Old-baby, pepper and vanilla, it's hard to say where you are, you who mistrusts places and even names, barely accept that your name is Caproni. You are where afloat one sees nothing but the wale:' makes bubbles, it's your whirlpool of rhymes that rise from nowhere: just pop up. Or you're by the board of departures and arrivals when the trains are unmoving in the station at dead of night and those alive have given up. Or you're in church, on a weekday morning, alone, spying on saints at an altar you don't believe in, or Sunday night at a tavern among hunters, like a roe deer disguised as a human. But what you see meanwhile a mouse, a flower, wine, the lost way and a beastly life: o cruel magic for the fresh trembling of your heart. You've had it with poetry with prose with history: history is chilling, you said, and conflict isn't your strength. Your aim was you. How well I know it. And victory? Only this passion to sing, to tell, and to disappear.
Translations from the ItalianBy Lisa Mullenneaux
A lifelong Milanese, Anna Maria Carpi (annamariacarpi.org) has won awards for her translations of twentieth-century German poets and also for her own poetry, which she began publishing in 1993. In 2016 Marcos y Marcos published her collected poems as E io che intanto parlo. Besides poetry, she has written essays, stories, and four novels.
Lisa Mullenneaux is the author of Naples' Little Women: The Fiction of Elena Ferrante and has reviewed Ferrante's La Frantumaglia for WLT (Jan. 2016). She teaches writing for the University of Maryland UC.
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|Title Annotation:||Three Poems|
|Author:||Carpi, Anna Maria|
|Publication:||World Literature Today|
|Date:||Jan 1, 2018|
|Next Article:||Elif Shafak. Three Daughters of Eve.|