Plane Trees Poem by Stefano Dal Bianco
Plane Trees
I went out to walk towards this sea, but I must deny this
because I had gone out and in reality almost immediately
I met a plane tree and am stuck with writing about it,
though writing is more than telling,
and telling is already difficult,
though the difficulty is going back in
to write about the plane tree
to tell about the plane tree
without having it in front of me,
trying to remember,
betraying in recollecting as if it did not exist, really
plane tree of branches and leaves in the light.
How to forget it
Describe it, accepting the metaphors, perfectly sufficient, apparently indifferent but
alive with its gaze, dead from its splendor, of the evil that makes them different and
lucid of itself. And my compliments to the plane tree and goodbye to the walk, of he
who for a moment believed to have seen it and has forgotten it.
Rebuild it as new
Return to the lawn as if looking for something that is no longer a tree, no more a tree
than me or you who read me and are not on the lawn, and imagine this tree without
love, without any reservations of reality.
Ask you to come without fixing appointments,
ask together absent-mindedly
with the sole energy that we are allowed
for a free spot on the lawn, in front of the sea,
not far from the room where all is told.
Translation: 2004, Gabriele Poole
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/24/2024 2:51:09 AM # 1.0.0.1119
again, by S. Dal Bianco, another poem (in Italian) : ______________________________________ I morti Fare ora, da non più viventi, ciò che per noi fu fare l’amore, con tutti i sentimenti e la fiducia dell’essere, tra noi, due splendidi mortali calati qui secondo il caso, sarebbecome attraversare il bosco ciechi con la luna alta per arrivare ai gerani di casa; oltrepassare il rosso e il rosarancio, inoltrarci tra i rami fino alla terra nel vaso e lì scavare un destino adeguato, più fondo della nostra presenza supposta, un sorriso di terra calato, tanto calato nel vaso da intimidire il rosso e il rosarancio: un’esistenza complicata di lombrichi che respirano alla luna in questa notte nostra e profondissima. Si tornerà così all’amore puro, imperituro, che non tocca il vivente e custodisce ciò che viene dall’alto, a tutto raggio millesimando con la stessa indifferenza i due corpi avvinghiati, la terra, i rami, il rossorosa dei gerani.