ten years later, ph Ketevan Dumbadze 2018
The aviator
He flew off and turned out to be
right.
They praised him, blessed him, bent
his neck down.
He flew off again, and again turned
out to be right.
They gave him a reception and didn’t
grudge him bread, water and
a comb for his wing and plumage.
He flew off a third time and this
time, too, he turned out to be right.
They put up with him, tolerated him.
He flew off a fourth time and turned
out to be in the wrong.
They called him a silly plagiarizer
of an angel.
But he still flew off a fifth time –
they fired at him.
They killed him.
L’aviatore
Volò via e
evidenziò di avere ragione. (dimostrò la sua destrezza)
Lo
apprezzarono, benedissero, gli piegarono il collo.
Volò via di
nuovo, e di nuovo evidenziò di avere ragione.
Gli diedero
un’accoglienza e non gli negarono pane, acqua e
un pettine per
ali e piumaggio.
Volò via una
terzavolta e stavolta, anche, evidenziò di avere ragione.
Lo misero da
parte, lo tollerarono.
Volò via una
quarta volta e evidenziò essere nel torto.
Lo chiamarono
stupido plagio di un angelo.
Ma volò via
ancora una quinta volta –
fecero fuoco
su di lui.
Lo
uccisero.
Learn
me by heart
Learn me by heart this evening,
then lie down and go to sleep.
In the morning, when you wake up,
repeat it to me.
I shall lie down by your side and
I shall go sweetly to sleep,
I shall see you in my dreams with your head bent over me,
and muttering.
I shall dream of you telling me about trees, stars,
as you go out into the town and
entrust an object to each person you meet
with the name ‘Shota’.
Learn
me by heart this evening,
then go to sleep and be all alert,
only in the morning
entrust me to people and things,
prayers,
grasses.
then go to sleep and be all alert,
only in the morning
entrust me to people and things,
prayers,
grasses.
Perhaps
I’m a poem,
perhaps I’m a man,
perhaps I’m bamboo.
perhaps I’m a man,
perhaps I’m bamboo.
Learn
me by heart,
or just swot me up –
that’s ok for me.
or just swot me up –
that’s ok for me.
Imparami a
memoria
Imparami a memoria stasera,
poi coricati e
vai a dormire.
Al mattino
quando ti svegli,
ripetimelo.
Mi coricherò
al tuo fianco e
andrò
dolcemente a dormire,
ti vedrò nei
miei sogni con la testa inclinata su di me,
e mormorando.
Sognerò di te
che mi dici di alberi, stelle,
mentre esci,
vai in città e
affidi un
oggetto a ogni persona che incontri
a nome
‘Shota’.
Imparami a
memoria stasera,
poi vai a
dormire e stai attenta,
solo al
mattino
affidami a
persone e cose,
preghiere,
erbe.
Forse sono una
poesia,
forse sono un
uomo,
forse sono
bambù.
Imparami a
memoria,
o sgobba solo
su di me -
per
me va bene.
Nome, cognome
Siamo un nome e un cognome,
(dalla traduzione inglese di Anna Grig)
DRAWING A LINE BETWEEN METEOROLOGY AND POETRY
I
Finally one should refuse to use
Words denoting elemental phenomena,
Especially when depicting
Human spiritual experiences and frames of mind.
Poetry in the present and future tenses must be constructed otherwise.
II
I watch through the window.
The rain rains in poems sung for the thousandth time,
The snow snows in poems sung for the thousandth time.
I go outside.
There’s nothing poetic about the wind.
It just makes my trousers flap,
Strikes my face and confuses my thoughts,
Which pretty well confirms
My theoretical deliberations:
Poetry and meteorology
Have over time come to quarrel with each other,
And now’s the time for them
Each to mind their own business.
III
My grandmother (on my father’s side), Mariam Iatashvili,
Was a meteorologist.
My grandfather (on my mother’s side), Parmen Rurua,
Was a poet.
Since childhood the things that sounded most poetic to me
Were the names of various types of cloud.
My grandmother would point to the sky and teach me,
‘Cumulus, stratocumulus.’
But a lot of time passed after that.
And today I,
However regrettable and odd it may be,
Am coming out with an exposé
Of the unpoetic nature of meteorology
And the unmeteorological nature of poetry.
