Sorry dochter

Voor die keer dat ik je poesmooie broekpakje achterstevoren aan deed

voor die keren dat ik je Dikkertjedapdeken ondersteboven over je spreidde

voor die keer dat ik de dekselse fopspeensterilisator liet uitkoken, mama mia

voor die keer dat ik je Jip-en-Jannekesbroodtrommel leeg meegaf naar school

voor die keren dat ik het waaklichtje op de slaapkamergang niet liet branden

voor die keer dat ik je de les spelde vanwege een vijf op tien voor rekenen

voor die keer dat ik stom stom papaatjedom je dagenlange legotoren omverliep

voor die keren dat ik, doodernstig met mezelf in de weer, niet kwam meespelen

voor die keren dat ik je een deadline voorschotelde als je je spinazie niet opat

voor die keren dat ik op reis per se in een museum wou en jij in het zwembad

voor die keer dat ik je strandwinkeltje met papieren bloemen onbeheerd naliet

voor die keren dat ik in de brandende zon kost wat kost de bergtop wou halen

voor die keer dat ik je lievelingsshirt gekrompen uit de wasmachine haalde

voor die keer dat je mijn kookadviezen volgde, met rampzalige gevolgen

voor die keren dat ik een te vroeg sluitingsuur voor je escapades installeerde

voor die keren dat ik gromde omdat je verkeerde vriendjes aan de hand had

voor die keren dat ik narigheid voorspelde telkens als je naar de stad fietste

voor die keren dat ik je gelijkhebberig de levensles spelde, eigenlijk altijd

dat ik je deze woorden niet in familiekring op een kerstavond aanzeg, maar

in een gedicht, dochter, voor de gezelligheid pap nooit met een dichter aan.

Mark van Tongele, Met de plezierboot mee, Atlas, Amsterdam, 2007

Scusami, figlia

Per quella volta che ti ho infilato il bellissimo tailleur coi pantaloni scambiando il davanti per il didietro

per quelle volte che ti ho messo la tua coperta di Snoopy* con il disegno all'incontrario

per quella volta che ho lasciato bollire senz'acqua il tuo scemo sterilizzatore del ciuccio, mamma mia

per quella volta che ti ho portato a scuola il tuo cestino della merenda con Gianni e Pinotto**, vuoto

per quelle volte che non ti ho lasciato accesa la luce di notte nel corridoio della camera da letto

per quella volta che ho previsto il sufficiente per le tue ricerche

per quella volta che ho rovesciato, io papà scemo, scemo scemo, la torre di lego costruita in giorni e giorni

per quelle volte che non ho giocato con te, seriamente occupato com'ero con me stesso

per quelle volte che ti ho dato un ultimatum quando non hai mangiato gli spinaci

per quelle volte che in viaggio sono voluto andare al museo, mentre tu volevi andare in piscina

per quella volta che ho abbandonato sulla spiaggia, incustodito, il tuo negozio di fiori di carta

per quelle volte che ho voluto raggiungere la cima della montagna ad ogni costo sotto il sole cocente

per quella volta che ho ristretto in lavatrice la tua camicia preferita

per quella volta che hai seguito i miei consigli culinari, con conseguenze catastrofiche

per quelle volte che ti ho occasionalmente imposto il coprifuoco troppo presto per le tue scappate

per quelle volte che mi sono arrabbiato perché ti circondavi di amici sbagliati

per quelle volte che ho previsto guai quando andavi in città in bicicletta

per quelle volte che ti ho detto con autorità come gira il mondo, sempre, in realtà

per dirti queste parole non tra di noi la vigilia di Natale, ma

in una poesia, figlia, perché sia chiaro che ti devi tenere lontana dai poeti.

Versione prodotta, come la precedente, grazie alla gentile collaborazione del mio tedesco, di un dizionario olandese-inglese e di un traduttore automatico impostato prima sul francese e poi - per sicurezza - sullo spagnolo. Non so quanto possa emergere, se non lo esplicito, la gioia che si può provare nel vedere uscire una sequenza di parole italiane, da questa interazione. Non sarà forse poi del tutto inutile lasciare traccia del fatto che dochter (figlia) è simile a dichter (poeta).
* La mia coperta era di colore azzurro-cielo-in-una-giornata-di-bora-e-sole, tuttavia l'unico, insostituibile pupazzetto della mia infanzia, equamente condiviso con il mio cane, era un piccolo Snoopy. Un'eventuale analisi di tracce di DNA prelevate da campioni di peli del nostro Snoopy avrebbe dato luogo a risultati mostruosi (è il modo più elegante che mi viene in mente in questo momento per rappresentare il contributo salivare di entrambe).
** Informazione falsa e tendenziosa per non aggiungere dettagli ridondanti sulla mia età, che è già chiarissima a partire dai reperti di scuola pubblicati a suo tempo. Il mio cestino era di colore blu-mare-in-una-giornata-di-bora-e-sole e non l'ho mai usato: lo ha fatto mia madre, che l'ha prontamente riutilizzato per tenerci, per anni, le mollette. 
Ah, visto che ci sono: mio padre non ha proprio niente di cui scusarsi.
Sono quasi 40, comunque, mi dicono.

