la subordonnée

Dibujo de Pablo Picasso

NON HO PERDUTO NULLA

Sono ancora qui, il sole gira
alle spalle come un falco e la terra
ripete la mia voce nella tua.
E ricomincia il tempo visibile
nell’occhio che riscopre la luce.
Non ho perduto nulla.
Perdere è andare di là
da un diagramma del cielo
lungo movimenti di sogni, un fiume
pieno di foglie.

SALVATORE QUASIMODO

Anita Maldere

B-Side & Rarities

This is the hour of the insomniac dawn.

Little Red Riding Hood slowly gnaws the wolf,
cutlery gone for bad and the beasts released in the ravaged forest.

The Sleeping Beauty swallows the sleeping pills

but no pill kicks in.

Snow White has had enough of the dwarves.

She mocks and curses and locks up all seven in a room,

padlocked in darkness.

Hansel and Gretel walk round in circles.

Hansel mistrusts Gretel. Gretel overtly lies to Hansel.

The breaded walls and the sugared house

were poisoned beforehand.

Cinderella’s crystal shoe is a secondhand;

it splinters and hurts and the foot bleeds.

This is the hour of the moon eclipse.

The hour of the thirst.

Peter Pan refuses to grow up. Let’s languish in Neverland.

The Little Mermaid bites her own tail and drowns at the sea.

And there are no princes. Nor witches with their herbal solace.

There is just me, me fully on my other side.

This is the hour of the deserted poles and the flaming castle.

The hour of the severed bridges and the fire-spitting dragons.

The Ugly Duckling is born and dies an ugly duckling.

There is no hidden or deferred beauty.

Only me, unchained.

Damn, if someone sent me those roses, I would thirst them.

If someone sent me that letter, I would shred it, unread.

If someone surrendered to me, I would run and betray.

If someone made me a promise, I would lock my ears.

It is the hour where everything

I would have chosen for my punishment

lands and seizes the town.

It’s not the world suddenly upside down.

It’s just my reverse, unleashed and hungry.

The usually overlooked, the unnoticed.

This is the hour of the implicit suicide, stubbornly performed.

The hour of the scent of abyss and the wings spread to horror.

The king is not naked. No mothers, no stepmothers.

Only my own instruments of torture, ready to unpack and proceed.

Nobody would be there, even if someone was.

This is my own flagellation task force.

Look at the burning deeds. I know nothing. I can’t stop.

Damn, if I could stop, I'd sharp this penknife.

To sink it even deeper, enthralled for what I fear,

instead of freeing it to daylight.

My best becomes my worst. I’m the insensible alchemist.

Passion equals to obsession and I can’t respond,

nor measure the price to pay.

This is my B-side. Listen to the blind hits, the whip.

Black bread crumbs fill in the sucking holes in the vinyl,

when inspiration ran out.

Welcome, my Mr. Hyde.

Even if I’m still the A-side girl, my Dr. Jeckyll.

(Only tell me where).

No split personalities, but pleasure in the sinister.

It is the hour of sickness, the sickness I must flee.

This awareness, perhaps,

the only valuable treasure of my B-side

(though someone dared to enjoy a certain beauty in this crime,

rejoice in the unbearable poetics of the unbearable).

I wish I could escape this torment,

be so healthily stupid to reinvent the end of fairy-tales.

Little Red Riding Hood watching cartoons at a cozy living-room,

sleeping pills in the junk box,

the dwarves on stage as leading characters,

Hansel and Gretel and a court of puppies.

No biting.

Shoes multiplying in the neighborhood.

Peter Pan choosing adulthood.

Mermaids vindicating their status,

and their ugliness, the ugly ducklings.
(Adulthood is being an orphan). 

I don’t want swans and I don’t want chains.

I want the king to be naked.

No more deliberate scars, I pray, on this trembling body. 

TU SEI LA TUA PROPRIA SOVRANITÀ

Your own sovereignty it's in the emptiness of this space:

Where you can find the true shapes

Boats at the Sea, W. Turner

http://pajarodechina.blogspot.com/2010/12/vii.html

she says

she says "as the poems go"
as if poems had a life of their own,
as if they were not sitting on her chair,
dozing on her lap,
resting their profiles on the pleats
of her checkered skirt, this autumn.
as if the air could hold a verse.
as if a verse was not a medal,
a silver circle seizing
the view of a street across a window
at a given hour of a checkered autumn,
moulding the angles of her profile,
mourning the shape of every pleat
on a hovering lap where I'd rest,
right now, my shoulders.
an empty chair
like a paper
where I'd pin every trace of her
like a poem.
as she goes.







Installation: Annette Messager.

TINTURA DI GUSTAV VON ASCHENBACH

Guardo di fronte l’impavido mare.
Il mare non invecchia.
Il mare affoga i numeri.
Non si esaurisce, non ha
durata.
Turbulento, traditore, avvelenato.
Divorando naufragi e rifiuti.
E di subito, calmo.
Implaccabile, lapidario, insormontabile;
da le spalle al giudizio, non fa sbagli.
Sono vecchiume patetico, insabbiato,
in un film di Visconti.
Il romanzo fu scritto da Thomas Mann.
M’interpreta Dick Bogarde.
Voglio dissimulare
che sto crollando a pezzi.

Mi umidisce il folgore insolente
di un pubere bagnato
dal sole.
Inseguo i suoi passi,
trascinandomi.
Questa tintura, furiosamente nera,
mi lambisce la fronte.
Si spande e si biforca
in molteplice e anemiche serpenti.
Avide, auscultano il mio collo,
il collo del mio impeccabile abito bianco
fuori luogo.
Sono il segno di una dicadenza strepitosa.
Sono linee d’inchiostro cinese.
Transitano le maniche del mio abito,
tingono la mia faccia di ovvietà.
Vorrei aver impedito l’immondizia.
Vorrei che mi portasse il mare.

Morte a Venezia

" [...] Deteniéndose al borde del agua, con la cabeza baja, empezó a dibujar en la arena húmeda con la punta del pie; luego entró en el agua, que en su mayor profundidad no le llegaba ni a la rodilla, la atravesó dudando, descuidadamente, y dejó el banco de arena. Allí se detuvo un momento, con el rostro vuelto hacia la anchura del mar, luego empezó a caminar lentamente, por la larga y angosta lengua de tierra, hacia la izquierda. Separado de la tierra por el agua, separado de los compañeros por un movimiento de altanería, su figura se deslizaba aislada y solitaria, con el cabello flotante, allá por el mar, a través del viento, hacia la neblina infinita. [...] "

La muerte en Venecia, Thomas Mann