And dream of sheep

Novembre

E poi – se accadrà ch’io me ne vada –
resterà qualchecosa
di me
nel mio mondo –
resterà un’esile scìa di silenzio
in mezzo alle voci –
un tenue fiato di bianco
in cuore all’azzurro –

Ed una sera di novembre
una bambina gracile
all’angolo d’una strada
venderà tanti crisantemi
e ci saranno le stelle
gelide verdi remote –
Qualcuno piangerà
chissà dove – chissà dove –
Qualcuno cercherà i crisantemi
per me
nel mondo
quando accadrà che senza ritorno
io me ne debba andare.

Milano, 29 ottobre 1930

Antonia Pozzi

November

And then – if it happens I go away –
there’ll remain something
of me
in my world –
there’ll remain a slender wake of silence
amid the voices –
a tenuous breath of white
at the heart of azure –

And one November evening
a frail little girl
at a street corner
will sell so many chrysanthemums
and there’ll be the stars
ice-cold, green, remote –
Someone will cry
who knows where – who knows where –
Someone will search out chrysanthemums
for me
in the world
when it happens that without return
I’ll have to go away.


trad. Peter Robinson

The Flowers

Is there no one,
no one selling
flowers
along this unlucky street?

And this dark sea,
this gloomy sky,
this hostile wind –
oh, yesterday’s camellias,
camellias white and red, smiling
in the golden cloister –
a spring mirage!

Who’ll sell me a flower today?
I have so many in my heart:
but all clasped
in heavy bunches –
trampled –
done in.
I have so many that my soul
suffocates and nearly dies
under their vast unshared
mass.
But at the bottom of the dark sea
is the heart’s key –
at the bottom of the dark heart
until evening
my useless harvest
will lie
imprisoned –

O who will sell me
a flower – a different flower,
born outside of me,
in a true garden,
that I might offer the one who awaits?

Is there no one,
no one who will sell me
flowers
along this unhappy path?


14 February 1933

Antonia Pozzi

trad. Peter Robinson

Da melancolia

Loving Vincent, 2017

Mélancolie

Life is Beautiful

Stepping out of the frame

Maybe he didn't hit her, but his calls had always to be answered right away or he would be very cross.

Maybe he didn’t hit her, but he often managed to make her feel guilty for getting upset after something he had done hurtful to her.

Maybe he didn't hit her, but she had to walk on eggshells every day to ensure he was satisfied enough to remain calm and happy.

Maybe he didn't hit her, but he made her feel stupid like she couldn't do anything right.

Maybe he didn't hit her, but he stole her sense of comfort and security leaving her paranoid and crazy.

He would treat her like a princess on Tuesday and on Wednesday throw a tantrum over a meal not to his taste.

He would buy her an expensive gift on Friday and leave her alone on Saturday night crying herself to sleep because she had decided to stand up for herself for once. 

He was broken and he broke her. You're so fucked up, girl...

Never mind. All this shit is part of her past now, can't harm her anymore.

And yet...why is she still...

Unable to be in the moment, always on her guard and wary of others, escaping into a world of her own, daydreaming, in order to keep the black dog at bay... if only barely.

Pining for someone unattainable who doesn't give a damn about her... there was a time he cared... or...not? I know it's over, it never really began... still I cling... 
Everyday hoping for the sunshine of his smile but more often than not walking in the rain of his obliviousness.

Don't look at me
That's best, don't notice me...

Daydreaming

Beyond the point
Of no return
And it's too late
The damage is done
...

Minefield

Poema Pequeno

Silêncio erguido
de outro sentido.

A noite morta
ronda lá fora
e nela
o meu oculto grito.


Glória de Sant’Anna in Livro de Água,1961

Porque estou encerrada

Porque estou encerrada
meu choro é de prata
e mágoa.

Puro véu me prende
tecido de palavras
de antigamente.

De sal meu alimento
de fel minha bebida.
Eis que me prolongo
sem sentido.

Nada será meu bem
e meu castigo.


Glória de Sant'Anna, in Poemas de Tempo Agreste, 1964

Won't look at me

That's best, don't look at me

...

That's best, don't notice me

Damaged Particulates

Yonder See the Morning

Yonder see the morning blink:
     The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
     And work, and God knows why.

Oh often have I washed and dressed
     And what's to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I've done my best
     And all's to do again.


A.E. Housman

The enemy is you

La jaula

Afuera hay sol.
No es más que un sol
pero los hombres lo miran
y después cantan.

Yo no sé del sol.
Yo sé la melodía del ángel
y el sermón caliente
del último viento.
Sé gritar hasta el alba
cuando la muerte se posa desnuda
en mi sombra.

Yo lloro debajo de mi nombre.
Yo agito pañuelos en la noche y barcos sedientos de realidad
bailan conmigo.
Yo oculto clavos
para escarnecer a mis sueños enfermos.

Afuera hay sol.
Yo me visto de cenizas.


Alejandra Pizarnik

A nuvem prateada das pessoas graves

Nem sempre se deve desconfiar das pessoas
graves, aquelas que caminham com o pescoço inclinado para baixo,
os olhos delas a tocar pela primeira vez o caminho que os pés confirmarão depois.
Às vezes elas veem o céu do outro lado do caminho que é o que lhes fica por baixo dos pés e por isso do outro lado do mundo.
O outro lado do mundo das pessoas graves parece portanto um sítio longe dos pés e mais longe ainda das mãos
que também caem nos dias em que o ar pode ser mais pesado e os ossos
se enchem de uma substância morna que não se sabe bem o que é.
Na gravidade dos pés e da cabeça, e também dos olhos, com que nos são alheias quando as olhamos de frente 
rumo ao lado útil do caminho que escolhemos, essas pessoas arrastam uma nuvem prateada que a cada passo larga uma imagem daquilo que foram ou das pessoas que amaram.
Essas imagens podem desaparecer para sempre se forem pisadas quando caem no chão. 
A gravidade dos pés e da cabeça, e também dos olhos, destas pessoas, é, por isso, uma subtil forma de cuidado.

Rui Costa, in “A Nuvem Prateada das Pessoas Graves”, 2005

Recordações da Casa Amarela, João César Monteiro, 1989