verses in english - in a closed room, wailing

i. no sound

Silence is what happens when not a whisper
passes your lips:

they're parted but only breath goes
in and
out

the air is still as if
someone switched off the wind

the trees wait,
branches clenched,
for what is sure to come.

But nothing comes.

no sound no noise no stirring motion
no sweet nothings murmurred in someone's eager ear

in the cardiac ward
a man's chest heaves heavily but
it's quiet, his hold on life

the volume on the baby's wail has been
turned down low:

one day
when he's all grown up
he'll close his mouth when screaming.

silence is what happens when you press
mute on the remote:

then watch the actors move their mouths
like guppies, out of water,

struggling for air.


ii. memory
i want to write something beautiful, today:
i want to capture Florence
in a line, maybe two

then take her home with me
and re-read her
when the English sky speaks only in grey.

the sun: the hot sun—
i want to imprint it on the page

when i open this notebook
it'll blind my eyes... and I'll see only

Florence, Florence: always and forever,
Florence

in a dark room, quietly,
i'll move myself to tears

feeling nothing but the ache
of feet battered by cobblestone streets

seeing everything:
lampposts churches bridges people

so many people -
so many people in Florence:

tourists artists writers explorers
and the Florentines... i always forget the Florentines

here i am, ready to write something beautiful -
with just a hint of a tuscan accent

to allow me to re-fresh my palate
when english will have engulfed
my senses once more.


iii. untitled
I am the inaccessible vag.

Legs spread wide

At my desk – on the tube – on my bicycle when I’m
Feeling green and
Political

But encased I’ll still remain

Seven years ago my then-boyfriend
Made me wet in the pub
Stuck his finger up me and wriggled

I sat – I shuddered –
What a woman I was, in my
High-heel boots

What a woman I will be
When the cellophane

Finally comes off

The meat of my clit
Shiny

and new.

shit-hot

intellectualise?
man, i can't even think.

chest heaving, face hot
hands frozen over the keyboard -
throat closed -

language blocked

the only expressions I can find are
purely physiological

‘he makes me piss myself laughing... he makes my
legs go
like jelly –

you know my pussy's never been so wet?
mm hmm, mm hmm -
fuck me, it was hard’

and so over the sound of
sharp incredulous breaths

(a reluctant audience that doesn’t want to know)

I find myself, dirtied,
chest heaving - shit-hot - smutty-fingered - foul-mouthed

spewing filth over the keyboard
like a born-again whore

versi italiani 2 - in una stanza chiusa

i. assaporando
mi dice che il dolore va assaporato
e io, con il telefono stretto
aspetto che le sue parole
mi scendano dentro:
mi preparo ad assaporare

sento scricchiolare le orecchie
sento l’aria girare nella stanza
sento le sue parole
scendermi giu’

sento il dolore—io che odio sentire
ascolto il dolore—io che odio ascoltare

lo tengo stretto stretto
come i cuscini
che finalmente ho dato via
perche’ prendavano polvere

dopo, appoggio il telefono al suo posto e
la testa direttamente sul materasso
fisso lo sguardo sul soffitto buio e
immagino cosa potrei offrire io -

ad un panorama di dolori acuti
o di dolori tenui—come onde impercepibili su un mare calmo
—di dolori che fioriscono su campi
vasti, infiniti

intere urne di dolore—
ceneri da distribuire—
salme da porre:
"dolore, ehila’, dolore da vendere"

poi, ancora,
dolore da sacrificare
sugli altari di qualche dio straniero
cosi’ difficile da comprendere
cosi’ difficile da accontentare

la stanza viene allagata:
un diluvio di dolore
suo—loro—nostro— indistinto—

ed io, piccola piccola,
sotto tutte quelle onde,
un’Atlante moderno
che con un dito fa crollare il mondo
ma salva le maree


ii. allagamento
(per dario)
invece, io, –
I’m looking to express …

soltanto che poi
m’inceppo – inciampo – m’incanto – mi
blocco

e cosi’ resto a
meta’ frase:
I haven’t said a damn thing

e tu li’ che aspetti.

il silenzio si allunga – si allarga –
allaga la stanza
(noi nuotiamo)

but then I realise,
while treading water,
che quello che provo sta

da qualche parte

a due inmezzo lingue

che s’incrociano s’incontrano - scavano e si dimenano
cercano poi si ritraggono tra un morso e
un muggito

e le parole, intanto, scappano

corrono – corrono
e mi… no, ci… lasciano

qui, qui, senza fiato, qui.