Ideen over doodgaan

Krijg ik de sleutel tot de tijd te pakken? word
ik een door zwaartekracht krom gebogen straal
op reis naar het ultieme wormgat, een zwart gat
waarin ik word gezogen en aan de andere kant
weer uit kom als licht dat in rechte lijn beweegt?
grijpt er een verblindende schijn in mij plaats
die mij inziet, mij encyclopedisch openbaart tot
ik zonneklaar een bijzon word? ga ik als een
zwarte stip zwerven in het toonveld van toeval?
word ik een eeuwige spiegeling in dood later?
een oneindig afdraaiende ring van herinneringen?
een longitudinale trilling? een uitstrijkje vlakte?
vloei ik op het niets als inkt op ongegomd papier?

Mark van Tongele, Gedichten, Lannoo, Tielt 2005


Idee sul morire

Arriverò ad afferrare la chiave del tempo? Diventerò
un raggio flesso dalla gravità
in viaggio verso l'ultimo cunicolo spazio-temporale, un buco nero
in cui verrò risucchiato e da cui verrò espulso
dall'altra parte in forma di luce in moto rettilineo?
Si diffonderà in me un bagliore accecante
che mi riconoscerà, mi rivelerà enciclopedicamente finché
diventerò parelio chiaro come il sole? Fluttuerò in forma di
punto nero nel campo deittico del caso?
Diventerò poi eterno riflesso nella morte?
Un anello di ricordi in rotazione perenne?
Una vibrazione longitudinale? Uno striscio di superficie?
Scorrerò nel nulla come inchiostro su carta assorbente?

*

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff - and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.
And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate
Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate:
Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass
Hang all the furniture above the grass,
And how delightful when a fall of snow
Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so
As to make chair and bed exactly stand
Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!
Retake the falling snow: each drifting flake
Shapeless and slow, unsteady and opaque,
A dull dark white against the day's pale white
And abstract larches in the neutral light.
And then the gradual and dual blue
As night unites the viewer and the view,
And in the morning, diamonds of frost
Express amazement: Whose spurred feet have crossed
From left to right the blank plage of the road?
Reading from left to right in winter's code:
A dot, an arrow pointing back; repeat:
Dot, arrow pointing back... A pheasant's feet!
Torquated beauty, sublimated grouse,
Finding your China right behind my house.
Was he in Sherlock Holmes, the fellow whose
Tracks pointed bak when he reversed his shoes?
All colors made me happy: even gray.
My eyes were such that literally they
Took photographs. Whenever I'd permit,
Or, with a ilent shiver, order it,
Whatever in my field of vision dwelt-
An indoor scene, hickory leaves, the svelte
Stilettos of a frozen stillicide-
Was printed on my eyelides' nether side
Where it would tarry for an hour or two,
And while this lasted all I had to do
Was close my eyes to reproduce the leaves,
Or indoor scene, or trophies of the eaves.
I cannot understand why from the lake
I could make out our front porch when I'd take
Lake Road to school, whilst now, although no tree
Has intervened, I look but fail to see
Even the roof. Maybe some quirk in space
Has caused a fold or furrow to displace
The fragile vista, the frame house between
Goldsworth and Wordsmith on its square of green.
I had a favorite young shagbark there
With ample dark jade leaves and black, spare,
Vermiculated trunk. The setting sun
Bronzed the black bark, around which, like undone
Garlands, the shadows of the foliage fell.
It is now stout and rough; it has done well.
White butterflies turn lavender as they
Pass through its shade where gently seems to sway
The phantom of my little daughter's swing.
The house itself is much the same. One wing
We've had revamped. There's a solarium. There's
A picture window flanked with fancy chairs.
TV's huge paperclip now shines instead
Of the stiff vane so often visited
By the naive, the gauzy mockingbird
Retelling all the programs she had heard;
Switching from chippo-chippo to a clear
To-wee, to-wee; then rasping out: come here,
Come here, come herrr'; flirting her tail aloft,
Or gracefully indulging in a soft
Upward hop-flop, and instantly (to-wee!)
Returning to her perch -the new TV.
I was an infant when my parents died.
They both were ornithologists. I've tried
So often to evoke them that today
I have a thousand parents. Sadly they
Dissolve in their own virtues and recede,
But certain words, change words I hear or read,
Such as "bad heart" always to him refer,
And "cancer of the pancreas" to her.
A preterist: one who collects cold nests.
Here was my bedroom, now reseved for guests.
Here, tucked away by teh Canadian maid,
I listened to the buzz downstairs and prayed
For everybody to be always well,
Uncles and aunts, the maid, her niece Adele
Who'd seen the Pope, people in books, and God.
I was brought up by dear bizarre Aunt Maud,
A poet and a painter with a taste
For realistic objects interlaced
With grotesque growths and images of doom.
She lived to hear the next babe cry. Her room
We've kept intact. Its trivia create
A still life in her style: the paperweight
Of convex glass enclosing a lagoon,
The verse book open at the Index (Moon,
Moonrise, Moor, Moral), the forlorn guitar,
The human skull; and from the local Star
A curio: Red Sox beat Yanks 5-4
On Chapman's Homer, thumbtacked to the door.
My God died young. Theolatry I found
Degrading, and its premises, unsound.
No free man needs a God; but was I free?
How fully I felt nature glued to me
And how mu childish palate loved the taste
Half-fish, half-honey, of that golden paste!
My picture book was at an early age
The painted parchment papering our cage:
Mauve rings around the moon; blook-orange sun;
Twinned Iris; and that rare phenomenon
The iridule - when, beautiful and strange,