IV
I expect you realise,
This is no easy subject.
All the more so if you’ve written lines, like:
‘The wind is in the soul, o watery-eyed Maria,
The wind is in the soul, whether it’s dark or day-long light…’
And quite a few similar other things.
Yes this is no easy subject.
But I am nevertheless doing this
So that in future life and poetry
There should be no rain falling from my eyes,
No snow falling on my hair,
No wind lurking in my soul.
V
I wrote this poem
As a weather forecast for poetry
And I walked out into the street,
Where an unpoetic wind
Flapped my trousers and
Hit my face.
Finally one should refuse to use
Words denoting elemental phenomena,
Especially when depicting
Human spiritual experiences and frames of mind.
Poetry in the present and future tenses must be constructed otherwise.
II
I watch through the window.
The rain rains in poems sung for the thousandth time,
The snow snows in poems sung for the thousandth time.
I go outside.
There’s nothing poetic about the wind.
It just makes my trousers flap,
Strikes my face and confuses my thoughts,
Which pretty well confirms
My theoretical deliberations:
Poetry and meteorology
Have over time come to quarrel with each other,
And now’s the time for them
Each to mind their own business.
III
My grandmother (on my father’s side), Mariam Iatashvili,
Was a meteorologist.
My grandfather (on my mother’s side), Parmen Rurua,
Was a poet.
Since childhood the things that sounded most poetic to me
Were the names of various types of cloud.
My grandmother would point to the sky and teach me,
‘Cumulus, stratocumulus.’
But a lot of time passed after that.
And today I,
However regrettable and odd it may be,
Am coming out with an exposé
Of the unpoetic nature of meteorology
And the unmeteorological nature of poetry.
IV
I expect you realise,
This is no easy subject.
All the more so if you’ve written lines, like:
‘The wind is in the soul, o watery-eyed Maria,
The wind is in the soul, whether it’s dark or day-long light…’
And quite a few similar other things.
Yes this is no easy subject.
But I am nevertheless doing this
So that in future life and poetry
There should be no rain falling from my eyes,
No snow falling on my hair,
No wind lurking in my soul.
V
I wrote this poem
As a weather forecast for poetry
And I walked out into the street,
Where an unpoetic wind
Flapped my trousers and
Hit my face.
ELEGY
A very sad vehicle
Stopped in the street.
On worn-out tyres
It stopped for a few minutes,
Then the tired-out headlights
Lit up the night’s deserted asphalt,
It pondered something for a few seconds,
It dithered.
The lorry finally dragged itself off
And tottered off
In a vague direction.
I stood there,
Leaning against a tree,
And I wanted
To yell out at it,
“Wait a moment, wait, friend!”
But “vehicle No. NIN101”
I just said to myself
And for some reason
I memorized for the rest of my life
This name and
The look and
The sluggish motion.
Stopped in the street.
On worn-out tyres
It stopped for a few minutes,
Then the tired-out headlights
Lit up the night’s deserted asphalt,
It pondered something for a few seconds,
It dithered.
The lorry finally dragged itself off
And tottered off
In a vague direction.
I stood there,
Leaning against a tree,
And I wanted
To yell out at it,
“Wait a moment, wait, friend!”
But “vehicle No. NIN101”
I just said to myself
And for some reason
I memorized for the rest of my life
This name and
The look and
The sluggish motion.
A KISS
When you have word-deficiency diabetes,
Three teaspoonfuls of words
I put in your blood and mix them in well,
At the same time I blow in breath
So that I cool it quickly and
Then I put the
Meanwhile I hold the cup
With both hands,
Gripping it tight.
And when I put the empty cup
On the ground and from the bottom of it
I hear some hesitant
Sounds rising up,
I feel in them
The linguistic
Sweetness
Of the sugar I added.
Three teaspoonfuls of words
I put in your blood and mix them in well,
At the same time I blow in breath
So that I cool it quickly and
Then I put the
Meanwhile I hold the cup
With both hands,
Gripping it tight.
And when I put the empty cup
On the ground and from the bottom of it
I hear some hesitant
Sounds rising up,
I feel in them
The linguistic
Sweetness
Of the sugar I added.
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento
here we are