Poetry from Marina Pizzi, translated by Maurizio Brancaleoni

Faded green-tinged image of a woman in an orange top and stretchy pants and sunglasses in concrete ruins of an old building.

Poems by Marina Pizzi

Translated into English by Maurizio Brancaleoni

From “Intimità delle lontananze” (“Intimate Distances”) (2004)

49

Deadly feedstuff

deserts of rules

multiple misdeeds

mocking snoots.

I descend the stairs of a splendid atelier

eaten up by the sun’s comedies

cats get flat out of slack

the shadowless gallows of cicadas,

a few meters away the new cemetery

(serving the

soul of future)

dishes out gendarmes sharp with bolt cutters.

From “Vigilia di sorpasso” (“Eve of Overtaking”) (2010)

39.

at the back of the job of resisting

the wind is called a swinging of blasphemous

sphynxes riding a broomstick.

rust soaring above the nape of the neck

forerunning confetti of death

I am. long face I shall not have your

love, but you’ll see I know how to resist

the partisan anecdote in the crag

of the eventide. choppy sea in the soul to see you

from under the case that approaches me dead.

From “Il cantiere delle parvenze” (“The Workshop of Semblances”) (2010)

42.

my theatre shortens I ride on others’ coat tails

in the havoc of the index by the hour,

other snake-like cases of heartache

when they announce that boredom lives

close to break-even with ash.

actually the angel’s play

babbles the impossible to the stones

the lyre stained with axe sewage.

to die of boredom like a tortoise

like the little girls in the hollow dunes

transported by the furies of the waves.

the crash of the virgins is a reddish

tide, demented the trip

with dizziness. in a wrinkled jacket I stand

and see you leave without engaged scratches.

I like to die holding a lantern

with a stash of iris overwhelming me

feeding my discontent by my side. what happened was

that I slit my wrists tomorrow, take off my clothes

I walk naked amid the cypresses that exalt

the dead by denouncing the nape of the neck of charity

fainted.

From “Cantico di stasi” (“Canticle of Stasis”) (2012)

6.

The window of discontent

along the courses of my sacrificing

the throng of the marsh. inside

the diamond I see the basket

of useless stigmata. I am long in suffering

this Martian of anxiety.

bootless the notes do not explain

the misfortune of moves without respect

the guiles containing the arrival

on the substitutions of the wind always against

the benefit of the all-standing lighthouse.

in competition with the winning swallow

may boredom withdraw which gives the cinereous staff

of the burden inside a reason to cry.

here one immolates the greed of contending

only downpours with vising drops.

in the hands of the surf’s mercy

the scoriae in one’s hands are the affection

of people who died in the garden of marvels

so they say in the tales of vanquished nuptial beds.

the soldier’s fear is the dynamiting

fence. here if you run away in a hurry

may luck open the wind and to hell with stinginess.

From “La cena del verbo” (“The Supper of the Word”) (2014)

31.

The struggle of dawn will cause my breasts to die

Torture gerund waiting at the world

To ask for peace without stealing anything

Neither the commas of the time passed

Nor the full stop ending a child conversation.

I train you as if you were an Olympic woman

Satiated panic without an affront

Nowadays there’s a Hercules driving the sin

I use up my coma on speakerphone

And clean out with the chorus of the fibs about

Gazing at God the beloved Jesus.

61.

Sluggish swamp the sea by now

It flirts with the lighthouse the last game

When children come to the sands

And strokes, locked up adrift, rot.

I shall be my construct in vain

The livid dawn of the one who often dies

Under the sindons of fingerprints.

A dream of you will be my eventide

The naked syllabary of the meek lighthouse

And the holy gazelles’ irenic messenger.

Sinister love the raft aches

This harrowing fate of dying

In the seesaw of the shadow or of the pitch dark.

Easter backpack to gaze at your face

To have a raft in the name of service

Refuge as the bad habit of running after each other.

Marina Pizzi is a contemporary Italian poet. She was born in Rome, where she still lives, on 5-5-55. In her literary career she has published over fifty books of poetry both on paper and in electronic format. Her poems have also appeared in various journals and anthologies.

Maurizio Brancaleoni is a writer and translator. He received his master’s degree in Language and Translation Studies from Sapienza University of Rome in 2018, but he has been translating at least since 2012. In recent years he localized the prose and poetry of manifold authors, among which Thomas Wolfe, Adrian C. Louis, Justin Phillip Reed, Jean Toomer, Dylan Thomas, Herman Melville, Scipione/Gino Bonichi and Amelia Rosselli. More poems by Marina Pizzi in English translation can be found here.

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