La notte si ingrandiva spessa di neve alla Biurca de Gàvet, tutta luminosa di spilli di ghiaccio e di luna. Dal ponte arrivava una donna giovane vestita di pannolenci.
………………………………………………………………………………………
“Mia piccola nonna, Maria”
Quando ti ha chiuso gli occhi intorno
c’era solo suléugul
e il fumo di una piccola lucerna
pulizia e dignità come nel candore
dei muri di calcina e nel lenzuolo
di canapa e quanto c’è di unico
e di compiuto nell’essere.
…………………………….
Al funerale una foglia avvizzita si librò sul fiume e scomparve. Ogni cosa era avvolta dal freddo. Solo delle pecore erano sperse sulla stretta, flemme, andavano aldilà. Di ritorno, c’era odor di polenta, patate e biancheria lavata. Mangiammo con fame quel che il nonno ci metteva davanti.
An English translation of this poem can be found below:
The night expanded thick with snow at Biurca de Gàvet, all bright pins of ice and moon. A young woman dressed in thin felt came from the bridge. ……………………………………………………………………………
“My little grandmother, Maria”
When you’d closed your eyes around there was only forlornness and the smoke of a small oil lamp
cleanliness and dignity as in the white of the lime-washed walls and in the hempen sheets and how much there is of the inimitable
and of completeness in being. ……………………………
At the funeral a withered leaf drifted on the river’s surface and disappeared. Everything was enveloped by the cold. Only the sheep were scattered along the narrow way, phlegmatically, they moved along. Returning, there was the smell of polenta, potatoes and freshly-washed laundry. We ate with hunger what Grandfather set before us.
(translated by Bonnie McClellan)
for more poems by Giacomo Gusmeroli on this blog, click HERE.
Mai e poi mai dimenticalo – ribadì- quel bene affidato, quel
sentir giusto. Ricordali quei nomi scalpellati
sulle nostre soglie di pietra – le date di nascita e le ……..impronte,
e insieme i canti, quel libro, quell’eco, la conca, le lune;
iöiumé!, e di pre-sera quando il nonno, guadagnato il pane,
tira via dai piedi i calzerotti, mette a posto gli arnesi ………a piano a piano
nel sua rastrelliera; poi, alla fontana, si lava
i piedi, il collo, le mani temprate e i capelli ricciuti.
E, benevolo e straniato, beve a sazietà , portandosi
alla bocca la ciotola di legno – opera delle sue ………opere
povere, fragili, e utili; – beve a testa alta,
più distinto degli altri, il nonno statuario,
il nonno vacillante.
An English translation of this poem can be found below:
Never and then never to be forgotten – resounded – that entrusted good, that feeling of rightness. Remember them, those names chiseled on our stone thresholds – the dates of birth and the imprints,……. and together the songs, that book, that echo, the basin, the moons;
iöiumé!, and in early evening grandfather, having earned his daily bread, pulls heavy socks from his feet, puts his tools in their place row by row……. in the rack; then, at the pump, he washes his feet, his neck, his tempered hands and curly hair.
And, benevolent and apart, drinks his fill, carrying to his mouth the wooden bowl – work of his working……. poor, fragile, and useful; – head high he drinks, more distinct than the others, the statuary grandfather, the vacillating grandfather.
.
(translated by Bonnie McClellan)
for more poems by Giacomo Gusmeroli on this blog, click HERE.
Behind the fifty story dam
in the ninety mile reservoir,
deep in the storied canyons
its moving waters carved when
inner earth raised the Uintas,
the ancient Rio Verde lies at rest.
At the curving concrete wall
the imprisoned waters lap, as if
they hold a memory of power and now
bestilled, restored, clear and cold,
seek once more the freedom to flow,
to wear again the title “river.”
In the dampness and muted roar
two thousand cubic feet per second
of lake surging into motion leaves
hanging in the morning air, a boatman
drops his weight into the rear seat
of a watercraft of wonderful design.
The curved bottomed drift boat responds,
slipping the grip of its transport and
sliding gracefully into the eddy. Now
three elements of adventure are joined:
the river, the boat, and the boatman
in the Red Canyon of the Flaming Gorge.
On currents deep and almost clear as air
they will follow the easterly course
the Green River cut five million years ago,
between cliffs of bent and folded stone
layered in time like pages of a calendar, under
a sky where ospreys glide and eagles soar.
There will be others on the float,
always others in the boat.
For them, trout fishing makes the day.
From them, the boatman takes his pay.
For that, he demonstrates his skill
on waters swift and waters still.
On long flats and slower runs, fishermen
float tiny nymphs on hair-thin tippets
where the trout hang in submarine flotillas.
When the waters quicken, where the canyon narrows,
the river lifts swells like molten glass
that slide unbroken under the white water boil.
There, in the rapids, the drift boat glides
like a dry quarter moon battered in a stormy sky,
into a torrent where men have died, trapped
by the force of water. The man with the oars
touches the river, a stroke, a thrust, redirects
the force, turns the boat on its center to safe water.
Through the day, beneath the stony gaze of faces
trapped in the rocky cliffs, faces that watched
Powell and Ashley pass, the same dance goes on.
