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Simon Barraclough

Saturn on Seventh

  • 1 Los Alamos Mon Amour | Translations: itde
  • 2 Saturn on Seventh | Translations: itde
  • 3 We’ll Always Have CGI Paris | Translations: itde
  • 4 Jurassic Coast | Translations: itde
  • 5 SoBe It | Translations: itde
  • 6 Neptune | Translations: itde
  • 7 Sol | Translations: itde
  • 8 Untitled Sunspot | Translations: itde
  • 9 Photon | Translations: it
Language: english
Translations: italian (Saturno sulla Settima), german (Saturn im Siebten)
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Saturn on Seventh

I’ve been giving the miraculous a whirl
but what have I got? A stomach crammed

with cheap chimichanga, a shoulder-check
from Christian Slater and, though I don’t know it yet,

a cloned credit card number. The Empire State
is a popsicle dipped in its Christmas reds

and greens. “Let’s eat and drink ourselves
into hospital.” The waitress only just

brought you round with ice-water fingers
on the cubicle floor between courses

and flaming, straw-melting cucarachas.
We came to celebrate this town

but dragging ourselves up Seventh Ave.
back to the peeling Pennsylvania room,

we sway wasted and weary past
stacks of Japanese Playboys, Brazilian

Vogues, battlements of L. Ron Hubbard
remainders, a trestle table over-stacked

with cheaply-stitched-together baseball caps;
all the naff globalised tat we’ve come

to expect from the greatest city on earth.
And then this charcoal-on-cardboard sign,

See Saturn for a dollar, and the giggling line
of clubbers where a homeless astronomer

has angled a prized and battered telescope
at a quarter of the sky to the right

of the Chrysler Building which tonight
looks like it might have been piloted here

by Buster Crabbe. I toss a dollar in his cap
expecting nothing but empty night,

rest my brow against the rubber cup,
sealing out the street-level light

and there, in a black starless spotlight:
Saturn, as fat as a two pound coin,

fluxing with my pulse conducted through
the sensitive instrument, tilts its tipsy

rings towards Manhattan. I don’t want to leave
its impeccable silence but you’ve paid

your money too and I step aside.
A random reveller asks me, “Did you see it?

Is it real?” and “Was it in colour?”
You take your fill and turn away, smiling.

We continue up the hill in silence,
our minds in parallel universes.
 

© Salt Publishing + Simon Barraclough
From: Los Alamos Mon Amour
Salt Publishing,
Audio production: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin, 2014

Translations:

Language: italian

Saturno sulla Settima

Mi sono miracolosamente buttato
ma cosa ci ho cavato? Uno stomaco zeppo

di chimichanga a poco prezzo, una spallata fortuita
con Christian Slater e, benchè non lo sapessi allora,

un numero di carta clonato. L’Empire State Building
è un leccalecca imbevuto nel suo rosso

e verde natalizio: “Dai, mangiamo e beviamo fino a finire
in ospedale.” La cameriera ti ha appena

fatto rinvenire con dita d’acqua ghiacciata
sul pavimento del cubicolo tra le pietanze

e fiammanti cucarachas sciogli-cannuccia.
Siam venuti per celebrare questa città

ma trascinandoci sulla settima strada
per ritornare alla scrostata camera Pensilvania,

barcolliamo ubriachi e stanchi passando
pile di Playboy giapponesi, Vogue brasiliani

fortezze di giacenze di magazzino di L. Ron Hubbard,
un tavolo a cavalletto pieno zeppo

di berretti da baseball cuciti a buon mercato:
tutta la robaccia globalizzata e pacchiana che

ci aspetteremmo dalla più grande città della terra.
E poi questo cartone con una scritta in carboncino,

Guarda Saturno per un dollaro e discotecari in fila
che ridacchiavano là dove un astronomo senzatetto

aveva appostato un telescopio costoso ed ammaccato
ad un quarto del cielo sulla destra

del Chrystler Building, che stasera sembra sia stato pilotato qui
da Buster Crabbe. Getto un dollaro nel suo cappello

aspettandomi soltanto una notte vuota,
appoggio il ciglio sulla gomma del mirino
che taglia fuori la luce al livello della strada
e là in un riflettore nero e senza stelle

Saturno grasso come una moneta da due sterline,
che pulsa col mio polso guidato attraverso

uno strumento sensibile, inclina i suoi anelli
brilli verso Manhattan. Non voglio lasciare

il suo silenzio impeccabile ma anche tu hai pagato
e io mi faccio da parte.

