Antoine Cassar 

Translator

ara ma taħsibx li bla saqaf

tilef iċ-ċwievet, dak kollox

ilu fuq tliet xhur jorqod

quddiem ħanut tal-għamara

abbli taħseb li qiegħed skomdu

milwi hekk — kun af pero

li hu akrobata, u dil-pożizzjoni

sabha tajba biex għajnu tmur bih

xi ġġiegħlek taħseb li mejjet

u issa mbilli mhux qed jieħu nifs

x’tistenna minn maestru tal-yoga

li kapaċi jżomm in-nifs għal snin twal,

jew biex inkunu preċiżi, kważi għal dejjem

lil min tista’ tikrih dal-appartament, lil xi ħadd

responsabbli, li mhux se jagħmel mandra,

xi ħadd li se jħallas dejjem fil-ħin,

iżda, veru, il-viti jqattru xi ftit

u l-madum għandu ħabta jaqa’ ġol-banju

appartament ċkejken, avolja fiċ-ċentru,

b’ħafna għamara bla siwi, biex ma nsemmux il-wirdien

iżda fuq kollox: u li kellek tikrih, fejn tmur tgħix?

They come out from under the table, gather

a few clothes, a few extra oranges, carry

their boy with the headless bear in his hand, leave

toward the shelter of their hut in the field, are wounded

by the burning fragments of glass

exploded from the dead mosque.

She comes out of the cotton-like smoke, her

husband’s silence echoing behind her veil, covered

in dust turning soft and green, the blood

of her son burns on the cold of the sheet,

with no strength to cry, nor to open his mouth

in the overflowing corridor of the hospital.

Such a waste of time, such a waste of life

such a waste of pity relentlessly postponed,

from the open skies, from the breadth of the bay

bombs of lead from a long-threaded lottery,

a futile battle where revenge awaits not:

smoke in smoke, stains upon stains.

E in mezzo ad una notte
si mise a tremare ogni cosa:
la città, il buio, il sangue.

Come un giocattolo
nel pugno d’un orfano alterato
si scosse d’un gemito la montagna
e le case delle bambole si sbriciolarono
sotto un balsamo di polvere.

La pelle del mondo cedette,
il ginocchio d’Italia si piegò,
la mappa cangiò
colori e forme,
la terra diventò un mare di guai.

Qui la camera tutta libri
di Via D’Annunzio,
qui la notte bianca cotone
del lungo bacio
in Via dei Torreggiani,
qui il mercato fiorito
fila su fila
di Piazza Duomo,
qui il commercio ammalato
nell’intestino contorto
del Corso –
ricordi di ricordi
frantumati.

Nel tempo d’un ticchettio spiegazzato
ciò che costruimmo gli umani a merletto
ci si alleggerisce feroce,
ci eclissa, ci spazza,
e torna ad insegnarci
che noi non siamo altro che un lampo di fulmine,
un granello di stella,
un puntino di polvere.
 
Sotto l’orologio spaccato
c’è un’aquila che strilla –
forse perché s’è accorta d’improvviso
che è nata senza ali,
forse perché ha capito
che nelle ampie reti delle stelle
il destino della vita non risiede,
ma invece
nuota, agguata,
scricchiola
impastato nei fanghi
del calderone sgretolante
sottoterra.

And in the middle of a night
all things suddenly trembled:
the city, the darkness, the blood.

Like a toy
in the fist of a furious orphan
the mountain shook with a groan
and the dollhouses crumbled
under a balsam of dust.

The skin of the world gave way,
the knee of Italy folded,
the map changed
colours and shapes,
the land became a restless sea.

Here the room packed with books
of Via D’Annunzio,
here the cotton-white night
of a long kiss
in Via dei Torreggiani,
here the flowering market
row upon row
of Piazza Duomo,
here the sickly commerce
in the jolted intestine
of the Corso –
memories of memories
crumbled.

In the time of a shattered tick
what we men built like lace
fiercely lightens upon us,
eclipses us, sweeps us,
and again teaches us
that we are nothing more than a flash of lightning,
a speck of stardust,
a tiny fleck of earth.

