Journal of Italian Translation

Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni
“I’m just a woman who passes voices
from one mouth to another, just
a translator with her daughters,
let go of the ire that cancels
words from your face, let go or you’ll cause us
to die”
and while the darkness of tall-paned banks hushes
and the shadow in imposing mosques, in empty offices
the reply comes from an invisible point in the harbor
or from some barge, from some rail car
shaking through the night over a European plain
or from a man alone at the wheel,
drawn out sirens
[seeking each other,
the voices of the unseen
on this journey of thirst, of notes
scattered over tickets,
of gratitude...
Bartolomeo (Il bar del tempo)
And when you too will pause in this vast
highway rest-area and see your face
flash onto the glass of the metal counter,
it will be an evening like this one
where the wind breaks up the day’s light
and passing clouds, it will be
a wondrous moment:
only you and I will get it.
You’ll take your leave again
with slight agitation, almost
a memory and the silence of display shelves,
of gas attendants, their caps,
all will be turned lightly to song
behind you.
The joy of time’s passing is telling you: yes,
you’re really there, a secret force,
a consternation creates you,
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