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Qui piove per giorni interi, talvolta per mesi.
I sassi sono neri d’acquate,
I sentieri pesanti.
Sul bordo delle rogge:
girini, latte scure. Una valigia
incatramata.
Un filo d’olio cola
sulla ghiaia. Sopra, cemento.
Se gratti la terra: detriti,
mattoni scagliati, denti di coniglio.
Si possono pensare rumori umani,
passi, palle da tennis. Voci eventuali.
Ogni frantume è ammesso purché inutile.
Siccome questo è il vuoto c’è posto per tutto,
E quel poco che c’è, è come se non ci fosse.
Anche i binari sono perfettamente inerti,
le lucertole immobili, i vagoni
dimenticati.
E poi il pollaio. Le cose senza storia.
O fuori. Una carriola
che non ha ruote. Un pozzo. Un secchio marcio
privo di fondo. Il nome di uno scemo:
Luigino. Piume dentro la rete, di gallina.
Buchi dentro la rete. Trame rotte.
Quello che non chiamate crudeltà.
Io sono questo: niente.
Voglio quello che sono, fortemente.
E le parole: nessuno adesso me le ruberà.
Published July 23, 2018
Excerpted from Le cose senza storia, Marcos y Marcos, Milano 1994
© Marcos y Marcos 1994
Ici, il pleut des jours entiers, parfois des mois.
Les pierres sont noires d’averses,
les sentiers lourds.
Sur le bord des canaux :
têtards, ferraille sombre. Une valise
goudronnée.
Un filet d’huile coule
sur le gravier. Dessus, du ciment.
Si tu grattes la terre : des déchets,
briques écaillées, dents de lapins.
On peut penser à des bruits humains,
des pas, balles de tennis. Voix éventuelles.
Tout débris est admis à condition d’être inutile.
Comme il s’agit du vide il y a de la place pour tout,
et ce peu qu’il y a, est comme s’il n’était pas.
Même les voies sont parfaitement inertes,
les lézards immobiles, les wagons
oubliés.
Et puis le poulailler. Les choses sans histoire.
Ou dehors. Une brouette
qui n’a pas de roues. Un puits. Un seau pourri
sans fond. Le prénom d’un idiot :
Luigino. Plumes dans le grillage, de poule.
Trous dans le grillage. Intrigues rompues.
Ce que vous n’appelez pas cruauté.
Je suis ceci : rien.
Je veux ce que je suis, fortement.
Et les mots : maintenant personne ne me les volera.
Published July 23, 2018
Excerpted from Les choses sans histoire/Le cose senza storia, éditions Empreintes, Lausanne, 2002.
© éditions Empreintes 2002
Here it rains for days on end, for months sometimes.
Stones blackened by downpours.
The paths sodden.
At the ditches’ edge:
tadpoles, tins, dark. A suitcase,
tarred.
Oil leaks
on to the gravel. Above, concrete.
If you scratch the soil, debris,
chipped bricks, rabbits’ teeth.
One can summon human noises,
footsteps, tennis balls. Maybe voices.
Any scrap is allowed in as long as it’s useless.
As this is the void there is space for everything,
and the little that’s here is inconsequential.
Even the railway tracks are perfectly inert,
the lizards still, the carriages
forgotten.
And the chicken-run. Things without a history.
Or outside it. A wheelbarrow
without wheels. A well. A rotting bucket,
bottomless. The name of an idiot:
Luigino. Chicken feathers caught in the fence.
Holes in the fence. Broken threads.
What you won’t call cruelty.
It is what I am: nothing.
I want what I am, intensely.
And words: no one will steal them from me now.
Published July 23, 2018
© Vanni Bianconi 2018
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Swiss poet Fabio Pusterla takes the stage at FLIP, Brazil’s main literary festival (www.flip.org.br.) For the occasion, a collection of Pusterla’s poems has been published in Brazil. Swiss poet Prisca Agustoni translated Pusterla’s poems from Italian, her mother tongue, into Portuguese, her acquired language. Specimen has now combined a series of published and previously unpublished poems into a variety of first and second languages.
This project is part of a series of exchanges leading the way to Babel’s Brazilian edition, September 13-16 (www.babelfestival.com).
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