Cosmic & Uneasy

A bunch of words…

  • Cinque Pensieri Dal Finestrino Parte 2 / Five Reflections From The Train Window Part 2

    Cinque Pensieri Dal Finestrino Parte 2 / Five Reflections From The Train Window Part 2

    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.

    Fuori dal finestrino  
    il mondo si appiattisce:
    campi verde-pianura,
    cielo bianco-padano,
    due lembi di tessuto,
    e gli alberi all’orizzonte  
    sono le cuciture leggere
    che li tengono insieme.

    Siamo qui,  
    ma se non guardo l’orologio  
    il qui è senza tempo.  
    Non ha ora, giorno o anno:  
    è un continuum
    ininterrotto
    mentre si srotolano  
    i campi e il cielo bianco.

    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.

    Outside the window
    the world flattens:
    green-of-the-plains fields,
    white-of-the-Po-valley sky,
    two strips of fabric,
    and the trees on the horizon
    are the gentle seams
    that keep them stitched.

    We are here,
    but if I don’t glance at the clock
    this here is timeless.
    It has no hour, no day, no year:
    it’s a continuum
    unbroken
    as the fields and white sky
    go on unrolling.
  • Cinque Pensieri Dal Finestrino Parte 1 / Five Reflections From The Train Window Part 1

    Cinque Pensieri Dal Finestrino Parte 1 / Five Reflections From The Train Window Part 1

    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.

    Chissà cosa pensa 
    l’uccello che passa,
    e volando vede
    un serpente metallico
    strisciare in linea retta
    attraverso la campagna.
    Chissà cosa pensa
    dell’evoluzione
    e delle teorie di Darwin
    se è la ferraglia
    ad aver vinto la lotta
    per la sopravvivenza.

    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 wonder what thinks
    the bird that flies past,
    and sees from above
    a metal serpent
    slithering in a straight line
    across the countryside.
    I wonder what it thinks
    of evolution
    and Darwin’s theories
    if it’s the iron
    that has won 
    the fight for survival.

  • Trieste

    Trieste

    Italiano (English below):

    Sotto un cielo coperto,
    il vociare del vento
    prova a farsi sentire,
    ma alle mie spalle
    c'è troppo fracasso.
    Neanche sento le onde,
    tinte d’argento scarso.

    E il mare è come cera,
    colata da un istante.
    È sporco e sudato,
    bisunto e affollato
    di lesti pesciolini
    e alghe viscide, contorte,
    e un po’ bitorzolute.

    Le ragazze si domandano
    dove gli amori si nascondano.
    Sotto all’ombrellone?
    No, già controllato.
    Niente flirt quest’estate.
    Ma penso non sia così scontato
    se già si riesca a sopravvivere.

    Odio le navi da crociera:
    deturpano il panorama,
    spezzano l’orizzonte
    e compromettono le ombre.
    Rovina tutto questo rumore.
    Qui non si può più stare,
    meglio che vada per stasera.

    L'acqua non è più cera,
    è dolcemente increspata,
    come sottile cartapesta.
    Tutto è infinitamente blu,
    tra mare e aria,
    tranne il fumo della nave
    della Guardia Costiera.

    La città è solo un'eco,
    in questa mattina leggera.

        

    English:
    Beneath a clouded sky,
    the chatter of the wind
    tries to make itself heard,
    but behind me
    there’s too much clamour.
    I can’t even hear the waves,
    tinged with faint silver.

    And the sea is like wax,
    poured in a moment.
    It’s grimy and sweaty,
    greasy and crowded
    with nimble little fish
    and slimy, twisted algae,
    a bit knobby too.

    The girls wonder aloud
    where love might be hiding.
    Under the beach umbrella?
    Nope, already checked.
    No flings this summer.
    But I think it’s far from certain
    that we’ll succeed in surviving.

    I hate cruise ships:
    they deface the view,
    break the horizon
    and ruin the shadows.
    This noise spoils everything.
    I can’t stay here anymore,
    for tonight, I’d better leave.

    The water’s no longer wax,
    it’s softly rippled,
    like thin papier-mâché.
    All is infinitely blue,
    between sea and air,
    except the smoke trailing
    from the Coast Guard ship.

    The city is just an echo,
    on this gentle morning.
  • A Day Of Rain

    A Day Of Rain

    Day of gentle rain,
    you’re welcome again.

    The ear is pleased
    by nature’s gig.
    The nose is even more
    charmed by petrichor.

    And, oh, the eyes,
    caught by surprise,
    by grass and leaves,
    bejewelled with beads.

    Trees glance in puddles,
    pliant, tall and supple,
    grateful for mirrors,
    watery reflections.

    Listen.

    Heard thunders rumbling?
    Perhaps they’re clapping.
  • Meadows Of Nowhere

    Meadows Of Nowhere

    You cannot cage me
    in a condo,
    towering high
    in Concrete Kingdom.

    Born in the fields,
    amid cows’ methane,
    with morning dew 
    and PM10 mist.

    There is nothing
    as far as the eye can see,
    precisely there,
    where I used to live.

    The land of the free,
    pollution sink,
    mosquitoes’ rizz.
    My DNA detests it.
  • Carina Travel Agency

    Carina Travel Agency

    Background Image: Carina Nebula image taken by HAWK-I camera on ESO’s Very Large Telescope

    Credit: © ESO/T. Preibisch – Source


    When my inward eye fancies
    an escapist extravaganza,
    I picture myself as a little alien
    visiting a cosmic Ginza.

