Antonella Anedda

Antonella Anedda Poems

Before supper, before the lamps warm the beds and the trees's foliage absorbs the dark and the night's abandoned. In the curtailed space of dusk whole seasons pass by unrecognized. Then the sky's freighted with clouds and air-currents drum at brambles and stumps.
...

To unearth the reason for a verb
because the truth is it's not time yet
and we don't know whether to rush forwards or take flight.
...

This language has no innocence
- listen to how speeches break up
as if also here there were a war
a different war but war
...

to Nathan Zach


These too are war poems
composed while it rages, not far off, not nearby,
seated askew at a table lit by lamps
...

It's a blessing to be as far away as you are
the most innocent among distant things:
table-niche and apple
...

Just as it is now, the olive tree on the balcony
the wind transforming the clouds. Beyond the century
in the evenings to come when neither you nor I
will be here, when the years will be branches
...

to my mother and father


May wind from Bonifacio to Corte, mistral from the Sardinia Strait retreating to Santa Teresa and south of south to Campidano. Star-shaped archipelagoes and godless beauty's fury.
...

That evil may decompose like the hamster buried in a shoebox in the garden's earth.

That the fright destined for others come to me tonight.
I see her, this woman who for hours stared at the tv
on and now screams at another body in twilight
...

If I've written it's for thought
because my thoughts are troubled about life
it's for those happy beings
close in the evening shadow
...

I love her fierceness when she fights me,
shouting 'Not fair!' Her eyes slitting
like shutters in cities by the sea.
Her life is rife with bonfires—seen and unseen—
...

gives joy only if read in a broken rhythm, pausing
at every period, parting your lips a little at the colons
What: a pity to die my love. To say: 'I don't love you anymore'
...

The kitchen is a promontory. The pans are reefs eaten by a wolf-wind that blows and runs

in circles on the island. The railing is a grey gust, his mate our sharp sister. Just awaken

we are the birds bent over the sink, tired of the nightly migration, confused by the rockets
...

13.

Round, frozen in its oceans, transparent
like a cell under the microscope
or horizontal with mountains planted firmly above fields
with the tongue of rivers and the stretched out sea.
...

14.

I didn't want names for unknown dead
yet I wanted them to exist
I wanted an anonymous tongue
- mine -
...

15.

To unearth the reason for a verb
because the truth is it's not time yet
and we don't know whether to rush forward or take flight.
...

16.

She was running towards a shelter, she shielded her head.
She belonged to a weary image
no different from any woman
surprised by the rain.
...

17.

The things I name in poetry are not noble:
they lie under the palate, watchful, aware only of the warmth
ignorant of the tongue.
...

18.

To those who asked him the difference between being sad and
being heart-broken, Nachman answered that being heart-broken
was not an obstacle to joy.
(Nachman of Breslaw)
...

Just as it is now, the olive tree on the balcony
the wind transforming the clouds. Beyond the century
in the evenings to come when neither you nor I
will be here, when the years will be branches
...

20.

This language has no innocence
- listen to how speeches break up
as if also here there were a war
a different war but war
...

Antonella Anedda Biography

Antonella Anedda is an Italian writer and educator. Of Sardinian and Corsican descent, she was born in Rome and was educated there and in Venice, receiving a degree in the history of modern art from Sapienza University of Rome.

The Best Poem Of Antonella Anedda

[Before supper]

Before supper, before the lamps warm the beds and the trees's foliage absorbs the dark and the night's abandoned. In the curtailed space of dusk whole seasons pass by unrecognized. Then the sky's freighted with clouds and air-currents drum at brambles and stumps. A storm shadow beats against the window panes. Water drenches the shrubs and the animals stagger over wet leaves. Pine shadows fall on the paving stones; the water's frozen -forest water. Time stays, disperses. Suddenly in the solemn quiet of the avenues, in the hollow fountains, in the pavilions lit up all night, the hospital has the blaze of a St. Petersburg winter residence.



There'll be a worse nightmare
half-closed between the leaves of the days
which will slam no door and the nails
hammered home when life began
will hardly bend.
There'll be an assassin stretched out in the gallery,
his face between the sheets, the weapon at one side.
Slowly the kitchen will open itself up
without the crash of broken glass
in the silence of a winter afternoon.
There'll be no bile or bitterness, just
- for one moment- the crockery
will loom with a marine splendour.

Then will be the time to draw near, perhaps to climb up
there where the future narrows
to a shelf packed with jars,
to the capsized air of the courtyard,
to the cramped flight of the goose
with the melancholy of a night-time skater
who knows how in that moment
the body aligns itself with the ice
so as to turn away
and go.

Translated by Jamie McKendrick

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