Friday, April 09, 2010

Blog gdid ta' Carlos Vitale, kritiku u traduttur mill-Argentina

Carlos Vitale huwa kritiku u traduttur mill-Argentina li jghix fi Spanja. Ghandu dan il-blog gdid fejn, permezz tal-interess tieghu fil-Letteratura Taljana, qaleb mit-Taljan ghall-Ispanjol bosta poeziji ta' poeti Taljani f'rabta mas-sekli 20 u 21.

Ghal iktar taghrif ara

Tuesday, April 06, 2010

Poems from beautiful Slovenia

On the highway (01-04-2010)

Sitting comfortably I see life slip by,
I spy others’ daily chores in swift seconds
I see solitary drivers steer long metal beasts
highways alive with speeding coloured toy cars
wooden houses with red roofs like joined hands in prayer
clothes hanging on lines in front and back yards,
smoking chimneys alive
with familiar tastes and pleasant smells,
barns pregnant with golden haystacks
drying in the golden sun.
Nearby hills and mountains faraway,
snowy shiny peaks light my inner self,
pines in their thousands
remind me of solitary steeples in different
towns spread on the green plains.
Shine or rain
I continue my race forward, destination hotel,
looking for idiosyncrasies revealed only to the traveller awake,
peaks high and low walk by slowly
and the clouds heavy ice afloat.
I wish I had a photographic memory
to keep these hundreds of fleeting panoramas
alive inside, not black and white,
but full with the colours of budding spring.
I see all this slipping through the window at my side
and I smile, feel reborn, a child again.

In Slovenia (02-04-2010)
Welcome evening,
the hills in front
drawn by a giant child’s hand;
in the background silver paper;
the pines like Indians side by side
waiting for the final call;
the peaks the last to say goodbye
to the setting sun.
Between the electricity lines
I write my invisible poetry
on green, brown and crimson sheets.
In the spaces between the hills
my thoughts rest and are born.
Finally the sun has set,
the valleys hide between grey veils
the trees, tired of the long day,
bend their heads on their neighbour’s shoulder.
My eyes rest on a field where
those who once were now repose.

(Vogel - 02-04-2010)

For the first time I walk on the snow...
at first I am afraid
but later my diffidence slowly melts away.
I bend forward and grab a handful of white gold
I feel the cold but smile happily
and then let it fall down like dry dust.
I look around and everything’s
huge, silent and white.
I feel small outside but big inside,
inside I touch the highest peaks.
Here clocks stop ticking
time is no more
seasons come and go
as the mountain slopes change attire.
My breadth becomes one with the winds
my eyes look 360.
I open my arms full length
My eyelids slide down slowly,
slowly the sun sets...
I start my way back home
leaving behind footprints in the snow...
Tomorrow others will be part of
mother nature again.

Crossing the Julian Alps

The mountains are alive
they do not spare me one moment.
I can hear their voice calling me
coming out from between the deep crevices,
the echoes reaching high up to the peaks
and deep down inside myself.
My spirit drinks from the pure spring waters
my nostrils breathe in clean air
my ears feed upon the natural voices
birds sing their evening prayers.
I look at the ground as I walk the solitary paths
and see stones coming out like bones
roots protruding like aged fingers
mushrooms, tiny plants and mosses like eczema
flowers natural tattoos
on a million-old body of rocks.
The pines white with snow
white hair of an aged being.

I see bunkers, trenches dug deep
inside the earth
cemeteries and monuments for those
who passed away in vain combat,
tens of niches with holy images
hiding in different secret corners.

The mountains are alive
they do not spare me a moment of rest.
In front of all this I stand in awe
and let silence speak in whispers.