The forest calls my name
by winds stirring the leaves,
the light filters to tame
ecstatic evil fiends.
A dance macabre of shadows
occurs in front of me,
my mental voice is verbose,
a sense of familiarity.
When creatures are sunkissed,
I join their frantic spins,
my sins I should not fight,
they all belong to me.
Autore: Marta
-
Komorebi
-
Capricci Stagionali / Seasonal Whims
Italiano (English below):
La primavera è arrivata,
per liberarci dai cappotti,
che, con slancio olimpico,
impicchiamo all’attaccapanni.
Molle sotto ai piedi,
particolarmente efficaci
quando sediamo in ufficio,
mentre splende il sole.
Che poi è l’origine
dei peccati capitali,
che nessun rosario
potrà mai espiare.
Le idee non sbocciano
su schermi incolori;
la vita è un pendolo
tra noia e riunioni.
Quando scoccano le cinque,
saltiamo fuori,
corriamo al parco,
ad annusare i fiori.
English:
Spring has arrived,
to spring us from coats,
which, with Olympic zest,
we hang on the coat rack.
Springs under our feet,
particularly effective
when we sit in the office,
with the sun shining.
Which is, after all,
the spring of mortal sins,
that no rosary
will ever redeem.
Ideas don't spring
on colorless screens;
life is a pendulum
between boredom and meetings.
When five o'clock strikes,
we spring out,
run to the park,
to smell the flowers. -
Monocromatico / Monochromatic
Italiano (English below):
La primavera è arrivata:
profumi e colori a profusione!
Eppure guardo in alto,
ed è tutto cinereo,
un cielo inquinato,
d’un tono pallido e malato.
Mi giro anche di lato
e vengo accerchiata
dai gas di scarico,
di un nero corvino,
Pantone diciannove,
in uscita dalle auto,
che sussurrano una preghiera
per passare la revisione.
D’antracite son le strade,
e al di là dell’orizzonte,
pure il fumo delle ciminiere:
un color grigio dispiacere.
Ogni tanto splende il sole,
facendo di me
una flebile ombra,
in fase di definizione.
English:
Spring has arrived:
scents and colors galore!
Yet, I look up,
and it's all ashen,
a polluted sky,
of a hue sickly and pale.
I turn to the side too,
and I'm encircled
by exhaust fumes,
jet black,
Pantone nineteen,
emerging from cars
that whisper a prayer
to pass inspection.
The streets are anthracite,
and beyond the horizon,
even the chimneys’ smoke:
a grey shade of sorrow.
At times, the sun shines,
making me into
a feeble shadow,
still in definition. -
Prima & Vera / First & True
Italiano (English below):
La primavera è arrivata,
nonostante tutto il male
che sta impazzando sulla Terra.
Però la scorgo solamente
nei fiori sui balconi;
sul suolo nient’altro,
che petali di plastica
e mozziconi.
Colate di catrame
han sostituito l’erba.
Vorrà dire che alzerò lo sguardo
per veder passare la primavera.
English:
Spring has arrived,
despite all the evil
raging across the Earth.
Yet I only glimpse it
in the flowers on balconies;
on the ground, nothing more
than plastic petals
and cigarette butts.
Tar spills
have replaced the grass.
I suppose I'll lift my gaze
to watch the spring pass. -
Heartthrobs’ Coquette
The moon just hid,
she took offence,
it’s not my fault
you’re a superstar,
oops, satellite,
Lady Cliché,
my tongue just slipped,
très désolée.
Cheers to Astolfo,
is he still there?
Tell something riveting,
I want to know
how you were born
and how long ago.
Why don’t you show
your own dark side?
What do you hide?
Something obscene?
Wish I could see
ton côté interdit. -
The Forgotten One
Gazing out of the window
I see a moon almost full,
round, perfect and beautiful,
yet it exerts nothing poetical.
For centuries, she’s romanced
lovers, poets and prisoners,
there’s not a single word to add
about this object over-sung.
But we don’t talk about Pluto,
dispossessed of its title,
soaring in lonely isolation,
universe’s disinherited son.