Un gaudente qualunque mi chiede, “L’hai visto?
E’ vero?” e “Era a colori?” Tu ne hai abbastanza e ti giri sorridendo.

Continuiamo a salire la collina in silenzio,
le nostre menti in universi paralleli.

Traduzione di Luca Paci
Language: german

Saturn im Siebten

Wunder habe ich probiert,
aber wofür? Einen Magen vollgestopft

mit billigem Chimichanga, einen Rempler
von Christian Slater und, ich weiss es noch nicht,

eine geklonte Kreditkarte. Das Empire State
ist Eis am Stiel getaucht in Weihnachtsrot

und Grün. „Lass und essen und trinken bis
wir krankenhausreif sind.“ Die Bedienung

hat dich gerade wieder belebt mit Eiswasserfingern
auf dem Restaurantboden zwischen den Gängen

und flammenden Strohhalm-schmelzenden Cucarachas.
Wir sind gekommen um diese Stadt zu feiern.

Aber als wir uns die Seventh Avenue entlang schleppen
zurück in das schäbige Pennsylvania Zimmer ,

taumeln wir, müde und am Ende, vorbei
an Stapeln von japanischen Playboys, brasilianischen

Vogues,  Mauern von L. Ron Hubbard
Restbeständen, einem Klapptisch überquellend

mit billig zusammengeschusterten Baseball-Kappen;
all dem bescheuerten globalisierten Ramsch, den wir

mittlerweile von der tollsten Stadt der Welt erwarten.
Und dann ist da dieses Holzkohle-auf-Pappe Schild,

See Saturn for a dollar, und die kichernde Schlange
der Discobesucher, da wo ein obdachloser Astronom

ein vielgeliebtes und ramponiertes Teleskop montiert hat,
in einem Quadranten des Himmels rechts

vom Chrysler Building, das heute Abend
aussieht als wäre es gerade von Buster Crabbe

eingeflogen worden. Ich werfe einen Dollar in seinen Hut
und erwarte bloße Nacht,

lehne meine Stirn gegen den Gummiring,
der das Straßenlicht ausschließt,

und da, in einem schwarzen sternenlosen Lichtpunkt:
Saturn, fett wie eine Zweipfundmünze,

strömt mit meinem Puls, geleitet durch
das sensible Gerät, neigt seine beschwipsten

Ringe in Richtung Manhattan. Ich will sein makelloses
Schweigen nicht loslassen, aber auch du hast Deinen

Obolus entrichtet und ich trete zur Seite.
Ein Zufallspassant fragt mich, „Hast Du ihn geseh’n?

Ist er wirklich da?“ und „In Farbe?“
Du schaust dich satt und trittst zur Seite, lächelnd.

Wir gehen schweigend weiter den Hügel hinauf,
Unsere Gedanken in parallelen Universen.

Übersetzt von Barbara Thimm
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Simon Barraclough

photo © Jamie Ryan
* 31.12.1966, Huddersfield, United Kingdom
lives in: London, United Kingdom

Simon Barraclough is a poet, writer, and tutor living in London but originally from Huddersfield in West Yorkshire. He is the author of the Forward Prize-finalist debut, Los Alamos Mon Amour (Salt, 2008), the limited edition 'boxed pamphlet', Bonjour Tetris (Penned in the Margins, 2010) and Neptune Blue (Salt, 2011).

He is also the editor of the collaborative Hitchcock-homage, Psycho Poetica (Sidekick Books, 2012) and co-author of The Debris Field (Sidekick Books, 2013). At the moment he is working on a full-length book and live event entitled Sunspots (due in 2015) and has been poet in residence at the Mullard Space Science Laboratory since January 2014.

 photo © Josh Redman
Publications
  • Los Alamos Mon Amour

    Poetry

    Norfolk: Salt Publishing, 2008

  • Bonjour Tetris

    Poetry

    London: Penned in the Margins, 2010

  • Neptune Blue (Salt,

    Poetry

    Norfolk: Salt Publishing, 2011

  • The Debris Field

    with Isobel Dixon and Chris McCabe

    London: Sidekick Books, 2013

  • Sunspots

    Poetry

    London: Penned in the Margins, 2015

Links
  • Simon Barraclough @ Poetry International Rotterdam

    Website

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