Trovate alle galassie una ragione per non temere (Wonder Women)

Mi rimproverò. Chi era? Mia madre,

un’amica oppure un soggetto dal genere volutamente lasciato aperto.

Mi disse: tu le ami non sentendo niente o sentendolo di tanto in tanto.

Come il fruscio sulla mia biro e sul mondo che si ricorda di essere attraversato dal vento solo quando la caduto del cielo lo scompiglia.

Mi disse: tu le ami ma non ricordi i loro viaggi,

ti giustifichi dicendo che i nomi sono solo etichette e che senza pesce non c’è memoria.

E l’animale che davvero ti muove stanotte ti suggerisce che la fame, le guerre e gli snob di strada

rendono in fondo il mondo un posto migliore.

Migliore perché sarebbe noioso senza,

dove la misura della felicità è l’impallidire dell’angoscia e del vuoto 

che prevalgono, mi disse ora, quando indovini l’assenza tra loro 

di quell’intesa che a mattino possederebbero due amiche nel letto,

due amiche estranee che per caso,

per amore dell’esperimento o per gioco,

ti ritrovi ad amare;

ma (io lo ripeto e mi difendo e non so che bisogno ci sia ma lo faccio),

se le amo è più per caso che per gioco,

è più per gioco che per noia, 

è più per noia che per conformismo.

E crollerebbe l’intero tetto del cielo facendomi sanguinare ogni singola parte del volto se anche una sola di loro partisse e abbandonasse la partita che abbiamo deciso di giocare assieme,

o si ferisse durante questo gioco che non è troppo diverso dal protagonista indiscusso

di tutte le canzoni e le fiabe d’avventura.

Tranne che per l’amarezza che non sia mai esistito smulltronstallet in cui l’alleanza di sguardi

abbia potuto dissipare

l’erba cattiva dal mistero di come siano fatte,

inconfessato mistero: l’ansia delle galassie di non avere sufficiente universo

dalla propria parte.

Matteo Iammarrone.

Everybody’s heart day

(A poem about the attempt to write a poem).

Under alla hjärtansdag

as well as all the other days

I’m going to tell you about an extraordinary experience.

It’s about heart, but it’s not a disease. It’s a trip, but it’s not a transplantation.

It’s not waiting and it’s now, present, past and freedom.

One doesn’t have to book, but it’s not a desperate boat crossing of bloody sea.

It’s not socialism either, there so much to fight, attention to pay to.

Normally, the rules of the world we run on, the miserable greatness and wide narrowness of the history of the words we conceal ourselves behind, would not allow such an experience to be told.

However, today some lines are emerging from my chest

as strangling rebels of an impossible cause

they long for a square where protesting, shouting and resting…

it’s called “Matteo’s pappertorg:

A space where everybody has their own bush-universe to laugh, to kiss, to smile or to be shy.

While the pen is leading me I feel I’m going to disappear kidnapped by room’s wall and transported where poets with no order in mind and no paper to cry on find some rest.

But I’m still here, and the lines will continue to strive for their space on the square of the page,

accomplishing the task of telling what is unspeakable: both of you, two diverse summers

exploding in the same geographical corner, my room.

One’s blondness, the other one’s passion as two comets burning my room’s dark skies, bodily presence of an heaven untouched by global warming and acid rains

It’s not watching over us, it’s not watching over you, you are watching over it, placed, as you are, from the top of my tongue, spicy is the taste of such an extraordinary match of hearts.

And old goddesses that we believed to be death now call us from the depth of the wood,

providential spies challenging the patience of the last layer of ice

make photos of our disappearing, they will be sold to spectators whose tongues will be one day your new party’s carpet, but this is just another story, just another chapter of the plotless novel accompanied by Rimmel.

Let’s grab my throat instead. Let’s grab it in a blink of eternity.

Let’s grab my throat to celebrate the certainty of defeat, as a port that tomorrow will exist between two wars that yesterday were safely far.

As a political revolution,

as the struggle of Feelings on this page,

the ongoing party less party in Matteo’s Pappertorg, nobody knows what everybody is doing but everybody’s heart shape has been printed on a bronze like Branting’s proud face.

Perhaps to show that Beauty is not God, Beauty does exist. And it can be still expressed, out of nothing, out of banality. All of this is enough to imagine, I told you my experience, I told you about the lovers’ love that you though it could not be told because how would you describe a walking in the forest? A Landscape where one of your mouths scratched the surface I look at it. As a sculptor I look at the public monument I contributed to create and whether beneath the surface is growing joy or pain it is not a worry of these lines today.

Matteo Iammarrone.