artificial fibre
along a gravel path
hedged with box
the victor departs
wondering
whether out of Marsyasâ howling
there will not some day arise
a new kind
of artâlet us sayâconcrete
suddenly
at his feet
falls a petrified nightingale
he looks back
and sees
that the hair of the tree to which Marsyas was fastened
is white
completely
Â
FRAGMENT
Hear us O Silver-bowed archer through the clutter of leaves and arrows through the stubborn silence of battle and the mighty call of the dead again autumn O Silver-bowed archer trees and people depart we sleep in sultry tents under a sky crumpled by curses we dip our faces in dust and wash our bodies in sweat from the breast opened by a sword not blood not blood escapes animals die the eyes of mules are sinking the sails of our ships are rotting and no storm near the bay we shall not return to our wives bitter girls of foreign countries will not leave us much time to weep in their arms not for the stone wreath of Troy do we implore You O Master not for a plume of fame white women and gold but restore if you can to blemished faces goodness and put simplicity into our hands just as you once put iron
send down white clouds Apollo white clouds white clouds
Â
TO POMPEIIâS AID
Thanks to energetic action taken by the government, firefighters and youth organizations, two thousand victims of Vesuvius have been rescued after twenty centuries. They are (it must be said at once) in good shape; their lives are now out of danger. Lovers turn their backs on aggressive journalists and angelic old ladies, chained dogs bark as if possessed, and a street urchin bestows on history the name of a certain strumpet.
Â
PRINCIPALITY
Marked in the guidebook by two stars (in fact there are more) the whole principalityâthat is to say the city, the sea and a stretch of skyâlooks great at first glance. The graves are whitewashed; the houses are detached; the flowers are plump.
All the citizens are guardians of landmarks. Owing to the low number of tourists, the work is not arduousâan hour in the morning and an hour at night.
In between, a siesta.
Over the principality a cloud of snores rises, red as a cauldron. Only the prince isnât sleeping. Heâs rocking the head of a local god to sleep.
The hotels and inns are occupied by angels, who took a liking to the principality for its hot baths, solemn customs, and air distilled by the motion of feathers buffing memory.
Â
MONA LISA
Through seven mountain frontiers
barbed wire of rivers
and executed forests
and hanged bridges
I kept comingâ
through waterfalls of stairways
whirlings of sea wings
and baroque heaven
all bubbly with angels
âto you
Jerusalem in a frame
I stand
in the dense nettle patch
of a cookâs tour
on a shore of crimson rope
and eyes
so Iâm here
you see Iâm here
I hadnât a hope
but Iâm here
laboriously smiling on
resin-colored mute convex
as if constructed out of lenses
concave landscape for a background
between the blackness of her back
which is like a moon in clouds
and the first tree of the surroundings
is a great void froths of light
so Iâm here
sometimes it was
sometimes it seemed that
donât even think about it
only her regulated smile
her head a pendulum at rest
her eyes dream into infinity
but in her glances snails are asleep
so Iâm here
they were all going to come
Iâm alone
when already
he could no longer move his head
he said
as soon as all this is over
Iâm going to Paris
between the second and the third finger
of the right hand
a space
I put in this furrow
the empty shells of fates
so Iâm here
itâs me here
pressed into the floor
with living heels
fat and not too nice signora
loosens her hair upon dry rocks
hewed off from the meat of life
abducted from home and history
with horrifying ears of wax
smothered with a scarf of glaze
the empty volumes of her flesh
are set in diamonds
between the
along a gravel path
hedged with box
the victor departs
wondering
whether out of Marsyasâ howling
there will not some day arise
a new kind
of artâlet us sayâconcrete
suddenly
at his feet
falls a petrified nightingale
he looks back
and sees
that the hair of the tree to which Marsyas was fastened
is white
completely
Â
FRAGMENT
Hear us O Silver-bowed archer through the clutter of leaves and arrows through the stubborn silence of battle and the mighty call of the dead again autumn O Silver-bowed archer trees and people depart we sleep in sultry tents under a sky crumpled by curses we dip our faces in dust and wash our bodies in sweat from the breast opened by a sword not blood not blood escapes animals die the eyes of mules are sinking the sails of our ships are rotting and no storm near the bay we shall not return to our wives bitter girls of foreign countries will not leave us much time to weep in their arms not for the stone wreath of Troy do we implore You O Master not for a plume of fame white women and gold but restore if you can to blemished faces goodness and put simplicity into our hands just as you once put iron
send down white clouds Apollo white clouds white clouds
Â
TO POMPEIIâS AID
Thanks to energetic action taken by the government, firefighters and youth organizations, two thousand victims of Vesuvius have been rescued after twenty centuries. They are (it must be said at once) in good shape; their lives are now out of danger. Lovers turn their backs on aggressive journalists and angelic old ladies, chained dogs bark as if possessed, and a street urchin bestows on history the name of a certain strumpet.
Â
PRINCIPALITY
Marked in the guidebook by two stars (in fact there are more) the whole principalityâthat is to say the city, the sea and a stretch of skyâlooks great at first glance. The graves are whitewashed; the houses are detached; the flowers are plump.
All the citizens are guardians of landmarks. Owing to the low number of tourists, the work is not arduousâan hour in the morning and an hour at night.
In between, a siesta.
Over the principality a cloud of snores rises, red as a cauldron. Only the prince isnât sleeping. Heâs rocking the head of a local god to sleep.
The hotels and inns are occupied by angels, who took a liking to the principality for its hot baths, solemn customs, and air distilled by the motion of feathers buffing memory.
Â
MONA LISA
Through seven mountain frontiers
barbed wire of rivers
and executed forests
and hanged bridges
I kept comingâ
through waterfalls of stairways
whirlings of sea wings
and baroque heaven
all bubbly with angels
âto you
Jerusalem in a frame
I stand
in the dense nettle patch
of a cookâs tour
on a shore of crimson rope
and eyes
so Iâm here
you see Iâm here
I hadnât a hope
but Iâm here
laboriously smiling on
resin-colored mute convex
as if constructed out of lenses
concave landscape for a background
between the blackness of her back
which is like a moon in clouds
and the first tree of the surroundings
is a great void froths of light
so Iâm here
sometimes it was
sometimes it seemed that
donât even think about it
only her regulated smile
her head a pendulum at rest
her eyes dream into infinity
but in her glances snails are asleep
so Iâm here
they were all going to come
Iâm alone
when already
he could no longer move his head
he said
as soon as all this is over
Iâm going to Paris
between the second and the third finger
of the right hand
a space
I put in this furrow
the empty shells of fates
so Iâm here
itâs me here
pressed into the floor
with living heels
fat and not too nice signora
loosens her hair upon dry rocks
hewed off from the meat of life
abducted from home and history
with horrifying ears of wax
smothered with a scarf of glaze
the empty volumes of her flesh
are set in diamonds
between the
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