I often think of you,
old enough to have been taught
you’re a planet, not a dwarf,
once you were not the underdog.
I hope that dancing with Charon
brings you solace in excommunication.
You’re of endurance a symbol,
the allure of the unknown.
The student sitting in the last row
might be the calm, smartest one,
not quite fitting into a role
tailored for just showing off. -
La Pioggia Nella Città / Rain In The City
Italiano (English below):
Oggi piove.
Non sulle soglie del bosco
ma su un mare di asfalto;
non sulle tamerici
ma dentro ai tombini.
Niente ginepri né mirti,
soltanto muri e palazzi,
che, da gran prepotenti,
occludono gli orizzonti.
Non piove sui pini
bensì sui lampioni,
dritti righelli
con cui il vento traccia
gocciolanti trattini.
Piove sui nostri volti,
che però non son silvani,
ma, offuscati dal pallore,
e illuminati dal grigiume.
Apriamo tutti l’ombrello
se no ci sciogliamo.
Chiusi nelle autovetture,
immersi in tutt’altro
che freschi pensieri;
fortemente sperando
che le ore seguenti
fossero ormai già
un affare di ieri.English:
Today it is raining.
Not at the edge of the woods,
but over a sea of asphalt;
not on the tamarisks,
but into the city drains.
No junipers, nor myrtles,
only walls and buildings,
that, arrogantly,
obstruct the horizons.
It does not rain on pines trees,
but on lampposts instead,
upright rulers
with which the wind sketches
dripping dashes.
It does rain on our faces,
which, however, are not sylvan,
but, blurred in pallor,
and lit by grayness.
We all open umbrellas,
or we melt away.
Sealed in our cars,
immersed in all
but fresh thoughts;
fervently hoping
that the hours ahead
were already now
a matter of yesterday. -
Pausa Pranzo / Lunch Break
Italiano (English below):
Mentre spreco il tempo,
in un grigio lavoro,
obliterando il mio
spirito deluso
in cambio del denaro,
le muse annoiate
mi aspettano sempre
a casa, sul divano.
Strimpellano il piano,
scarabocchiano forse,
dipingono i muri
coi miei pennarelli,
mi svuotano il frigo,
si spruzzano i profumi,
chiedono il motivo
del perché non arrivo.
Il tempo che tolgo
all’arte lo pago.
Di certo un impiego
assicura salario,
però erode le ore
di ispirati svaghi,
riducendole solo
a preziosi momenti
d’infinito valore.English:
While I waste my time,
in a grayish job,
obliterating my
disheartened soul
for monetary reward,
the restless muses
always wait for me
on the couch, at home.
They play the piano,
they maybe scribble,
paint on the walls
with my crayons.
They empty the fridge,
spray on my perfumes
and ask the reason
why I don’t return.
The time I take
from art, I pay.
Surely, a steady job
secures a wage,
but erodes the hours
of inspired play,
reducing them to
precious moments
of worth boundless. -
(Be)Longing
I can’t keep up,
time runs too fast.
Leaves sprouting,
turn verdant green,
then yellow and crinkly
without me noticing.
I’m always too busy
earning my wages.
Life feels like a pity
when it’s nothing more
than sterile labour,
a matter of functionality.
I viscerally need
all my senses pleased.
I want to run in fields
with bare feet,
feeling the earth
beneath me. -
Cosmic Walker
On a carpet of stardust,
I walked there from Mars.
Someone told me that on Earth
they are constantly at war.
Everybody surely knows
it’s just a floating tiny stone,
so, what are they arguing for?
A hide-and-seek lover God?
Borders existing only on maps?
A sheer illusion of dominion
nullified by the time that flows?
A paragraph on history books?
It’s such a pity that they turned
a wonderland into an abattoir.
Indeed I have to tell the truth,
with heavy heart I hurried home
before getting fatally caught
in that nonsensical mosh.
I’ll just observe them from afar,
with my mighty telescope,
in the comfort of my rocks.
Cosmic & Uneasy 