Poem
Elisa Biagini
MORGUE
Dead man in the firehis stretched skin
a burnt out pink
like dead paper,
only the label doesn’t burn
and the string.
It’s reflected, enormous, in my eye.
**
On the dune of the nose
a mark, only,
rough-hewn,
a hollow to collect liquids.
The very eyes have a fading hue.
**
Half a look
red,
a horizon
a hanging rag stooping to the black hole,
to the half screen.
Meanwhile,
under the fire,
pendant of bones
the sheltered face,
the respected symmetry of the dead.
**
Fingerprints have fallen in the dark
and shrunk.
They got soaked
then were immediately dried
by an overkilling draught
coming out of a dim
but deep opening
here,
just above the wrist.
**
Crooked stigmata
mark from a mistaken aim
now a dried scar,
a navel,
but without organs inside
just tubes.
**
You lose your eyes
they drown in the sea of humors
where glassy melts into watery
and the pupil too,
some dough falls onto my hands-
the well of all photons.
**
In the curves of the hands
in the loops,
see that misfallen
shade,
plumbago, almost
and the shell-nails
match with the spots of the skin.
**
You are the very closest to sleep,
paper bracelet
label of a dispatched suitcase-
submerged
in this odd remnant
without a request.
Fish love your pallor,
bare hand.
**
A hug in the invisible air
like the arm of a headless crane
standing
as in a far-off attention
the skin is so rough:
the last shiver while freezing.
**
Slips out the blanket from the face
the plastic shroud,
dull like sour milk,
reveals two empty plates
two shutters fallen on the bone,
every speech is vain.
**
Finger touching finger
around the wrist,
it’s the mark of the sock:
it’s the pause of the liquids
with time.
**
There is no sample
of that sound,
you can only imagine that step
or the drop that falls
and fades it.
**
Poison-dried, not a drop.
A desert in the body:
the very blood is dust
from the wound
like grains from a sandglass
lost outside of the clockwork.
**
The nails,
deaf to silence
keep on working
because they know
that darkness has no grips
everything is straight and smooth
like a well.
**
Under the surface wind and bones
but from here light and on the table
the shape
covered
the dress on the face,
a wave of detergent
that blinds you.
**
A last photogram between the eyelashes
a pupil still in its frame
tile-like
the curdled tear:
gets caught on the film light and still veils
the glassy eye
the marble, glazed with oversleeping.
**
Years sunken
in the emptiness
of the ear
time dissolves,
a stained eye
with commas and full stops left
under the black well of the voice.
A body felted by wrong washings
and some dark spots
won’t go away
they are like holes
made by bugs:
you’re moth-eaten.
At every cough
you put out a candle
your heart is darkness.
© Translation: 1998, Elisa Biagini
Morgue
Morgue
Morto di fuocola sua pelle tira
è un rosa che si spegne
è carta morta,
solo il cartello non arde
con lo spago:
si specchia enorme nella mia pupilla.
**
Sulla duna del naso
giusto un segno
come d’accetta,
incavo per i liquidi
e il colore dagli occhi: come stinti.
**
Mezzo sguardo
di rosso,
un orizzonte
un cencio teso s’inchina la buco nero,
al mezzo schermo
e intanto
sotto il fuoco,
pendagli d’osso
il viso ricoperto,
la rispettata simmetria del morto.
**
Polpastrelli caduti nel buio
e ritirati.
Imbevuti
e poi subito seccati
per la troppa corrente,
da un’apertura incerta
ma profonda,
di poco sopra il polso.
**
Stigmate storta,
una mira presa male
adesso traccia asciugata,
un ombelico
ma senza organi dentro
solo tubi.
**
Perdi gli occhi
annegano nel mare degli umori
e vitreo e acqueo si fondono
e pupilla,
una pasta ti cade tra le mani,
il pozzo di tutti i fotoni.
**
Nelle curve di mani
nelle anse,
tutta quell’ombra
che cade male,
quasi grafite
e le conchiglie d’unghie
in tono con le macchie della pelle.