iii. ricordo
voglio scrivere qualcosa di bello, oggi:
voglio catturare Firenze in
qualche frase

per potermela rileggere
quando il cielo grigio inglese
mi dice cose che non voglio sentire

il sole cocente
lo voglio imprimere su un foglio:
quando apriro' questo quaderno
mi accechera' la vista

e cosi' vedro' soltanto
Firenze Firenze... e ancora Firenze

mi commuovero' da sola
in una stanza buia

dove non sentiro' altro che i piedi
dolenti
dopo ore di cammino su
strade di coccio

dove in cui vedro tutto:

lampioni chiese ponti gente...

quanta gente: quanta gente a Firenze
turisti artisti scrittori esploratori

e i fiorentini:
mi dimentico sempre dei fiorentini

ecco che mi preparo a scrivere qualcosa di bello:
lasciando tracce di un
accento fiorentino,
per potermi rifare il palato

quando di nuovo l'inglese
mi avra' ingulfato i sensi.

culture wars: and the robots are winning

damn, I feel contemporary
shaking my ass to
computer-generated music

(the raging storm outside
doesn’t make a sound)

a friend made me a playlist
he called it culture wars -

he saw us clashing,
us and the robots

he said: it’s all about the hi-fi.

he said: the robots are winning and
what we’ll be left with is machine noise.

(I thought: who needs rainfall when you’ve got cymbal clashes
on your finger tips?)

machine beats - machine raps - machine cha-cha-chas:
incessant noises, barrelling through space

(no need for anything beyond the
electric)

damn, I said to him
damn, you make me feel contemporary

you and your beeping and your mechanical tapping
you and your fancy funky fucked-up beats

you make me feel like a robot -
you make me feel like a hot shot

baby, give me a culture war anyday

(and the storm gave up the fight –
no one was listening)

across cyberspace, he smiled:
i got a cd the next day.

versi italiani 1 - in viaggio

capolinea
e cosi’ siamo arrivate al
punto.

in inglese si dice full stop –
una fermata piena; una pienezza di staticita’
siamo arrivate
ad essere colme:
ad essere fisse.

in Americano il punto e’
period
come se alla fine la fine non ci fosse
c’e’ solo un periodo,
e quel periodo… non finisce mai

ma noi due abbiamo finito
l’ultima fermata l’hanno annunciata—
probabilmente hanno ripetuto l’annuncio
in una lingua dopo l’altra
perche’ la gente al giorno d’oggi parla tante lingue, sai

non e’ piu’ come nei film in bianco e nero
attori americani da un’accento solo:
fatti con lo stampino – fatti per essere copiati

la gente al giorno d’oggi cambia
nazionalita’ genere preferenze sessuali carriera religione
parlando, cambia idea. parlando, litiga e se ne va –

scende da un treno e sale sul prossimo
giusto per consolarsi con un
caffe’ d’asporto:
alla gente d’oggi
non interessa arrivare alla fine.

e intanto noi – hai visto? – eccoci a capolinea
il treno in un’attimo si e’ svuotato
o forse lo era gia’
rimane un vago odore d’urina –
il puzzo di ascelle so che e’ il mio

la fine in realta’ non e’ mai come nei film:
nemmeno quelli di oggi,
con i loro tentativi di rappresentare
una civilta’ che fa avanti indietro
sempre sulle stesse rotaie –

e che delle sottilezze del linguaggio gliene fotte assai.

ma io e te, dove siamo?
mi sa che il treno e’ ripartito – dal capolinea stiamo tornando indietro.
guarda: il paesaggio va all’incontrario

mi verrebbe da ignorare sperare che tu non nota il puzzo di ascelle che so che e’ il mio
agitare le mani e con grandi gesti
spiegarti affannatamente
come mai non siamo in declino –
come mai c’e’ ancora speranza –

come mai le parole valgono tanto.
e vale tanto
che noi due siamo qui.

ma mi fermo: ci metto un punto.
e poi aspetto che nel silenzio
si riveli la pienezza
di una vera fine.


il viaggiatore
raccontami, stasera, delle tue avventure
sei stato lontano
per quanto tempo non ti ho visto
adesso voglio sapere
chi sei diventato?

