Blesok no. 107, May 2016
Poetry


Poetry
Translation by Gordon E. McNeer

Paula Bozalongo



TIME GONE BY


    The room fills with the smoke of absence,
    throughout the empty house
    a light that strikes the wall
    dazes me in its reflection,
    crosses the glass, enters through the window
    without finding the books,
    the party clothes
    that were in the closet
    like the remains from an agenda of adolescent evenings.
  
    The day only shows what was never its own
    to tell me later
    that it’s possible to lose once again what we have lost.




THE INEVITABLE SHADOW


    All the decisions that we make one day
    live on piled up like wreckage
    or ethereal fragments
    that climb and rise up
    just like vines
    that never let go of us.
  
    Love is black,
    the journey is black,
    the house is in darkness.
  
    Without nuances or scales or brilliance or contrasts
    there no longer exists in the shadows
    even the outline of your face shouting out at your enemy
    for the right to the last word,
    sadness descending in an elevator,
    or the tracks that are the vestiges of the moment
    in which I left and you left my childhood,
    a place we will never return to.
  
    The lights of the future avoid details
    and permit living
    beyond the shifting shadows
    that now cross the sand,
    the sheer darkness
    behind the abyss,
    but they never reach
    the dwelling place of the inevitable shadow
    anchored in memory.




A LIGHT UPON THE SEA


    This packed bag
    is a glowing lighthouse that sheds light on the uncertain,
    the fragile clarity of a light upon the sea
    that shows us both
    fear and the coming of age.
  
    Back-lit,
    everything travels resolutely toward the past,
    now only the sea exists
    and the false sound of its companionship.




THE WOMAN BECAME A CAVE


    The woman became a cave,
    the humidity within
    turned her smooth skin
    into a ruin.
  
    Today the tourists arrive to observe her.
  
    They caress her struggle against time
    and her noble resolve to live in the cold.
  
    They touch her grottos secretly
    hoping for shelter within the stone:
    an ancient understanding of history,
    a claroscuro limit to their fear.
  
    Harm doesn’t dissolve in renown,
    the limestone doesn’t dilute in their visits,
    the beginning is final,
    the tourists move on.
  
    There are no women without light
    or houses without windows.




CIRCLES


            With love we sleep,
            with doubt the vicious circle turns and burns
                    

    Patti Smith
  
    It was ten-thirty,
    we were waking up together when there was a loud noise.
    Two parallel lines that cross
    and on bursting clamor for, need,
    to possess the word world.
  
    To live in circles
    once again there’s a need for
    the word meaning.




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