In a bright sky above a mountain range
One opal cloudlet in an oval form
Reflects the rainbow of a thunderstorm
Which in a distant valley has been staged -
For we are most artistically caged.
And there's the wall of sound: they nightly wall
Riased by a trillion crickets in the fall.
Impenetrable! Halfway up the hill
I'd pause in thrall of their delirious trill.
That's Dr. Sutton's light. That's the Great Bear.
A thousand years ago five minutes were
Equal to forty ounces of fine sand.
Outstare the stars. Infinite foretime and
Infinite aftertime: above your head
They close like giant wings, and you are dead.
The regular vulgarian, I daresay,
Is happier: he sees the Milky Way
Only when making water. Then as now
I walked at my own risk: whipped by the bough,
Tripped by the stump. Asthmatic, lame and fat,
I never bounced a ball or swung a bat.
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By feigned and remoteness in the windowpane.
I had a brain, five senses (one unique),
But otherwise I was a cloutish freak.
In sleeping dreams I played with other chaps
But really envied nothing --save perhaps
The miracle of a lemniscate left
Upon wet sand by nonchalantly deft
Bicycle tires.
A thread of subtle pain,
Tugged at by playful death, released again,
By always present, ran through me. One day,
When I'd just turned eleven, as I lay
Prone on the floor and watched a clockwork toy--
A tin wheelbarrow pushed by a tin boy--
Bypass chair legs and stray beneath the bed,
There was a sudden sunburst in my head.
And then black night. That blackness was sublime.
I felt distributed through space and time:
One foot upon a mountaintop, one hand
Under the pebbles of a panting strand,
One ear in Italy, one eye in Spain,
In caves, my blood, and in the stars, my brain.
There were dull throbs in my Triassic; green
Optical spots in Upper Pleistocene,
An icy shiver down my Age of Stone,
And all tomorrows in my funnybone.
During one winter every afternoon
I'd sink into that momentary swoon.
And then it ceased. Its memory grew dim.
My health improved. I even learned to swim.
But like some little lad forced by a wench
With his pure tongue her abject thirst to quench,
I was corrupted, terrified, allured,
And though old doctor Colt pronounced me cured
Of what, he said, were mainly growing pains,
The wonder lingers and the shame remains.


John Shade (Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire, Canto one)

*

(Va bene divertirsi con il fiammingo, ma mi farebbe un non so che tradurre una poesia di Nabokov, per quanto sotto falso nome. Proseguo allora per associazione.)

*

Ghe xe un usel s'un àlboro
tra i rami che se spòia;
solo el xe, senza vòia;
e el zigo che lu' fa
spaurissi i fioi che senti.


Caciator che te passi
col tu' fusil in spala,
sbàrighe su 'na bala,
ciàpighe giusto al cuor,
ch'el pòaro usel sia in pase.


Virgilio Giotti, Colori, Caprìzzio de utuno

Autumn whim

There is a bird on a tree

among the branches shedding their leaves;

it is alone, listless;

and the howl it makes

frightens the children who hear.

Hunter who pass by 

with your gun on your shoulder,

shoot a bullet up on it,

strike it in its heart,

so that the poor bird be in peace.