Swans Commentary » swans.com September 6, 2010  



àdhara: part I

[ Dante Alighieri Comoedia | Vergilius Aeneis | Albrecht Goes Portail de la cathédrale de Strasbourg | John Milton Paradise Lost | Jaufre Rudel de Blaja Amors de terra lonhdana | Upanishad | Homer Odyssey | Baghavad gita | William Shakespeare Hamlet | Gospels | Peter Handke | Dostoevski The Dream of a Ridiculous Man | Horatius Carmina ]


by Guido Monte


Multilingual Poetry


(translated by Silvia Dello Russo)

Pic: "Mistero" - © 2010 Guido Monte - Size: 29k
© 2010 Guido Monte



(Swans - September 6, 2010)  

at the beginning
in principio from the sixth book virgilii patris:
"mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,"
through a dark forest, between tears, lacrimae rerum,
but now the speed of trip slows down,
it stops on the coasts of a nowhere country.

and so far an abandoned house
made by a fugitive, just behind the labyrinth
(after the celestial fly on the north of the cold orse)
the fugitive dedalus, le mat
the man of impossible things
the non concluding man, non conclude
and has inscribed here the myths of the time of times:
the end of a stranger, and honors given to the nightmares,
the phallus of a bull inside a woman daughter of the sun,
and his two forms son that wanders nowhere
in an inextricable chasm.

on the walls he inscribed the forms of his guide, a wire,
for the blind steps of so beloved saver...
(only of his son dedalus didn't make it sculpting,
the hand stops paralyzed "kat'asphodelion leimona")

and i'm finally in the high house with sybilla, la papesse,
"sie ist's, die sieht," she's the only who can see, meine mutter,
priestess of the elder of the sea, senhal of death and life.

one hundred doors, one hundred holes
from each hole her voices run...
now I can hear her scream:
l'impératrice hasn't one only face any more,
no more one only color,
her hair flies with the wind,
her chest is full of senses, the heart is possessed,
the voice unbearable, inhuman.

she shouts at me: move, or the doors
of the inspired house will never open!
(and i, l'empereur, beg her from the deep,
because of the many crossed countries,
to find a place to rest
with my travelling walkabout,
and to come to know it from words
and not from leaves launched by rapid winds.)

sybilla says true things on obscure things:
i see blood, she whispers, as in your past,
and an unknown woman, but look for a health rout,
maybe you like to dedicate yourself to this fool deed?
(i've tried everything, i tell her,
but please join me with my past,
for this reason with undaunted heart
i came to you)

she reminds: mysteries of underneath earth do open...
but just when she speaks and shuts,
a friend is fallen to the ground, lifeless,
while he was blowing into a bronze tube

i follow therefore two white doves,
sign of my mother, and i come to the golden mistletoe,
(le chariot na anyate, that doesn't die) the branch
that doesn't belong neither to earth nor to sky, on the wind wire.

thus i come to a cave, hidden from a black lake
and from the darkness of the forest, i see her in a black blood
of sacrifices, between howling bitches, but my nerves must stay firm;
(the near sources do comfort me, sources with warm
sulphureous waters, where time ago i plunged)
aornon, no birds on the lake.

i enter in the antrum, sybilla is the guide of my steps
in the open mouth of the earth, in the subterranean sky,
underneath the light of the black sun, le soleil.

slow and black we are under the night sanza tempo tinta,
desert and void, tohu wabohu

through the lines of empty houses and lost lands, la lune,
and fog of acid nights that takes away colors from the things,
"no light, but rather darkness visible."

on the doorway mourningcubiliafearhungerelderlydeseases
and the sleep, small brother of death,
the iron beds of winged women, and a black elm
from the old arms of branches, where they sleep,
stuck under each leaf, piles of false dreams...
sybilla stops my hand,
they are only mental phantoms
vegetation of the nothing for transparent darkness.

then l'hermit, the old neglected ferry man
through dispersed madness of men and women,
birds from the sea and cold leaves.

and i see the broche who fell lost in the sea,
possessed by the waters, wrapped in the rainy wind...
he is a ghost lost in the void
and cannot pass the river,
he'd like to come with me...
(but one does no need to think to change his own destiny;
maybe a place will preserve his name, tempérance).



[ed. Continue to the second part.]


Silvia Dello Russo was born in Parma, Italy, in 1974. In 1995 she left for Germany, Halle an der Saale, at the "Marthin Luther Universitaet"; in 1997 she started an innovative study on mitteleuropean languages at the University college of London, especially on a translation of the Etymlanguage of Arno Schmidt in Zettels Traum, with the successive publication of her works in Power of words (ed. universitaria indip., 2000).

Picture: Mistero, by Guido Monte (2010).


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Swans -- ISSN: 1554-4915
URL for this work: http://www.swans.com/library/art16/gmonte98.html
Published September 6, 2010