sembrera’ una banalita’
ma in un’anno
un giorno
un lampo
si puo’ cambiare

e tu, mi sa,
sei diventato non piu’ te
ma il viaggiatore, lo straniero—
il tizio di passaggio
che non si fermera’ a lungo

quello da lontano e’ colui
che racconta cio’ che ha vissuto
o senno’
mantiene un’aria
misteriosa che seduce tutti

ebbene si’

anch’io ho aspettato
che ritornassi dai tuoi viaggi
che ritornassi qui tra noi
che ritornassi – che ritornassi
che ritornassi in te

ma non funziona cosi’: perche’
colui che torna –
che si assenta per poi reimpatriare –
sara’ uno che non puo’
ridiventare sedentario

il viaggiatore, adesso sei

e anche se come un boomerang
sei di nuovo qui
e’ l’altra parte
che e’ tornata indietro:
e tu sei all’incontrario

eccoti qui fresco fresco
liberato dai tuoi trip mentali
pulito lindo sbiancato: fantasticamente
immacolato
la candeggina al posto degli occhi

il viaggiatore e’ di nuovo a casa
le sue valige stanno nell’atrio
il viaggiatore spaesato
tra soste stanze e sostanza
un poveretto che seduce pochi—e anche loro per puro caso

perche’ cio’ che
incuriosisce
non e’ quello di adesso
ma la traccia di cio’ che
e’ stato prima

(il viaggiatore che poi forse
non e’ andato
cosi’ lontano)

raccontami, dai, racconta
oggi domani dopo domani
le vicende di ieri e ier l’altro
di quando eri in transito
e poi

raccontami: cosa te ne pare,
della terra ferma?


di tutti e di nessuno
‘Io mi sono data a tutti
Ma non mi ha visto nessuno’

Me lo disse sorridendo
(Perche’ lei sorrideva sempre)

Noi due al bagno
sugli scogli – in cabina –
sulla riva, ma lontani dalle onde

Poi a casa di nuovo, capelli bagnati
Sabbia nelle scarpe
Labbra appiccicose di Maxibon

‘Quante cose ti vorrei raccontare ‘
(E sempre sorrideva)

Me la immaginavo, poi, in treno verso la citta’:
Vedevo la valigia semi-vuota
Le sopraciglia innarcate
Lo sguardo intento -
Lo sguardo preoccupato

‘Ti penso sempre’, diceva
(E sapevo che era una bugia)

Intanto lei camminava quasi correndo
Di fretta verso la prossima fermata
Di fretta, sempre di fretta – con il fiato affannato
Con la fronte lucida lucida
E gli occhi mai attenti

Era solo una questione di tempo
Prima che (sorridendo) se ne andasse

singing the blues

forecast
there are days without poetry—
when each syllable you utter
falls flat

in the morning
grey light came through the window
heavy-footed and sullen
resenting its task
i am not your butler i am not your secretary i am not i am not i am not i am not—
and because no one listened
it took satisfaction instead
from making your eyes smart with pain

later in the day you
say something to someone
they look at you oddly
you realise your comment
was displaced out-of-place fitting-for-no-place
a homeless sentence looking
for a place of its own
you say to yourself
it’s the grey light’s fault

meanwhile
the volatile sky does
nothing for anybody
it takes care of itself—
hires employees by the dozen
has them doing
jack-shit all day
light technicians sunlight sponsors
workers of the third division—
the good weather division
the keep-mankind-smiling division
the zeus-is-peanuts-in-comparison
and who-would’ve-thought
a-sunny-day-could-save-me division

the division that now
takes tea breaks all afternoon
doesn’t show up till twelve
—there’s nothing to do—
is, slowly,
turning beige with boredom
waiting for the superior to
make up his mind—

but the volatile sky
is an unpredictable boss
you never know—
what to expect
chances are—
it won’t be good so
count your blessings—
while you can

thank god you’re not—
a patch of blue
thank god you’re not—
a goddamn sunbeam
thank god you can—
afford to be unemployed
because they—

they come into the office cowering
they come into the office broken
they’ll be made redundant
any day now

there are days that hang starkly
swaying from the calendar
like the last leaves on
an otherwise barren tree.
lacking poetry,
they lose all shape and
leave you,
like the fair weather,
wilted and wasted—
waiting to be dismissed.

night train
It’s evening on the train:

the tracks creak, complaining from the strain of
carrying people from
here to there

“time to sleep,” they say –

but the passengers keep coming on and
getting off
the end of the journey never in sight

not this stop – not the next

“enough enough enough,” whines the train, “bloody bloody enough”

angry at the one who sleeps, mouth half-open
head back
against the damp dirty seat –

angry at the one who plays with her hair,
placidly reading a newspaper by now a day old –

angry at the one who smells of piss
and shows no sign of leaving –

angry because for a train
movement ceases only momentarily

angry —irrationally, jealously, angry—
at the one who will alight at the next stop.

