martedì 1 maggio 2018

Marina Pizzi translated into English by Maurizio Brancaleoni


Marina Pizzi was born on 5th May 1955 and is based in Rome. In her literary career she has published over fifty books of poetry both on paper and in electronic format.
The two following poems come from her digital collection "Soqquadri del pane vieto" (2010-2011), which can be found on a number of websites both as a PDF file and as a single post.


* I diritti d'autore delle traduzioni qui pubblicate sono legittima proprietà dell'autore e non possono essere riprodotte in alcuna forma e su alcun supporto senza previa autorizzazione.* The copyrights for the translations published herein are the legitimate property of the author and may not be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior authorization.*

22.
i wish i could lose the detritus
of my pain but instead a relentless 
computer nibbles at the friction
in the flesh. i alternate jocular eagles
with tender mosses and soft lichens.
the array of the male dolls
does not help me to laugh, fear
stations me the abrased dark queen
room of agony. the veil tearing me
life is a boys' prank
without remedy. I descend from the hoi polloi to the ground
only to live without god or the saint's permission.
rancid beer swirls in my throat
where the pupil learns that his mother is mortal
even more than like father's doubt. i converge with
the cream of the populace to feign youth
or the vanessa butterfly that i find on the roadside
miracolous nexus of love for innumerable
prohibitions. funereal flowers with noble
corollæ wait to be thrown away. billions 
of spores cannot make a life.


55.
do not be late in loving me
i am crying out of levy
since the solicitousness about the surrender
imposes bundles of whirls
that are fixed in the pain.
the graves going round the world
smear the crystal of origin
the naked carousel of crying again
denied alms. now comes the agony
of the yes for the betrayed newlywed bride. in the throat
of the tempest to betray
let the majesty's doubt appear
this lopsided she-saint's halo
mother gone over the border.
ruefulness of heirloom watching you
dead at the altar with the coffin in your face. 
crude winners don't like talent.



Nessun commento:

Posta un commento