Journal of Italian Translation

Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni
not my waning youth, not the mature
years, not my growing old –
our resemblance lies
in the unseen.
My son, my traveler,
your hell, your virtue
might be your dog-like or
angel-like hearing
that detects the turning of the planets
and a pill falling into a cup
two floors below,
where two seniors citizens
attend to each other.
This roaring love will be
your father, your real one.
Stop off for a spell in this highway rest-area,
from the darkness it will be a pleasure to see you again...
To G. Ungaretti seen at night on the TV reading “I fiumi” (Il bar del
tempo)
Myself, I have no rivers,
I’ve never lived leaning
my face over the still
or turbulent water that carves
the city, ennobling us or stealing
our thoughts in an eddy.
I’ve never had
terraced rocks, outstretched over which
to dampen my mind’s wick,
dozing under the sun.
I had avenues,
wide, noisy streets, tall trajectories
of by-passes,
the open arms of a poor mother
veins through which all sorts of things
come into the city.
I had tree-lined avenues
or swift bouts of vertigo between steel walls
and tinted glass.
Chaos
renders them indistinguishable, under the rain
143