CLOUDS (trad. Gregory Pell, Press OnLine, 2000)

"Cielo a bande…"

Ribbed sky,
frayed strips
billowed more
and more
racing, ready…
in the purse that
licks the horizon
they have slipped.
Empyrean fire gold
against what
remains of night,
light, it disadorns
and from the drama
of the illumined path
itself removes.

"L'orso, la croce, i corpi…"

The bear, cross, bodies
of lovers: as many
born of the screen.
Quick looking glass
ribbon of queuing clouds.
Gaunt, leaden sky
nibbled by
folded onwards.

"Di scale di volte di tono…"

Gradually, in turns
in tone,
in the sound is the lights
it stalls, giving
itself to its fleeing
drawn out
hovering flight of
arrows and flashes
and fire.

"Un gregge di pecore…"

A flock of sheep,
proceeding yonder above
toward fervid resplendence
the lather teems along
feather by feather.
No herd
by no shepherd
more rarefied,
and then still more,
the herd slides
down deeper
dipping swiftly
to the smoulder of
the setting sun.

"Come stipato in sé raccolto…"

Gathered insensate,
as if stuffed into
mounting folds
of snowy laundry
in strands, rolled up, sinuous,
against the closet thrushed,
vanquished, brimming
on the silver skyline
bedecked for a party,
preserved intact
whist, confined
in a journey under
taut plastic,
remnant, substrate, driven pile
of formulae and hollow shapes
of jaded ways, of courses raced,
empty pillow case
wrinkled deflated ball
mantle decrepit plaster
ore-less and tilled over,
sated, with self content, and…

but it hovers in the wind
bellies puffs spirals
monster griffon kite
drape, ghostly keel
pearly pallid white
milk, light,
body caught
and left in soft wax.

"Lembo labbro orlo…"

Border lip edge
wave goes in,
then out
dispersing, it whittles
what was severed rejoins
the page rimples
ether purulent marsh
oil verdigris
glass-vessel sky.

"Schiene di nuvole…"

Cloud backs
leaden flash
of the lunar wake
that, to every onslaught,
seem to rid
thoughts from their
packed lairs.
Dark ebony sky
blue night cobalt
sky of the arcane.

"Dal bordo sfrangiato…"

From the fringed hemming
of soaking clouds
I lean out, neck
out on the
buttered firmament reaching,
supreme, present.
I remark that nothingness
skims over the contour
of the air.

"Eccole arrivate…"

Voilà! their arrival
into the sad blue
bridge heads
from the west fed
occupying with heed,
closer still,
the apogee of the sky
and, opposed by
contrary currents,
abruptly defer
their course
the winds cause them
to surpass, each one
over the next,
mixing scalloped
mountain buffets mountain
hews it and reduces it,
with a tumbling slide
on its side,
unfurling and refilling
shifting the light
from black
to purple
to white.

"Filo di nuvole…"

Threaded clouds
again rise forth
from the depths
in the eyes of the earth.
Sky in snatches mown
in purple-pink
That I may touch it
before it flees
with my fears.

"Cielo cobalto grigio…"

Cobalt grey sky
with depthless ridges
sky in tatters
hiss sigh dull sound
torpid faint faded
pendulum blade fin
that files back and forth
it whines scales and the while
disarrays its condition.

"Nuvole e onde…"

Clouds and waves
freed and in braids
among the day's boughs,
from the dark peak
crossed over and down
from the height of the banks
from heaven's arches
drawn under in scores
and above enmeshed, kneaded
and mixed all about,
welcomed into the evening's

"La riva di un mare…"

The shore of an
infinite sea,
one side
to the next extended
to the farthest bound
defended by an eastern veil.
With ponderous glance, I
judge it, tempt it with my oar.
And thus I was inveigled.

"Creste di burro…"

Buttery tufts
uptaken by the veil
that like a rivers dissolves
thawing beside a trail
along which, in its course
the eyes are gulled
gripped by the
forest heights, from nearby,
which, upturned, are
heads and grist wheels.
Creamy pale-blue sky
azure lapis lazuli deep blue
pale-blue cream milk.

"Brandelli di nuvole…"

Snips of clouds
deliberate in coming and
going, left to
hang on oaken
fronds, like resting
birds and swarms
still after the flight,
vast inconstant curtains
shawls barely
drawn up from below
to drape it all
and shroud the lit,
then dimmed, lights
over the world's

"In forma di corno…"

Horn shaped,
distended, they carom
crimson and gold
in the day's blaze.
They leave a trail
before the fall of night,
these festive clouds,
lowered in unison
to bake in the kiln.

Translated by Gregory Pell

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