Umberto Fiori Poems

There are times of day
when over the petrol pump
a certain bare wall is lit up
and stands against the blue
like a moon.

There comes a moment when
you do really live here
and look these houses in the face, and learn
to stand - to be - in the world,
to speak to a blank wall.

You learn the language,
you listen to people passing.
You begin to see this place,
to feel
in the clarity of their words
the light of this wall.
...

A playground, in a park. One lady
raises to the top of the slide a ball
of newspaper, gives it a kiss:
'Ready . . . set . . . go!' Another holds
a lampshade in her hands, smoothing
its chenille bangs. 'My daughter,
you should see her dance—
she's already won two prizes.'
'Did I tell you mine—he's three—can already write?'

A girl, in line behind them with her son,
is listening. She tightens her grip on his hand,
hoping no one
will notice he's real, and alive.
...

Col sole, una mattina, ho visto come
la vostra forza vi ha fermato,
care case.
Voi non andate da nessuna parte.

Restate qui, a portata di mano,
ma guardate lontano,
via, laggiù, dove siete
veramente fondate.
...

With sunlight, one morning, I saw how
your own strength has stopped you here,
dear houses.
You are not going anywhere.

You stay here, within reach,
but you keep looking into the distance,
way off, down there, where your
foundations really are.
...

In alto girano le gru
e sotto è un viavai di sirene,
ma questo scavo
che fanno in mezzo alle case
sembra in campagna quei torrenti asciutti,
fermi.

Ora il terreno
visto tutto intero
da su, dal sesto, dal settimo piano,
è un grande cratere spento.
Fa paura vedere quanta luce,
quanto vento contiene.

Per mesi e mesi in questo teatro immenso
si sentiranno urlare le misure.
Poi tutto il vuoto della scena
cemento e vetro l'avranno coperto
e a un terrazzino - chi vorrà ancora guardare -
sventolerà un asciugamano.
...

High up the cranes swing round
and down below there's a criss-cross
traffic of sirens
but this hole
they're making in the midst of houses
is like those dried-up streams in the country,
dead still.

The building site,
all of it now on view
from above, from the sixth, the seventh floor,
is a large extinct crater.
It's frightening to see how much light,
how much wind it holds.

For months and months in this huge theatre
the shouting of measurements will be heard.
Then the whole emptiness on view
will have been covered in concrete and glass
and on some tiny balcony - someone still wanting to watch -
a towel will be flapping.
...

Le vostre accuse, i vostri
rimproveri, di nuovo.
Mentre li smonto
come posso, uno a uno,
citando fatti, nomi, date,
mentre riconto sulle dita i miei due,
tre, quattro meriti
e vi abbaio sul muso la mia vita
non dite niente: mi guardate.

Le orecchie rosse, le vene
gonfie sul collo
- cosa guardate? Lo so, lo so che il bene
è diverso.

Ma non vi fa pietà
vedere come
ogni giorno son qua
a fargli il verso?
...

Your accusations, your
reproaches, again.
While I take them apart
as I can, one by one,
quoting facts, names, dates,
while I again count up on my fingers my two,
three, four good points,
and shout my life out in your face
you say nothing: you look at me.

The ears that are red, the veins
swelling in the neck - what
are you looking at? I know, I know that goodness
is not like this.

But doesn't it rouse your pity
to see how
every day I am here
imitating it?
...

E' bello essere uno
del posto.

E' bello quando in giro
si accostano
per chiederti la strada.

E se poi non la sai,
purché il discorso
non cada
vorresti improvvisare,
inventarla.

Ma un altro passa, sente di cosa si parla,
s'intromette, si volta
già dalla parte giusta, chiude gli occhi,
stende una mano.

E tu, che prima eri tanto di fretta,
ascolti raccontare di vialoni,
bivi, rotonde.

Rimani lì zitto, invisibile,
come uno spirito che deve
venire al mondo
e cerca qualcuno, qualcosa
che ce lo metta.
...

It's good to be a person
from the locality.

It's good when you're out
and they come up
to ask you the way.

And if you don't know it,
to prevent the conversation
from flagging,
you would like to make up something,
invent the way.

But someone else comes by, hears what you're talking about,
butts in, turning already
towards the right way, shutting his eyes,
and stretching out an arm.

And you, who were before in such a hurry,
listen to the tale of avenues,
junctions and roundabouts.

You're stuck there speechless, invisible
like a soul that has to
come into the world
and is looking for someone, or something,
to get it an entrance there.
...