, a “See you later”: like this.
At the hospital, the body – smaller
and already elsewhere, someone else.
Recognize who?
I said “Yes,” and thought “No – it’s someone else.”
The finite pain.
Watching TV the whole night
for one night, four nights,
to confound the senses, sleep.
The asphalt a few steps away.
Soft – everywhere – the street.
“In there, he’s in there,” it blinds.
Now the hole, the shovel strokes.
I wasn’t able to.
And the looks, the hands that touch where never
among strangers: the neck,
the hollow of the arm.
© 2004, Gabriele Poole
DEDICATION: 7.
Thus one absents out of spitefrom a house, thus one leaves
to soil it,
leaving there everything for ever
in the disorder of any usual day.
One last time the new jacket
put it back in the dresser, with a smile: this
is how one should, I thought.
A line, a “See you later”: like this.
At the hospital, the body – smaller
and already elsewhere, someone else.
Recognize who?
I said “Yes,” and thought “No – it’s someone else.”
The finite pain.
Watching TV the whole night
for one night, four nights,
to confound the senses, sleep.
The asphalt a few steps away.
Soft – everywhere – the street.
“In there, he’s in there,” it blinds.
Now the hole, the shovel strokes.
I wasn’t able to.
And the looks, the hands that touch where never
among strangers: the neck,
the hollow of the arm.
© 2004, Gabriele Poole
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