    In my utilitarian spacecraft,
    full throttle to a hypergiant star,
    I drive and drive, so careless
    of space and time afar.

    I stop a while for a glance,
    atop the highest Cosmic Cliffs,
    gazing all around at the galaxy,
    soaking in glowing sidereal whiffs.

    I peep into the dark Keyhole,
    but through the dust, all I see
    is the grand Defiant Finger
    mocking, making fun of me.

    Tuned to my favourite Astro-Radio,
    to Mystic Mountain, I head my ship.
    I, of course, take pictures for content,
    let down—never!—by a good old nebula trip.

  • The Floor And Its Meaning

    The Floor And Its Meaning

    The good girl,  
    the 9-to-5 girl,  
    the one who has more skills  
    than she’ll ever admit,  
    the one who could take more responsibilities  
    if she’d only wish,

    is on the floor,

    lying half-naked, 
    Joy Division in the air,
    writing poems that are bad
    but that matter to her.

    An Istrian liquor,
    wild pear,
    keeps the juices flowing,
    nothing more to bear.

    Scented candles are burning,
    flickering little fires,
    blinding lights
    in this obscurity.
    A refuge
    from the scorching sun.

    The floor has meaning.
    The floor is freedom
    to do
    what you’re not supposed to,
    what you shouldn’t,
    but you want to.
  • Nabû-kudurri-uṣur

    Nabû-kudurri-uṣur

    The floor turned into sand,
    then shifted to a desert.
    There Karanduniash stood,
    like an overgrown oasis,
    sublime and mysterious,
    raised by the will
    of Nabû-kudurri-uṣur.

    The moonlight kisses
    the hanging gardens.
    It is quiet from afar
    but it is only a mirage,
    it teems with life:
    humming, rustling,
    whispering to the stars.

    Embraced by two rivers,
    winding like snakes,
    bathed by the waters
    of hidden aqueducts,
    this suspended Eden
    welcomes all dreamers
    carrying lost secrets.

    When the sun sets
    bees start yawning.
    Velvet moths float in,
    caress datura trumpets
    as moonflowers unfurl
    and luminous fireflies
    light up the scene.

    In the hanging gardens,
    among figs and olive trees,
    it is not yet time to sleep.
    It is the hour of stargazing
    while harps accompany
    the lonesome echoes
    of the distant sea.

    Wrapped in the mist,
    sipping date nectar,
    sugary and sweet,
    in the shapes of constellations,
    sifting through citrus blossoms,
    the dreamers may find
    what they came to seek.

    Karanduniash never dies,
    it lives beyond time.
    It cannot be chased away,
    only remembered by some
    and forgotten by many.
    Still it stands by the rivers,
    for whoever would listen.
  • 9741

    9741

    Italiano (English below):

    Gli ingranaggi iniziano a girare,
    lentamente usciamo da Centrale.

    Musica indie sulle rotaie,
    che nostalgia, i binari di Lambrate.

    Le ciminiere rosso mattone
    sono spente e ormai mute.
    Loquace e acceso, invece,
    è il maledetto altoparlante,
    strillone e gracchiante
    futilità bilingue.

    Ora il Frecciarossa corre,
    più veloce delle nuvole. 

    E non è lenta neanche
    la formica che si arrampica,
    contro le leggi della fisica,
    sul vetro che trema. 

    Alberi, case, montagne,
    e campi, campi, campi.

    È fiorita la colza,
    la coperta gialla dei prati.

    È ritornata la formica
    dalle sue peregrinazioni.
    Si infila in un buchino,
    il suo varco segreto.
    Chissà che micro meraviglie
    si celano in quegli anfratti...

    Container, camion, ruderi,
    e campi, campi, campi.

    L’odiato altoparlante
    annuncia la mia fermata.
    Lascio il serpente metallico
    strisciare al suo capolinea.
        

    English:

    The gears begin to crank,
    slowly, we leave Centrale.

    Indie music on the tracks,  
    what nostalgia, the platforms at Lambrate.

    The brick-red chimneys
    are silent and extinguished.
    Verbose and on is instead
    the cursed loudspeaker,
    shrill and crackling
    bilingual frivolities.

    Now the Frecciarossa rushes,
    faster than the clouds.

    And neither is slow
    the ant that climbs,
    defying the laws of physics,
    on the trembling glass.

    Trees, houses, mountains,
    and fields, fields, fields.

    Rapeseed has blossomed,
    the yellow blanket of meadows.

    The ant has returned
    from its wanderings.
    It slips into a tiny hole,
    its secret passageway.
    What micro-wonders
    hide in those crevices…

    Containers, trucks, ruins, 
    and fields, fields, fields.

    The hated loudspeaker
    announces my stop.
    I leave the metal serpent
    to slither to its terminus.

  • Pothos Aurelius

    Pothos Aurelius

    My pothos might be stoic,
    for through drought and floods,
    it not only survives,
    but it wonderfully thrives.

    It must have overheard
    as I read "Meditations"
    by Marcus Aurelius
    and grasped the lesson.

    I wish I could learn as fast
    to set aside the angst,
    accept each sucker punch,
    amor fati and lovely spasms.

    Come again, atomic what?
    You say, habits or bombs?
    I think one must possess
    a taste for the grotesque

    to love a fate so brutal
    shape-shifting at any moment.
    Unasked advice in my chest,
    to navigate the tempest.