From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
I thought I was flying
somewhere remote
but stepping off the bus
I realised I was wrong.
People skiing,
people hiking,
people,
people,
people
racing around
frantically,
like a swarm of ants
shaping their anthill
with a strict deadline
and short on money.
Capable folks
knowing where to go
while I,
stunned by the fuss,
couldn’t even picture
where my building was.
I expected “peaceful”
and got “hectic”.
Oh well.
As temperatures fall
my spirit lifts,
the sun is hidden
and the air turns crisp.
Now that snow refuses
to visit us,
winter stands stripped
of all frills and pomp.
Still beauty lingers,
stark and raw,
soft and slow,
a simple charm.
This season sings
in a low voice,
its song is blissful
melancholy.
It takes one glance
up to the sky
on a full‑moon night
to realise
that we mean nothing.
Yet in constellations far away
and in the tiniest snowy flakes
there is a harmony
we keep on crushing,
nurturers of entropy.
We’re only here for a while,
without even knowing why,
we should begin to unwind
this tangled clew of lunacy,
for you can’t buy eternity.
Roots deep in ground,
they are not for me.
I am a shoreless stone,
not a tree.
When the tide’s been quiet
for too long,
the waters shift,
without control.
Like a polished pebble
tossed by lake’s will,
with stray socks I ride,
tumbling in life’s machine.
Is there a moor
out there for me?
From shore to shore
I keep seeking it.
The sunset sky is ablaze,
fireballs swirl in the blue,
scattering all their flames,
a show of elegance inconnue.
As if a wizard threw
a kaleidoscope in the air,
being here feels quite illegal
without any ticket to pay.
But as nature always teaches,
the flamboyant-hued oddities
often hide beneath the surface
the deadliest poisonous beings.
This synthetic sky is no less
for it is the doomed produce
of stifling dry spells,
of all the air we pollute.
(The wind stinks of fumes
exhausted as our lungs.)
Perhaps this bright performance
is a fateful yell,
a dance of burning colours,
a common cry for help.
I used to look closer,
to pierce the surface.
Glittering stardust I held,
in the palms of my hands.
The pencil was more than that,
it was a magic wand.
And then it all slipped away
with adulthood’s demands.
Are you still there,
curled in the dark,
comatose, sleeping,
in an unlit corner?
I’d send an army of fairies
wings fluttering,
light scattering,
just to wake you up,
my wild,
awe-struck,
fearless,
inner child.
Welcome, November,
entered on tiptoe.
Mirthless whisperer
of bygone summer’s woe.
Misunderstood month,
despised by the most.
Yet you offer comfort
to the scared and lost.
A thick fog is cast,
veiling all of our pains.
Cleansing rain of past
sins keenly hailed again.
When the first ice comes,
congealing men’s ardours,
a truce gently calms
many turbulent sorrows.
Bright colours are muted,
ceased offending the eyes
too delicate to bear
the arrogance of light.
The little blade of grass
peeping out of frozen mud
is as weak against the gusts
as me at the idea of God.
Italiano (English below):
Siamo qui
che scivoliamo tra i campi
a velocità costante,
sembrano ottanta
ma sono centocinquanta
chilometri orari,
cullati dal ritmo
del treno che sobbalza.
Uscendo da Bologna Centrale,
quel celebre dedalo,
su un pilastro c’è scritto:
“guarda su”.
Caro graffitaro,
grazie del consiglio.
L’ho fatto,
ed ecco ciò che ho visto.
Oggi è il primo novembre.
Gli alberi sono gialli,
il cielo è bianco.
Non azzurro pallido,
non grigio pioggia:
bianco sparato.
Come una nuvola infinita,
come se fossimo tutti
sotto un enorme cuscino.
Come se qualcuno avesse steso
una mano fresca di pittura
sul brillante cielo estivo,
per dipingerci sopra
un cielo d’inverno, chiaro.
Però non è male.
È suggestivo.
Non so cosa hai visto tu
quando lo hai scritto.
Oggi è il primo novembre,
e io ho visto questo.
English:
We are here
sliding through the fields
at a steady speed,
it feels like eighty
but it’s a hundred and fifty
kilometers per hour,
cradled by the rhythm
of the jolting train.
Leaving Bologna Centrale,
that famous labyrinth,
on a pillar it’s written:
"look up."
Dear graffiti artist,
thank you for the advice.
I did,
and here’s what I’ve seen.
Today is the first of November.
The trees are yellow,
the sky is white.
Not pale blue,
not rainy grey:
stark white.
Like an endless cloud,
as if we were all
beneath a giant pillow.
As if someone had laid
a fresh coat of paint
over the brilliant summer sky,
to paint upon it
a clear winter sky.
But it’s not bad.
It’s evocative.
I don’t know what you saw
when you wrote it.
Today is the first of November,
and this is what I’ve seen.
Italiano (English below):
Siamo qui
che scivoliamo tra i campi
a velocità costante,
sembrano ottanta
ma sono centocinquanta
chilometri orari,
cullati dal ritmo
del treno che sobbalza.
Mentre osservo fuori,
mi guardo dentro
e noto una leggerezza,
una libertà
che sempre mi dà
il viaggiare in solitaria.
E penso a questa campagna,
abitata da donne
a cui, non troppo tempo fa,
questa indipendenza
era ancora negata.
E penso alle donne nel mondo
che ancora oggi
non hanno il diritto
neppure di mostrare il volto.
Viaggiare da sola,
senza chiedere il permesso,
è un tesoro immenso.
English:
We are here
sliding through the fields
at a steady speed,
it feels like eighty
but it’s a hundred and fifty
kilometers per hour,
cradled by the rhythm
of the jolting train.
As I gaze outside,
I look inside
and notice a lightness,
a liberty
that solitary travel
always gives me.
And I reflect on this countryside,
inhabited by women
to whom, not so long ago,
this liberty
was still withheld.
And I reflect on women across the world
who still today
are denied the right
even to show their faces.
To travel solo,
not asking for permission,
is a huge treasure.
Italiano (English below):
Siamo qui
che scivoliamo tra i campi
a velocità costante,
sembrano ottanta
ma sono centocinquanta
chilometri orari,
cullati dal ritmo
del treno che sobbalza.
So che è la Pianura Padana,
ma con poco sforzo
mi ritrovo su un treno
tra Danzica e Varsavia,
in Ontario, in Canada,
e con un volo pindarico,
sulla Transiberiana.
Sarà questa nebbia
che offusca la vista
e confonde i confini.
Il qui e ora, sul treno,
è una bolla alla deriva.
English:
We are here
sliding through the fields
at a steady speed,
it feels like eighty
but it’s a hundred and fifty
kilometers per hour,
cradled by the rhythm
of the jolting train.
I know this is the Po Valley,
but with little effort
I find myself on a train
between Gdańsk and Warsaw,
in Ontario, in Canada,
and with a leap of fancy,
on the Trans-Siberian.
Perhaps it’s this fog
that blurs the view
and confounds all confines.
The here and now, on the train,
is a drifting bubble.
Cosmic & Uneasy 