stories from the city

a flu of words
a few months ago the streets breathed words
the pavement bred sounds
the city seemed to whirl around me and
I was a woman possessed

in the morning in front of the mirror
I’d converse with my wild eyes
great things are in store—great things will happen today

at night, in my head
sentences formed like ready-made pictures
if I were an artist my canvases would have taken over
miles—miles

spreading expanding growing
like a disease

I caught something somewhere down the line
a flu of words


doing the best you can
every morning the Scissor Sisters shout out from the radio:

someone thinks
we need to hear about our mothers
upon waking

flush toilet – splash water down there, on face, under armpits
dry off dry off then
coffee, cereal – sometimes sun through the kitchen window
then jack her up on cheap champagne
let the good times all roll out

the radio reminds you to call your mother
keep her up to date about
what’s up what’s up what’s up
in this crazed city where your thoughts get swayed by radio songs
and the advice of people you’ve just met.

feeling like a full-grown man you
unload your boxes,
get keys from the landlord who
smells funny and walks barefoot
he speaks with an accent – but then

everyone in London does.

oh how appalled your mother would be:
all the foreigners all the foreigners – but you’re a foreigner too

call up the radio make an announcement:
hey, hey, I’m living on my own
then listen to the dj say “good on you, mate
good on you here’s a song for you
and for all you others out there away from your mamas

for all of you who’ve discovered
there’s not much you can be certain about – that
all you can really expect are
accents, yes,
and weirdos weirdos everywhere”

and every morning while you
breakfast among cigarette stubs
surrounded by rolling tobacco and
mugs of old old tea
in the flat she luckily hasn’t seen

she’ll call
and then you can tell her
“Mama, they’re singing about you on the radio” and
“Mama, hey, Mama, I’m doing the best I can.”


autumn street
it’s hard to feel poetic here:
night falls quickly –
before you’ve had your
afternoon coffee;
more and more often,
before you’ve even dressed

the woman across the street
pads around all day in dressing gown and slippers –
you know because there’s not much to do
besides look outside your window
if you had a lace curtain, you’d be twitching it by now
if you didn’t look in the mirror, you’d think you had grey hair

it’s hard not to feel the chill here
it enters the body quickly
in novels the morning light is blue –
but you prefer to wake much later
when it’s turned yellow and comes through the window screaming
making no allowances, forgiving exactly nothing

the woman across the street
spends a lot of time cleaning
the house must be spotless by now –
but you can’t tell from this far away
nor – as far as you know – can anyone else
only the postman reaches the door: and not even he goes in

it’s hard for anything to happen on this street:
the neighbours shut themselves in too quickly
and though you can only use ‘shut’ in so many ways
they manage to use it and re-use it—
until there’s nothing left:

shut yourself off – shut yourself up – shut yourself down.
shut it, yeah? just shut it – shut your trap shut your face – shut the fucking door, mate
mate, it’s hard to be poetic here – mate, everything is so hard here

the woman across the street
closes the shutters at five
but the telly goes on earlier –
by half-four she will be sitting
on the plastic dustcover of the sofa
hands picking absent-mindedly for the lint underneath

and in that half-hour
there is just enough light
to watch her—
exposed—
silent, waiting for evening—night—then
the next day.


The city once was here
my city needs me,
I like to think

some days I go out and the air hitting my face
is a greeting,
a sigh of relief
‘You’re back,’ it breathes: ‘Oh, finally, you’re back.’

I don’t bother pointing out that
I’ve always been here –
after all, I’ve missed it too.

the city longs for my touch –

when I don’t go out for days
it peers through the windows,
branches reaching –
buildings leaning –

pavement shiny with tears

it’s no use saying ‘tomorrow’ or
‘I’m busy right now’
like a small child wanting to play,
it scuffs its heels impatiently at the door.

poor thing, it hasn’t got skyscrapers –
most of the streets need new tar
broken windows let in the wind whipping
soulless faces walk through swinging doors

can I blame it, then, for trying?
pulling my sleeve:
‘come out to play’

wordless, I slip on my shoes
because without me it will cave
without my trudging, begrudging steps
hunched shoulders, set frown

the back alleys would disappear, the
main roads collapse
leaving only a whisper: ‘the city once was here’