From a series of poems written during my stay in Lapland.
This sea is strange.
It is not blue,
it is all white,
it is mermaid‑free.
Its fish are weird,
they have no fin
but long sleek skis.
There is no seaweed,
just trees floating
in wide clusters,
with white balls on
soft and cottony,
like candy floss,
huge lollipops.
This sea has waves too.
They are more like dunes
with diamond powder
glistening
under the moon.
Is it stardust,
fragments of dreams?
It is what I wish,
what is precious to me.
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.
There are no ships
in this harbour
in this toned-down,
muffled season.
Water half frozen,
as a distant flame
lights a sauna
with a red haze.
Like life made small,
concentrated,
shrinking into a spore,
to resist the cold.
Merely dimmed
but not dead,
ready to blaze
as is spring again.
A picture suspended
in space and time,
a souvenir
for my inner eye.
Cosmic & Uneasy 