Finesse versus force, practice against power,
timing in a torrent, a waterborne ballet choreographed by the river’s moving stage.
At take out, the fishermen case rods and reels,
review the beauty of fish and foliage, both painted in the season’s burnished gold. The boatman releases
his craft from the river’s grasp and winches it up
onto its wheeled transport. He pauses to watch
an osprey pair winging along the now empty stream.
The waters that bore his boat today are gone,
rolling on to swallow the Yampa,to merge
with the force of the mighty Colorado, to reach
beyond its famous canyons to the western sea.
There, to start again the unchanging cycle,
tossing wave to drifting cloud to snowflake falling.
The guide, his boat ungainly on its trailer,
follows the familiar mountain trail that will
take him home and his clients to their lodging.
For the second time today he crosses the high dam,
where in the lake’s chill depths, clear and still,
powerful and impatient, tomorrow’s river waits.
Lee Elsesser
Fort Worth, Texas
To hear Lee’s reading of this poem, click the arrow on the player below:
To hear readings of more poetry by Lee Elsesser, click HERE.
Mais c’est souvent des terribles naufrages
Que surgissent les plus beaux paysages
Que le voilier sur les rochers se soit écrasé
N’implique pas qu’il soit arrivé malheur au timonier
Quand un cavalier monte un cheval
Il ne mange pas la nourriture
Qu’affectionne sa jolie monture
Des délices plus raffinés sont son régal
La caresse frissonnante du vent astral
Au beau milieu d’une pluie d’étoiles
Le tendre enlacement de la Lumière
Dans un velours de dentellière
.
PROVENDER
But from terrible shipwrecks it often is That the most beautiful landscapes arise That on the rocks the broken sailboat lists Misfortune to the helmsman this does not imply
When a rider mounts a horse astride He does not eat the provender Of which his mount is fond But regales himself with delights more refined
The astral wind’s caress shivering Right in the midst of a rain of stars Light’s tender intertwining In a lacemaker’s velvet swath
.
To read more work by GMC, click HERE. To find other poems by GMC on this blog clickHERE.
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*Editor’s Note: I was heartbroken to find Gilles-Marie’s obituary in La Voix du Nord. His pointed, poetic comments and his generous spirit will be deeply missed by everyone who knew him. I am thankful that he left me the archive of his poetry last May and I have chosen to present the work that was previously selected for IPM 2015.
mornings sliced into perfect pieces, afternoons
dipped in honey, evenings freed.
A gift of absence.
To gather and bear, shaping
the resultant minutes,
she takes yeast from the air, adds
flour, water and salt.
Matched with the ripening
hour and the sweetened bitter taste,
I recall how blood
seeped through the towel, and
observe on the table the
cheese, plums, the harvested day.
.
To listen to a reading of the poem, click on the player below:
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You can find more poetry by Robert Okaji on his blog HERE on in his new chapbook “If Your Matter Could Reform” which will be published in April of this year as the first book in the National Poetry Month series by Dink Press
To listen to the poet’s reading of this poem in English click on the audio below:
You can read more of Anna Mosca’s “California Notebooks” by clickingHERE.Leggi più dei “quaderni californiani” di Anna MoscaQUI.
I was swimming under water,
Noticed, I couldn’t breathe.
Had to come out of the water,
To get air so fresh, with ease.
But I didn’t. I kept searching,
Suffocating inbetween.
As my brain was never watching,
Wondering, what could have been.
It was blurry, dark and scary,
I could never be like fish.
Knowing what was necessary,
But denying biggest wish.
If I only searched around,
And looked up to see the sun.
Noticed approaching ground,
Breathed fresh air and had some fun.
Gloomy thoughts and wrong perceptions
Keep us underwater stuck.
Never making right connections,
Never seeing any luck.
Sun like hope and gracious wonder.
All you have to do is see.
Don’t stay down to suffer under,
Look above the stormy sea…
Copyright 2015 Helen Frenkel
Helen Frenkel is a poet from the Ukraine now living in the USA. She writes poetry in Ukranian, Russian and English. More of her poetry can be found on her Facebook page by clicking on the following link: Helen Frenkel, Poet
An English translation of this poem can be found below:
for you Daniela.………………………….……………………………….
The choice
I knew it was her when she was there at the chestnut tree; I knew
not by the All-Stars, the earring, – no; by other things:…….. the stumbling over a stone, the vigorous, coltish stride. Reined in,…….. body curved against the rock, searching for a hiding place, a recess, a bit more time, before showing myself, before calling to her. For me, she, had waited that time, that time of anguish and uncertainty, for me contemplative without possessions and confused by choices. I leant silent at the wall’s base,…….. scrutinizing intently the glimpse of the torrent, as if I were scrutinizing…….. my own life. And I heard “hey” feeling warm and close, her breath. At the summit the monastery,…….. cast the belltower’s shadow on the barrier; and in an instant,
the instant of glancing touch, there I became far, tied again to the past.
(translated by Bonnie McClellan)
for more poems by Giacomo Gusmeroli on this blog, click HERE.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 