http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=30LR0tIDb3g
Seamus Heaney reads The Underground
There we were in the vaulted tunnel running,
You in your going-away coat speeding ahead
And me, me then like a fleet god gaining
Upon you before you turned to a reed
Or some new white flower japped with crimson
As the coat flapped wild and button after button
Sprang off and fell in a trail
Between the Underground and the Albert Hall.
Honeymooning, moonlighting, late for the Proms,
Our echoes die in that corridor and now
I come as Hansel came on the moonlit stones
Retracing the path back, lifting the buttons
To end up in a draughty lamplit station
After the trains have gone, the wet track
Bared and tensed as I am, all attention
For your step following and damned if I look back.
mercoledì 17 febbraio 2010
German Bakery, after the terrorist attack
13, February 2010
“A Mango Lassi, please”
the waiter smiled at me curious,
trying to guess my nationality from my accent.
He looked bold, but somehow shy.
He had a young brown face and big childish eyes.
He mumbled a few words in courtesy
and was beautiful of a simple beauty.
He looked at me while swinging his head,
They told me in India that gesture means “yes”,
or something like that.
I smiled back.
“Acha, here you are”
The Lassi came with a fly in it:
orange dotted in black.
Even now, I can clearly recall
the clots of dust on the floor;
a little girl, bare feet and dirty
asking for rupees with her tiny stretched hand;
some travelers, patiently carrying their miles on their back;
my aunt sitting next to me radiant
full of life, as she’s always been;
the sweet sound of chatter;
It was early June and in the air
you could feel the Monsoon approaching.
In India they love rain so much.
There was a summer storm enchanting the world with cool drops
when they told me about the bomb.
I imagined being there again, during the Monsoon season,
for a last goodbye before the place was blown apart.
I keep hold of the memories
and here, faraway,
I cannot help but wonder
Was that waiter working there still?
13, February 2010
“A Mango Lassi, please”
the waiter smiled at me curious,
trying to guess my nationality from my accent.
He looked bold, but somehow shy.
He had a young brown face and big childish eyes.
He mumbled a few words in courtesy
and was beautiful of a simple beauty.
He looked at me while swinging his head,
They told me in India that gesture means “yes”,
or something like that.
I smiled back.
“Acha, here you are”
The Lassi came with a fly in it:
orange dotted in black.
Even now, I can clearly recall
the clots of dust on the floor;
a little girl, bare feet and dirty
asking for rupees with her tiny stretched hand;
some travelers, patiently carrying their miles on their back;
my aunt sitting next to me radiant
full of life, as she’s always been;
the sweet sound of chatter;
It was early June and in the air
you could feel the Monsoon approaching.
In India they love rain so much.
There was a summer storm enchanting the world with cool drops
when they told me about the bomb.
I imagined being there again, during the Monsoon season,
for a last goodbye before the place was blown apart.
I keep hold of the memories
and here, faraway,
I cannot help but wonder
Was that waiter working there still?
E.C.
lunedì 15 febbraio 2010
Non chiederci la parola
Non chiederci la parola che squadri da ogni lato
l'animo nostro informe, e a lettere di fuoco
lo dichiari e risplenda come un croco
perduto in mezzo a un polveroso prato.
Ah l'uomo che se ne va sicuro,
agli altri ed a se stesso amico,
e l'ombra sua non cura che la canicola
stampa sopra uno scalcinato muro!
Non domandarci la formula che mondi possa aprirti,
sì qualche storta sillaba e secca come un ramo.
Codesto solo oggi possiamo dirti:
ciò che non siamo, ciò che non vogliamo.
[Da Ossi di Seppia, 1925]
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