Читать книгу: «Like Rags Hanging In The Wind»

Poems for a year

Translated by Ilaria Marazzina

Title | Like rags hanging in the wind

Author | Roberta Mezzabarba

© First edition 2019 – All rights reserved to the Author

The Author retains all exclusive rights. No part of this book may be reproduced without the Author's prior consent.

Cover photo: © Diana Martignoni

Poets cannot be redeemed, they must be left to fly among the trees, like nightingales ready to die.

(Alda Merini)

Preface

Poetry is nothing more than a flight, a way of letting oneself be carried away by the wind of truth.

Poetry is when the eyes capture both soul and feeling, allowing one to let go, like rags hanging in the wind.

Roberta Mezzabarba, a charismatic poet, gives wings to her poetic works, making them fly in the sky of dignity.

Reading the collection of poems entitled “Come Cenci Stesi Al Vento” (Like Rags Hanging In The Wind) manages to open the reader's eyes wide, to the point of projecting vivid images, to the point where one is transported into those often uncomfortable truths, soaring over moments of written freedom.

Very often we are depicted by “painters” who do not know our emotional and sentimental colours.

Roberta, on the other hand, has understood how to listen to time, which has taught her how to lead life, giving voice to her works.

My words are few, but no less sincere, for a poet like Roberta Mezzabarba.

We can, or rather, we must, try to see life through the same eyes as Roberta does.

Once you reach the last page of this work, it will be difficult to regret it.

Happy reading.

Umberto Coro

Writer, poet, actor, painter

President of the International Prize for Fiction and Poetry

The Golden Rose in Torre Alfina (VT)

SONO PAROLE DI SABBIA, LE MIE

Solo sabbia nelle mani,

parole a granelli,

silenzi assordanti

e la tua ombra nel cuore,

possente e buia.

Non più sole per me

né risate bambine,

ma solo una attesa

che sembra

non terminare mai,

infinito eco.

Di mio

resta solo un lampo

silenzioso

che punge lo specchio,

all’alba,

quando cerco di esistere ancora.

MY WORDS, ARE WORDS OF SAND

Only sand in my hands,

ground-up words,

deafening silences

and your shadow in my heart,

powerful and dark.

No more sun for me,

nor children`s laughter,

only a wait

that seems never-ending,

an infinite echo.

Of mine,

there remains only a flash

silently

pricking the mirror

at dawn,

when I try to exist again.

LA VERITA’

Quel vecchio,

con un labbro orridamente arricciato

grida la sua strana verità.

“La verità è una coperta corta,

una coperta corta e stretta,

che l’uomo tira da una parte e dall’altra.

Ogni giorno questa

diventa sempre più piccola,

e la coperta che un tempo

ci lasciava scoperta solo la punta delle dita,

ora basta appena a coprire le nostre vergogne.”

Quel vecchio,

con un labbro orridamente arricciato

grida la sua strana verità:

la sua coperta è divenuta

da tempo troppo piccola.

Troppe meschinità aveva dovuto coprire,

troppe guerre aveva dovuto conoscere.

Eppure sarebbero bastate solo

poche parole buone

ed un sorriso

per donare un po’ di pace.

THE TRUTH

That old man,

with a horribly curled lip

shouts his strange truth.

“The truth is a short blanket,

a short, narrow blanket,

that man pulls from side to side.

Every day,

it gets smaller and smaller,

and the blanket that once

would only leave the tips of your toes uncovered,

now is barely enough to cover up our shame."

That old man,

with a horribly curled lip

shouts his strange truth:

his blanket has become

far too small for far too long now.

Too much meanness had to be covered up,

Too many wars had to be lived through.

Yet all it would have taken

was a few good words

and a smile

to grant a little peace.

DONNA

Donna, in un silenzio che sa di eternità.

Durante la prossima luna crescerai una nuova vita;

a luglio prenderai il colore della spiga,

ma vestirai semplicemente e camminerai con fatica.

La canna del fucile proteggerà il tuo nido

mentre il vino sarà poggiato sulla tovaglia tesa…

Se la mano del tuo uomo ti sfiorerà

la tua voce, come per vergogna, salirà

alla tua bocca, come vino rosso in un bicchiere.

Il cielo dei tuoi occhi sarà un cielo di nuvole,

il tuo corpo, tutto intero, sarà una fonte

da cui sgorghi acqua limpida,

i tuoi sogni come la rugiada,

e le tue risa come l’onda che risale il fiume.

In onore della giornata contro la violenza sule donne

WOMAN

Woman, in a silence that feels like eternity.

During the next moon you will grow a new life;

in July you will take on the colour of an ear of corn,

but you will dress simply and walk with difficulty.

The barrel of the rifle will protect your nest

while the wine will be placed on the outstretched tablecloth…

If your man's hand so much as grazes you

your voice, as if in shame, will rise

in your mouth, like red wine in a glass.

The sky of your eyes will be a sky of clouds,

your body, all of it, will become a spring

from which clear water flows,

your dreams like dew,

and your laughter like the wave that goes up river.

In honor of the Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women

SE MAI POTESSI O DOVESSI

Se mai dovessi

o potessi

è lì che tornerei

fra le pieghe di quei pomeriggi

mai troppo lunghi,

ginocchia sbucciate,

vento nei capelli,

e nessuna colpa

da espiare sulle spalle.

Se mai potessi

o dovessi

cercherei le tue mani

sapienti e musicali

che tutto chetavano,

che magia portavano

con le loro carezze,

ad occhi chiusi

e cuore cheto.

IF I EVER COULD OR WOULD

If I ever would

or could

it’s there I’d go back to

between the folds of those afternoons

never too long,

grazed knees,

wind in your hair,

and no fault

to atone for on your shoulders.

If I ever could

or would

I’d search for your hands

wise and musical

that quieted everything,

what magic they brought

with their caresses,

with eyes closed

and a hushed heart.