**
Sei il più vicino al sonno,
bracciale di carta
etichetta per valigia già arrivata:
immerso
in questo scampolo
senza una richiesta,
il pallore così caro ai pesci,
mano nuda.
**
Un abbraccio nell’aria
che non vedi,
braccio di gru
rimasto senza testa
in un attenti lontano anni luce:
la pelle e’ così ruvida,
l’ultimo brivido nella surgelazione.
**
Si ritira dal viso la coperta
il sudario di plastica
opaco come latte andato a male,
scopre due piatti vuoti
due bandoni caduti sopra l’osso,
fermato ogni discorso.
**
Toccare dito a dito
intorno al polso
e’ il segno del calzino:
e’ la sosta dei liquidi
col tempo.
**
Non c’e’ campionatura
di quel suono,
puoi solo immaginare di quel passo
o la goccia che scende
e lo stinge.
**
Seccata dal veleno, più una goccia
nel suo corpo un deserto:
anche il sangue di polvere
e dal taglio come grani di clessidra
perduti fuori dal meccanismo.
**
Le unghie,
sorde al silenzio,
continuano il lavoro
perchè sanno
che il buio ha pochi appigli,
è tutto liscio e dritto come un pozzo.
**
Sotto la superficie vento ed ossa
ma da qui luce e sul tavolo
la forma,
coperta,
vestito sul viso,
un’onda di detersivo che t’acceca.
**
Un ultimo fotogramma tra le ciglia,
pupilla ferma nella sua cornice
mattonella,
la lacrima cagliata:
sul film la luce che s’impiglia
e vela ancora
l’occhio di vetro
la biglia opaca dal troppo dormire.
**
Gli anni precipitati
nel vuoto
nell’orecchio
il tempo in soluzione,
l’occhio macchiato
di come punti o virgole lasciati
e sotto il pozzo nero della voce.
Corpo infeltrito da lavaggi sbagliati
e certe chiazze scure che non vanno
sono buchi
come d’insetto:
sei tarmata.
Ogni colpo di tosse
spengi una candela: il tuo e’ cuore di buio.
© 1998, Elisa Biagini
From: Sesto quaderno italiano di poesia contemporanea
Publisher: Marcos y Marcos,
From: Sesto quaderno italiano di poesia contemporanea
Publisher: Marcos y Marcos,
Poems
Poems of Elisa Biagini
Close
MORGUE
Dead man in the firehis stretched skin
a burnt out pink
like dead paper,
only the label doesn’t burn
and the string.
It’s reflected, enormous, in my eye.
**
On the dune of the nose
a mark, only,
rough-hewn,
a hollow to collect liquids.
The very eyes have a fading hue.
**
Half a look
red,
a horizon
a hanging rag stooping to the black hole,
to the half screen.
Meanwhile,
under the fire,
pendant of bones
the sheltered face,
the respected symmetry of the dead.
**
Fingerprints have fallen in the dark
and shrunk.
They got soaked
then were immediately dried
by an overkilling draught
coming out of a dim
but deep opening
here,
just above the wrist.
**
Crooked stigmata
mark from a mistaken aim
now a dried scar,
a navel,
but without organs inside
just tubes.
**
You lose your eyes
they drown in the sea of humors
where glassy melts into watery
and the pupil too,
some dough falls onto my hands-
the well of all photons.
**
In the curves of the hands
in the loops,
see that misfallen
shade,
plumbago, almost
and the shell-nails
match with the spots of the skin.
**
You are the very closest to sleep,
paper bracelet
label of a dispatched suitcase-
submerged
in this odd remnant
without a request.
Fish love your pallor,
bare hand.
**
A hug in the invisible air
like the arm of a headless crane
standing
as in a far-off attention
the skin is so rough:
the last shiver while freezing.
**
Slips out the blanket from the face
the plastic shroud,
dull like sour milk,
reveals two empty plates
two shutters fallen on the bone,
every speech is vain.
