SurVision Magazine
An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
Issue
Nine
VANNA CARLUCCI
From Involucri
Dialogues,
breaths of the Cosmos.
The morning shows signs of sudden darkness
as winter wears out a heart,
slackens the hands of a flower,
its stem held in the prison of frost.
The chipped plaster
is a spoiled air,
ashes of the body,
a bone,
cinders of a fallen tree.
Weather passions and
inner beatings,
sounds from intra-cavities and skin,
infernal geographies
of the connective tissue
between a human artery and
a wrinkle of carved wood.
The morning shows signs of sudden darkness
as winter wears out a heart,
slackens the hands of a flower,
its stem held in the prison of frost.
The chipped plaster
is a spoiled air,
ashes of the body,
a bone,
cinders of a fallen tree.
Weather passions and
inner beatings,
sounds from intra-cavities and skin,
infernal geographies
of the connective tissue
between a human artery and
a wrinkle of carved wood.
From Riduzione
*
I was left with the sound of the throat
that had been burning for centuries.
Now this poem is a stubble-field fire:
it has embodied vocalisations
creating a silence that crackles in the dark.
Meantime, autumn has mowed down the hair,
and the nape has become a lucent memory,
a tender return,
a clinical dissection of an eye.
The neutral daylight
I was left with the sound of the throat
that had been burning for centuries.
Now this poem is a stubble-field fire:
it has embodied vocalisations
creating a silence that crackles in the dark.
Meantime, autumn has mowed down the hair,
and the nape has become a lucent memory,
a tender return,
a clinical dissection of an eye.
The neutral daylight
reset
the landscape
imposed upon you
to make your mouth hungry for words
in search of some violent discipline.
A wolf's call has ripped the walls open
taking me back to my dark nature,
and my legs have become galloping spears.
One writes to make this life
a brighter ride,
a spell of escapism;
one lives to give this page
a voice.
*
You, to whom I entrust my trembling,
the dark thoughts of my flesh,
your throat is just a scream from between your teeth;
you chase bouts of my silence
and smell the warmth we give each other
when you spread your arms –
and I finally get back home.
The years grasp the distance between our steps,
never too close and yet,
with our eyes kissed
and mouths busy thinking of each other,
our bodies draw a single wound of love.
imposed upon you
to make your mouth hungry for words
in search of some violent discipline.
A wolf's call has ripped the walls open
taking me back to my dark nature,
and my legs have become galloping spears.
One writes to make this life
a brighter ride,
a spell of escapism;
one lives to give this page
a voice.
*
You, to whom I entrust my trembling,
the dark thoughts of my flesh,
your throat is just a scream from between your teeth;
you chase bouts of my silence
and smell the warmth we give each other
when you spread your arms –
and I finally get back home.
The years grasp the distance between our steps,
never too close and yet,
with our eyes kissed
and mouths busy thinking of each other,
our bodies draw a single wound of love.
Translated from Italian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky
Vanna Carlucci lives in Puglia, Italy. She is a poet, teacher, photographer and film critic. Her poems appear in various Italian literary periodicals and in the national newspaper La Reppublica. English translation of some of her poems were published in The Journal of Italian Translation (New York, N.Y.) Her collection of poems entitled Involucri (Wraps) was published by Lieto Colle Edizioni in 2017.