Under the cracked clock
an eagle screeches –
perhaps for she has just realised
that she was born without wings,
perhaps for she has understood
that in the wide netting of the stars
the destiny of life resides not,
but rather
swims, waits,
rumbles
kneaded in the muds
of the creaking cauldron
underground.

Salen de debajo de la mesa, recogen
alguna ropa, alguna naranja de sobra, llevan
al niño con el osito decapitado en la mano, parten
hacia el cobijo de la casita en el campo, se hieren
por los trozos de cristal calcinado
explotados de la mezquita muerta.

Sale del humo algodonado, reverbera
el silencio de su marido debajo del velo, cubierto
de polvo que se ablanda y se verdece, abrasa
la sangre de su hijo en el frío de la sábana, que no tiene
ni fuerzas para llorar, ni para abrir la boca
en el pasillo desbordante del hospital.

Qué desperdicio de tiempo, qué desperdicio de vida,
qué desperdicio de piedad implacablemente pospuesta,
desde lo abierto del cielo, desde lo ancho de la bahía
bombas de plomo de una enhebrada lotería,
batalla baladí sin venganza en acecho:
humo en el humo, manchas sobre manchas.

Adagio, a tuo agio, il festeggiar d’un bacio,
sorriso color sole, turisti nella terra dei sogni,
arcobaleno, quanto sei bella!, due corpi e un’ombra sola,
si scioglie la mia lingua, e chiudo gli occhi e taccio...

ma, vero, ho troppo pianto! Bufera a fine maggio,
come si deve, infelicità, perduto ormai l’amor;
vecchio e diaccio, l’anima svenduta, le cuciture dei sogni non detti,
e il cuore dissecato in una provetta.

Ahimé, ho equivocato, faccio un auto da fé,
una rosa è una rosa, ma tu sei una sposa,
e scorderò, scorderò il sapore della tua pelle latte-di-capra...

farfalla a gennaio, basta, è finita,
colorín colorato, il racconto è terminato,
amico mio, è la fine, addio, ho abdicato.

Lentamente, a tu gusto, el festejo de un beso,
una sonrisa color del sol, turistas en la tierra de los sueños,
arco iris, ¡qué hermosa eres!, dos cuerpos que hacen una sola sombra,
se me derrite la lengua, y cierro los ojos, y me callo...

pero, es verdad, ¡he llorado demasiado! Borrasca a fin de mayo,
de rigor, la desdicha, perdido ya el amor,
viejo y frío, mi alma vendida, las costuras de sueños no contados,
y el corazón diseccionado en una probeta.

Ay de mí, me equivoqué, hago un auto de fe,
una rosa es una rosa, mas tú eres una esposa,
y ya olvidaré, ya olvidaré el sabor de tu piel leche de cabra...

mariposa de enero, dejémoslo, ya está,
colorín colorado, este cuento se ha acabado,
amiga mía, este es el fin, adiós, he abdicado.

Slowly, at your leisure, the feast of a kiss,
a smile the colour of the sun, tourists in the land of dreams,
rainbow, how beautiful you are!, two bodies casting one shadow,
my tounge/my language melts, and I close my eyes, and I fall silent;

but, it's true, I've wept too much! A storm at the end of May,
by default, unhappiness, now that love is lost;
old and cold, my soul sold, the seams of dreams untold,
and the heart dissected in a test tube.

Alas, I was mistaken, I make an auto-da-fe,
a rose is a rose, but you are a spouse,
and I'll yet forget, I'll yet forget the taste of your goat-milk skin...

January butterfly, let's leave it, it's over,
colorín colorado, this story is finished,
my friend, this is the end, goodbye, I have abdicated.

Un autunno a Istanbul. Una tristezza indefinibile:
ogni esperienza è solo un abbozzo. Città sonnambula, immersa
nella bruma, girovaga nella foschia, che spruzza
un velo di vapore sul lampione, che non illumina nulla...

