Issue 30: Riccardo Benzina
It is no longer seeing.
Through the countryside that comes visiting even while I sleep, through
the olive trees that rise broken. Or the sky, after it falls
onto the mezzanine
by mistake, flauntingly
They say it’s
easy, that you can understand this pose
this stockpile of nerves and excluded
crevices are brought back here later on, combined.
It is not seeing. It looks more like
this: it looks like the momentum
of some dissipation
occasional dose in the unattended darkness
overindulging, imploding over the halves of a heart
making a mess.
Not the truth. That’s why I’m telling you
I’d like to rest.
Worn out is the idea.
Yes I’d like to, I’d like to
if I can because
later on the doldrums will turn into a giant strut, almost
an entire world and I will be
entirely taken, you will be
entirely taken, we will be taken.
I’d like to rest my self as well, my self
you leave in the closet every time
burning a merciless cross
on the wall of your chest. The distance
unsewn, a desperate kiss on the windows.
I never told you.
Now I let the trap speak
for me. You’ll see
that I’ve read and not replied, that you don't receive, you haven't
Doors remain closed. They’re heavy
and easy to understand.
If you lean over the mountain you can see
a crimson light coming from the stones.
The end of the river the back breaking.
Places becoming gifts to these routes.
Such a long bridge joining
the sands of the bank to the other bank.
Picking up some old dreams
where they were left off.
Where you’re alone
where you ripen up to a chorus.
I call head a page made
of rock and coal, no longer holding. And it must be repaired: it would
only take a kiss, a breath to turn away from us all the standing
here, laid towards the sun
crossing the borders.
But nothing goes this far.
And everything’s so crazy -
Sometimes a noise wakes us up.
Some other times, it puts us to sleep.
Tip of the finger adhered
well to the gaze
of me as a child, who I was - I had
milk, silence and verbs
of going on. The home for homework.
The hail of facts. I had a big
love, of going on.
The more this secret is precious
the more it becomes intolerable. It is not silence
this dreadful round, school
of being abandoned.
Riccardo Benzina lives in the south of Italy. Some of his visual work appeared on Utsanga, Minima and Die Leere Mitte. The poems above are Riccardo's translations of his poems in Italian featured in his book Scenario (Taut Editori, 2022).
Copyright © 2023 by Riccardo Benzina, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author