Mantis 19 (Spring 2020)
Translation

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Franca Macinelli

translated from the Italian by John Taylor

Alberi maestri

ogni giorno per il taglio utile
ricominciare, e mai giungere
a se stessi – spezzata la custodia
della nascita, niente
altro che filamenti buoni al fuoco.

*

fanno un rumore secco
le cose che sono state vive.

*

quando tornerai a vedere troverai ogni cosa sorretta dai rami. Non è accaduto niente. Siamo qui, su questa intelaiatura di foglie. A tratti un grido spalanca la gola. Perdiamo tepore. Allora si scuote, ci culla nel vento leggero.

*

ho visto gli occhi degli alberi

nel folto una scossa
di chiarore rimasto –a vegliarci
come fitta pioggia che aspetta.

*

ramifico secondo la luce
alberi maestri
a spalancarmi il petto
con la forza che viene da un seme.

*

era inerte l’aria, percorsa da tremori e scosse. Bisognava ritrarsi, mettere in serbo la vita, sospingerla verso zone dove si aprivano sacche di quiete. Così sono cresciuto in questa forma amputata. La strada accanto puoi vedere in me come brucia.

*

non è stato intagliato
non è ancora dentro un viso.
Quando prende parola
la sua presenza trema.

*

ho iniziato a curvarmi, a prendere la strada del ritorno. Vado incontro ai fratelli che premono –mie biforcazioni notturne. La superficie si infrange nascendo –la sfioro. Il cielo ha l’odore della mia linfa. Ho circoscritto me stesso. La mia maestosa statura.

*

dai rami della specie
la nuca, una cima
in ascolto tentenna
tutto l’andare è tornare,
un fascio di legna raccolta.
La sua fiamma mi schiuderà le mani.

*

da qui partivano vie
respirando crescevo
nel crollo, qualcosa di dolce
un incavo del tempo

tutti gli occhi che ho aperto
sono i rami che ho perso.

*

entro nella pioggia come in un bosco
–ali fittamente intessute
aperte e richiuse sotto la scorza.
Cammino, la nuca protetta
dai miei custodi, liberato lo sguardo
dalla gabbia degli occhi.

Master Trees

every day for the useful pruning
beginning again and never reaching
oneself—shattered the safekeeping
of birth, nothing
but filaments good for the fire.

*

things that have been alive
make a sharp crack.

*

when you see again, you’ll find everything supported by branches. Nothing has happened. We’re here on this framework of leaves. At times a cry opens the throat. We lose warmth. Then the shaking, cradling us in the light wind.

*

I’ve seen the eyes of the trees

within the thicket a jolt
of brightness left—to watch over us
like heavy rain waiting.

*

I branch out according to the light
master trees
to open my chest wide
with the strength that comes from a seed.

*

the air was inert, traversed by trembling and quivering. It needed to withdraw, to set life aside, to push it towards areas where pockets of quietness opened. I thus grew in this maimed form. You can see in me how the nearby street burns.

*

it hasn’t been carved
isn’t inside a face yet.
When it begins to speak
its presence trembles.

*

I have started to bend, to take the way back. I head towards the brothers who are pushing—my nightly bifurcations. The surface breaks at birth—I brush against it. The sky has the smell of my sap. I have circumscribed myself. My majestic stature.

*

from the branches of the species
the nape, a treetop
that listens, hesitates
any going is a going back
a bundle of gathered wood.
Its flame will open my hands.

*

from here ways parted
breathing I was growing
amid the falling, something sweet
a hollow of time

all the eyes that I have opened
are the branches I have lost.

*

I go into the rain as into a woods
—wings densely interwoven
opened and closed beneath the bark.
I walk, my nape protected
by my guardians, my gaze freed
from the cage of my eyes.

FRANCA MANCINELLI was born in Fano, Italy, in 1981. Her first two collections of verse poetry, Mala kruna (2007) and Pasta madre (2013), were awarded several prizes in Italy and later published together, in John Taylor’s translation, as At an Hour’s Sleep from Here (The Bitter Oleander Press, 2019). Her collection of prose poems, Libretto di transito, is likewise available in Taylor’s translation as The Little Book of Passage (The Bitter Oleander Press, 2018). Her writing has been translated into several other foreign languages and published in journals and anthologies. Her website: francamancinelli.com.

JOHN TAYLOR was born in Des Moines and has lived in France since 1977. Among his many translations of French, Italian, and Modern Greek literature are books by Philippe Jaccottet, Jacques Dupin, José-Flore Tappy, Pierre Voélin, Pierre Chappuis, Pierre-Albert Jourdan, Catherine Colomb, Lorenzo Calogero and Alfredo de Palchi. His recent volumes of short fiction and poetry include The Dark Brightness (Xenos Books), Grassy Stairways (The MadHat Press), Remembrance of Water & Twenty-Five Trees (The Bitter Oleander Press) and a “double book” co-authored with the Swiss poet Pierre Chappuis, A Notebook of Clouds & A Notebook of Ridges (The Fortnightly Review). johntaylor-author.com.