Strizzar l’occhio, fare un cenno, abbaiare, crogiolarsi nel crepuscolo, cosparso
dell’assenza di maggio. Sericeo e fosco,
uno specchio sfocato di vapore in cui la sete si rimprovera,
come i gabbiani bianco-spuma che seguono la scia di una chiatta.

Qui c’è una radiosità caliginosa, un pulverulento temporale serale,
una patina di fuliggine. In una casupola in un vicolo,
un derviscio sboccia come un’orchidea bianca,
che si alza per essere colta con un falcetto di luna lacera.

Istanbul è distanza, è l’ansia di un altro ieri,
—oggi è ieri, domani è ieri, e ieri è pena senza fine—

città tentacolare sulla costa, distesa da siccità caustica,
città che scivola tra le dita sul punto di toccarsi,
città fatta a fette, sbriciolata, sbocconcellata dalle lumache...

Una volta c’era un uccello ad ali spiegate,
di caduta in caduta sognava voli sempre più elevati.

Sotto una luna calante, ho visto nel lucore
la scrittura che rimane sui muri del dolore:

Minareti trafiggono nuvole
svanendo verso il sole.
La fiamma ha finito la ronda.
La luce, di nuovo, sprofonda.

Nell’autunno monocromo Istanbul imbalsama la sua anima.
La sera soffoca. Campana. Spirito. Richiamo alla preghiera. La tristezza
dell’autunno.

An autumn in Istanbul. An indefinable sadness:
all attempt/experience is but a sketch. Sleepwalker city, awash
amid the mist, rambling around in the haze, sprinkling
a sheet of vapour over the lamp, which nowhere there illuminates...

Blinking, beckoning, barking, basking in the dusk, strewn
with the absence of May. Silk-like and dim,
a mirror blurred with steam where thirst rebukes itself,
like the foam-white seagulls following the wake of the pontoon.

Here is a hazy radiance, a dusty evening storm,
a patina of soot. In a back alley lodge,
a dervish blossoms like a white orchid,
reaching up to be gathered with the scythe of tattered moon.

Istanbul is distance, the yearning of another yesterday,
-today is yesterday, tomorrow is yesterday, and yesterday is an endless grief-

a city spreading its tentacles along the coast, rolled out by the biting draught,
a city slithering between the fingers just about to touch,
a city being sliced, being crumbled, being nibbled away by snails…

Once upon a time there was a bird with open wings,
he dreams of higher flight still from fall to fall.

Under a waning moon, I have seen in the gleam
the writing which remains on the walls of sorrow:

Minarets pierce the clouds
pining towards the sun.
The flame has done its rounds.
The light, once more, undone.

In the monochrome autumn Istanbul embalms her soul.
This evening is choking. Bell. Spirit. Call to prayer. The melancholy of autumn.

Forse Budapest brucia. Forse le strade
si sono accese di tramonto. Forse i (buro/demo)crati che la liberarono
oggi l’assediano di colore, di una primavera sempre nuova...
Ah, caro camerata! Attento - uno, due, tre,

Niente. Quanto? Un prezzo migliore: sangue di contadino a galloni,
tira, spingi, apri, chiudi, da ovest ad est e indietro, andata
e ritorno, come una molla nelle mani di un bambino fratricida...
E il Danubio semplicemente scorreva, come il fiume di Caronte.

O tempora, o mores! La città dei fiori
ha svenduto l’anima al dollaro, il suo incanto per mobili al neon;

così io, turista di lingue, assaggiatore di amori,
bestia in cerca di beltà, pazzo mendicante di versi,

dalla fine del ponte rotto piscio per veder sciogliersi la
mia fremente vergogna occidentale nel marrone renale del Danubio.

This screwed-in nerve, these skinflakes of yesterday,
and the fatigue continues. Down through the urban pastures,
this heavy body I carry along the street of masks,
flux of ink hardening between harsh fibres of iron,

song perched in the leaves drowned by engines scratching the air,
cartridges, heavy baggage, nuts, scurvy sold in flasks,
-my brain is a mosaic, like a chaos of pebbles-,
angst with hungry teeth, rubble all around,

ah, the entrails of things! Here they are requesting a line of verse
-yes, with a wistful sigh, a voice gone sombre and dusky,
with a sulky chin, refined anger, a simile with the face of Lascaris-,
tell me, how many times must I say 'the sea', 'the sea' ?