**
Finger touching finger
around the wrist,
it’s the mark of the sock:
it’s the pause of the liquids
with time.
**
There is no sample
of that sound,
you can only imagine that step
or the drop that falls
and fades it.
**
Poison-dried, not a drop.
A desert in the body:
the very blood is dust
from the wound
like grains from a sandglass
lost outside of the clockwork.
**
The nails,
deaf to silence
keep on working
because they know
that darkness has no grips
everything is straight and smooth
like a well.
**
Under the surface wind and bones
but from here light and on the table
the shape
covered
the dress on the face,
a wave of detergent
that blinds you.
**
A last photogram between the eyelashes
a pupil still in its frame
tile-like
the curdled tear:
gets caught on the film light and still veils
the glassy eye
the marble, glazed with oversleeping.
**
Years sunken
in the emptiness
of the ear
time dissolves,
a stained eye
with commas and full stops left
under the black well of the voice.
A body felted by wrong washings
and some dark spots
won’t go away
they are like holes
made by bugs:
you’re moth-eaten.
At every cough
you put out a candle
your heart is darkness.
© 1998, Elisa Biagini
From: Sesto quaderno italiano di poesia contemporanea
From: Sesto quaderno italiano di poesia contemporanea
MORGUE
Dead man in the firehis stretched skin
a burnt out pink
like dead paper,
only the label doesn’t burn
and the string.
It’s reflected, enormous, in my eye.
**
On the dune of the nose
a mark, only,
rough-hewn,
a hollow to collect liquids.
The very eyes have a fading hue.
**
Half a look
red,
a horizon
a hanging rag stooping to the black hole,
to the half screen.
Meanwhile,
under the fire,
pendant of bones
the sheltered face,
the respected symmetry of the dead.
**
Fingerprints have fallen in the dark
and shrunk.
They got soaked
then were immediately dried
by an overkilling draught
coming out of a dim
but deep opening
here,
just above the wrist.
**
Crooked stigmata
mark from a mistaken aim
now a dried scar,
a navel,
but without organs inside
just tubes.
**
You lose your eyes
they drown in the sea of humors
where glassy melts into watery
and the pupil too,
some dough falls onto my hands-
the well of all photons.
**
In the curves of the hands
in the loops,
see that misfallen
shade,
plumbago, almost
and the shell-nails
match with the spots of the skin.
**
You are the very closest to sleep,
paper bracelet
label of a dispatched suitcase-
submerged
in this odd remnant
without a request.
Fish love your pallor,
bare hand.
**
A hug in the invisible air
like the arm of a headless crane
standing
as in a far-off attention
the skin is so rough:
the last shiver while freezing.
**
Slips out the blanket from the face
the plastic shroud,
dull like sour milk,
reveals two empty plates
two shutters fallen on the bone,
every speech is vain.
**
Finger touching finger
around the wrist,
it’s the mark of the sock:
it’s the pause of the liquids
with time.
**
There is no sample
of that sound,
you can only imagine that step
or the drop that falls
and fades it.
**
Poison-dried, not a drop.
A desert in the body:
the very blood is dust
from the wound
like grains from a sandglass
lost outside of the clockwork.
**
The nails,
deaf to silence
keep on working
because they know
that darkness has no grips
everything is straight and smooth
like a well.
**
Under the surface wind and bones
but from here light and on the table
the shape
covered
the dress on the face,
a wave of detergent
that blinds you.
**
A last photogram between the eyelashes
a pupil still in its frame
tile-like
the curdled tear:
gets caught on the film light and still veils
the glassy eye
the marble, glazed with oversleeping.
**
Years sunken
in the emptiness
of the ear
time dissolves,
a stained eye
with commas and full stops left
under the black well of the voice.
A body felted by wrong washings
and some dark spots
won’t go away
they are like holes
made by bugs:
you’re moth-eaten.
At every cough
you put out a candle
your heart is darkness.
© 1998, Elisa Biagini
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