The Senses Poem by Stefano Dal Bianco
The Senses
The peach-tree that I see blossoming among the ruins of the city of Milan is not life
triumphing over cement, but only cement air, a life of cement inside the tree, my life.
Our life eluded on the roof-tops.
So I look at the shape of the peach-tree,
I carve into its little thief-like foliage
the word plant, the word word
that may save it
that may save me and I try to say: yes,
for the force of a wall, yes,
for time to repeat
many times the same season
and never in my house.
On the wall, there's seven senses
One tied to the other, two by two, one consolidating
the other disappearing without fear of dreaming . . .
They're arranged in the shape of a poem, which says:
"The first sense
is the sense of joy, without purpose, as when
one thing reveals itself.
The second is that same thing, made close,
of which you must never speak.
The third sense is nocturnal,
where nobody sees anything
where the mind remains the same.
The fourth sense is with our friend the flower
and you and it are single thing
under a clear sky abandoned.
The fifth sense is far from love.
The sixth sense is not-of-yours.
The last sense is all of them,
seventh sense inexpiable,
hardens
the word into word, the wall into
wall."
Tiny humanity,
same substance of my heart,
make me of the dead and I shall be saved.
Translation: 2004, Gabriele Poole
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/24/2024 8:20:06 AM # 1.0.0.1119
one more poem (in its original Italian text) by Stefano Dal Bianco: __________________________________________________ Gradazioni Stiamo in una certa solitudine, tu ed io (se sapessi chi sei o come ti si chiama) ma devo dirti grazie, come sempre, per sempre lo stesso motivo, che nel vuoto così intero in cui tu stai mi tiri dentro… e volentieri vengo (recalcitrando solo pro forma, facendo finta per un po’, per abitudine, che qualcosa ci sia da difendere ancora nella mia vita…) Così vengo con te, lasciando andare i nomi delle cose care, senza destino, in perfetta solitudine… Ed è un percorso, amore mio, che passa per un vuoto ma che non trova il vuoto; ché sempre tu mi rassicuri e nel tuo modo alieno di certezze, stanco, imbarazzato forse anche mi guidi (tu che non sei mai niente o solo l’amore mio evanescente e bianco soffice di nubi…) Così per molti giorni avendo traversato sono passato da un troppo pieno, a un vuoto, a qualcos’altro. Ci vengo volentieri, adesso, ti ringrazio e qui mi fermo (ma tu chi sei, e come ti si ferma?)