Almost Luzi
- Dettagli
- Visite: 1547
Almost "Luzian" for a conference
in the company of Mario Luzi
Once more your goat-like
face friendly and semitic
escapes from the icon,
you yourself interrupt the scene, the present
crowd here to see the poet
upsets the worldly
light of the event,
they darken
and welcome another more Spartan
version of it,
sensing a sword inside it.
Truth has a strange luxury,
it is a wound.
And it makes
Trento more beautiful this evening
that falls at the end of March
from the silent crown of its mountains.
Life,
you say plaintively, life,
and hard as azure that inflames.
your look investigates as it says, it is ribald
in its wanting to be happy.
A recipe-book
or what was the note-book
flowered at the top of each page
where you kept sharpened the thread
of thoughts you didn't follow.
Poetry doesn't give light, Mario,
but it calls it forth
it calls it hopelessly
from every rock, bone, from the shadow
which imprisons it.
And she comes
the girl of our bodies,
following the call given
from snowy heights of the mind
and from the sunken hulls in one's heart.
She
comes, the deer
timid servant of your
tongue, of our thoughts.
light without yesterday.
Also afterwards, in pizzerias,
in the dead of night, with the glasses
at last still and hands
tired, hear
how it calls it, the voice
still pours out, overthrows
and insists on the frequency wave
and doesn't extinguish itself,
it calls, it calls,
its joy, breaks
the immobile window
of life already known.
O Mario good night,
a quite common man's name
and close by, the name of
a bar tender a maintenance man
harsh boy of your ardour.
You disappeared in the hall -
and with the company of an evening
you left to walk
beneath the fleeting chorus of the stars.