So, like a bird to fly through sky unseen unheard,
a word free from its form, a sound in beauty blurred,

in flight, upwards, up there, on the wind I go,
until my long undressed shadow with the first horizon disappears…

to slide onto the cushion of the damp setting sun,
refuge until the awakening, the world a cradle-rhyme.

Run, rabbit, run, run, run, from the womb to the tomb,
from four to two to three, from the river to the sea,
play the fool, suffer school, the wasp goes round and round,
get involved, lose your faith, learn the rules,

eat and fast, shit and piss, chase the moon, meet your doom,
walk on ice, roll your dice, with destiny dance,
metro, work, sleep, the sun rises, you get up again,
to say always tomorrow and never tomorrow reach,

try to fly, touch the sky, hit the stone, break a bone,
sell your soul for a loan to call those bricks your home,
fall in love, rise above, fall apart, stitch your heart,

what will be? it will go well, nothing more of us will be,
from bed to bed we run a race against the void,
until our soul is swallowed by the dark womb of the land.

Corre, conejo, corre, del útero a la tumba,
de cuatro a dos a tres, del río a la mar,
haz el tonto, sufre el colegio, la avispa gira y gira,
comprométete, pierde la fe, aprende las reglas,

come y ayuna, caga y mea, persigue la luna, encuentra tu sino,
camina sobre el hielo, lanza tus dados, con el destino bailar,
metro, curro, sobar, sube el sol, te levantas de nuevo,
decir siempre mañana y nunca mañanar,

intenta volar, toca el cielo, golpea la piedra, rompe un hueso,
vende el alma para una hipoteca para llamar a esos ladrillos tu casa,
enamórate, sube hacia lo alto, cae en picado, sutúrate el corazón,

¿que será? ¡todo irá bien! nada más de nosotros será,
de cama en cama corremos una carrera contra el vacío,
hasta que se nos trague el alma por el útero oscuro de la tierra.

Corri, lepre, corri, corri, corri, dall’utero alla fossa ,
da quattro a due a tre, dal fiume al mare,
fai il folle, soffri scuola, la vespa girotondo,
impegnati, perdi la fede, impara le regole,

mangia e digiuna, piscia e caca, bracca la luna, incontra il tuo fato,
cammina sul ghiaccio, lancia i tuoi dadi, balla col destino,
metrò, lavoro, nanna, s’alza il sole, e anche tu,
dire sempre domani e al domani non arrivarci mai,

prova il volo, tocca il cielo, batti pietra, spacca un osso,
vendi l’anima per un mutuo, per chiamare quei mattoni la tua casa,
innamorati, librati alto, cadi a pezzi, rammendati il cuore,

che sarà? andrà bene! nulla resterà di noi,
da letto a letto siamo in gara con il vuoto,
finché l’anima non ci viene inghiottita dal ventre buio della terra.

Perhaps Budapest is burning. Perhaps the streets have been lit up with sunset. Perhaps the crats who freed her now besiege her with colour, with a spring forever new… Ah, dear comrade! Beware - one, two, three,

Nothing. How much? A better price: peasant blood by the gallon, pull, push, open, close, west to east and back, gone and returned, like a spring in the hands of a fratricide child… And the Danube simply flowed, like the river of Charon.

Oh the times, oh the manners! The city of flowers has sold her soul to the dollar, her charm for neon furniture;

thus I, tourist of tongues, taster of loves, beast in search of beauty, mad beggar for lines of verse,

from the end of the broken bridge I piss in order to watch melt
my tingling western shame in the kidney-brown Danube.

