L’Italie L’ondon (poetry)

itlon-copy-web

 

A short book I wrote, designed and now print: 14 Italian poems,

translated in English by Damien Hazell

and edited by Giovanna Coppola

LitalieLondon £6 :

 

You can listen to a few (Italian only) poems here

 

Some below.

 

 

L’ITALIE

 

I began to think that there things could only happen

On a linguistic level at a dinner party

On the fourth floor, with second conditionals, maybe third.

Errors of execution or silence. La mia vita, Marcello:

Don’t come here.

 

The protagonists of the protagonists, Leos of August,

It’ll never be my turn here. “This evening you’re more lovely than usual” he said

And I answered that it’s only because of the Tyrolean dress.

 

Amongst my wounded memories

And the unexploded mines: the Pantheon.

 

*

 

L’ONDON

 

On the train in my wide-lapelled aviator dress, a standard model always

Coming to a cinema near you. Depart London on the train

And the countryside will take your eyes, and the oaks – and your eyes.

 

At times in the early morning I look at my life which at this hour

Acquiesces with the light in the room and I wonder, how did this happen:

Am I taking the place of another intentionally or by error,

And is this my error or someone else’s.

 

*

 

“Don’t give it a thought”. The grand finale of the quinquennial

In the empire style of coincidences.

The confiscation of time, of eyes, of the snow.

 

Inhale deeply by the Thames and you sense Venice,

The source is the same, a minute extradition.

 

*

I’ve been living in a Murano glass globe, I twirl and the snow falls.

Evenings are spent cartwheeling, watching the skiers coming out of my eyes,

The view from the 480 meters above sea level, where I was born

Where everyone was born, at St Camillo’s above the sea.

 

The girls from the village days, the expansion of a world of conditionals,

Of everything will be okay, the neighbourhood and the origin of the axis

And the eyes and the world, which detach like spaceships and autumn leaves.

 

The quinquennial 04-09 was the phone extension someone always picked up,

Emotional long distance calls, moving back and forth

To see how far the cord stretched, jump rope in the yard.

 

Then I bet everything on a carousel horse,

And we started to go around.

 

*

The bouncers at the doors of the registry office: the names, Love

We have no names. Only clockwork souvenirs driven by an oversight

And a nursery rhyme: I wish to wish the wish you wish

But it isn’t that you forget things,

It’s just that at a certain point they are no longer true.

After the wonder submerged.

 

And if I went back and rewound the reel,

If I remained a primadonna in a Tyrolean dress, stupefied by their smiles:

“They should makes dolls of you to sell” he said.

 

But something is burning, burning like Babas.

 

Italie, what were the things I smiled about

With green eyes firmly closed.

 

* *

 

 



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