Between Aachen and Zyryanka,
between Samarinda and Samarkanda,
up and down on the prow
on the violet strait
between Kérkyra and Saranda,
on the train between Vladivostok and Moscow
which seven times crosses the dawn,
cutting through, journeying forth,
from a blissful silence as the seagull dives
into the foam of Antofagasta
to a multilingual expletive
as my foot charges into the manhole,
between Baden Baden and Bahrain,
between Fort-de-France and Port of Spain,
cruising at a hundred and thirty
along the three thousand miles
between Portland, Oregon and Portland, Maine,
from the skewers of a Scottish chill stabbing at the cheeks
to the lips drying out in the sand-bearing wind
of Marseille,
sailing on, sailing on
between Zuwarah and Lampedusa
on a boat splitting into two,
with pressing voices,
with smothered throats
searching for the ears of the night.

Between Ceylon and Sri Lanka,
between Kalaallit Nunaat and Greenland,
between a kia ora on an Aotearoa morning
and a g’day in the dragging accent
of New Zealand,
trapped and broke
at the Rwandan customs
with an identity swinging
between offer and demand,
between a déjà vu in a square I’ve never heard of
carpeted in jacaranda petals
and lost in the streets of an illuminated city
I roamed not long ago,
something more worldly
than nostalgia
for an island I’ve never visited
subtly invades me in the hubbub
of the airport,
waiting at the gate
away from her father’s gaze,
a little girl draws new countries
in the empty pages
of his passport,
disarranged, berthed down,
with a thundering stomach,
from the kefir that upset me in the sweat of Madrid
to the soft hands of the Sorbian village girl
who brought me back on my feet with a bowl of soljanka,
between grave and acute, between lukewarm and tepid,
indebted to a past that will not go by
between a week straddling a week and an odd Wednesday,
dazed and deafened in the distressing discourse
between two Gozos and two Maltas,
between the centre and the corners,
between heads and tails,
with the curse of my doubts
for ever and ever,
sprawled out on the fragrant leaves of grass
with the sunlight reflecting on the open book
I swell with pleasure until besieged by the racket
between a lousy dj and a pair of sweethearts,
from the reverberating drill in the towers of Singapore
to the pecking of the chickens on the corrugated roofs
of the kampung,
between a screaming logogram in the China Daily
and a mercilessly snaking sentence
in the Mallorca Zeitung,
I leaf through the pocket dictionary
to decipher the news:
a shredding aeroplane
a shrieking spinning-top
in a storm between Brazil and Senegal,
squashed in the gravitational gullet
rain of scrap and of frozen bodies
onto the crystal sea
of the equator.

Untranslatable I awake
windy and cloudy,
between an ink-soaked map and a prostituted tongue,
the blood sweltering for the open, the liver riddled with holes,
between a hair and a bristle, between the trap and the birdhouse,
from the sun meeting me at the foot of the bed
to the pale white face of my love
with her hands on her womb,
between here and there and beyond and back
between my arse uncovered and my soul concealed
between coming and going and vice versa
between straight to the point and about the bush
between true and not,
between the angels and the ghouls,
between no longer and not yet and the other way round
with the terror of the wind amid the flagstaffs
trying to see how I can snatch that sound that escaped me
I have branches underground and roots that reach the clouds
sprout upon sprout into the vapour and the dust
I have a shoot that descended to the antipodes of the world
I have an antenna that climbed to the mountains of the moon
between departure and arrival, between arrival and departure,
with all windows wide open, with the sky overcast,
with a stranger at the mirror examining
the netting of my cracked face
from the red of the carpet rolled out at our birth
to the ice-white shroud that covers us at the burial
between fra and tra, de-ci, de-là,
ανάμεσα , 之间 , между , zwischen
the perpetual indecision
of a clear preposition
between not in my place and my place within me
between back to my senses and out of my mind
walking with sure feet
from border to border,
from meridian to meridian
of the prisoner world,
between from and towards,
between towards and to,
at the centre of all
and at the edge of nothing,
the legs full of verve, pain in the sides,
I turn, cross the road
and continue on my way,
trying to comprehend
the why
of where.

Dear fortune-teller,
tell me if there is enough fortune
in the palm of my hand.
For if there is not,
as were not found in the palms
of my companions,
I'll overturn the table, you and all,
and catch the first plane towards the black holes
which are not concealed in the palms of our hands.