Sickleing

A dark night. Water darker. Early summer, oil film warm. Last lights sickleing northward along the Tyrrhenian coast. A man in black tie sat alone on black sand. Gets up. Walks in.Image

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From ‘Eternal City’

XIV

What’s happened to this old lane of the dead?
A row of lights across the land, fulgent string
A buzzing of engines between walls
Labored breath, a shying away from strangers’ limbs
A look into emptiness between day and sleep.
And nonetheless on a short outing maybe
You recognize the gate again, the staggered wall
And across the field the fleeting arcades, the aqueducts
And the smell of grain, and the swallows’ black turret-like tails
Spun out into the golden sky. And that of the bats
That rises and falls with the wind. Yes, there you confront
Your no-longer-me. The stripping away, deliverance
From that which was and will be. But all this is gone
By the time you see the old cryptic tavern sign
“Here no one ever dies. Qui non si muore mai.

– Marie Luise Kaschnitz (trans. Alexander Booth)

*

Was ist aus der alten Totenstrasse geworden?/Eine Lichterreihe landüber, glänzende Schnur/Ein Brausen von Motoren zwischen Mauern/Mühsamer Atem, Scheu vor fremden Gliedern/Blick in die Leere, zwischen Tag und Schlaf./Und doch vielleicht beim kurzen Aufenthalt/Erkennst Du wieder das Tor, die gestaffelte Mauer/Und feldüber die flüchtigen Arkaden, die Wasserträger/Und den Geruch von Korn und die schwarzen Schwalbenschwanzzinnen/In den goldenen Himmel gereckt. Und der Fledermäuse/Das sich aufhebt und sinkt mit dem Winde. Ja, dort erfährst Du/Dein Nicht mehr-ich. Die Ablösung, Erlösung/Von dem was war und wird. Den Hauch Vorbei/Beim alten rätselhaften Wirsthausschild/„hier stirbt man nie. Qui non si muore mai.“  (Marie Luise Kaschnitz. Ewige Stadt. Scherpe-Verlag, Krefeld. 1952)

Disjecta Membra: Postcard Texts

Alexander Booth has two new (old) pieces up with the fine folks at Ghost Proposal

These were part of a series written in 2006 on Via dei Castani, in Centocelle, Rome

Piazza Mirti

Misera e stupenda città, 2005

Two poems

Alexander Booth has two new poems at BODY

Light

Rome a labyrinth of guttering lights. Flickering, never quite aflame, but for the remnants coming still and going floating across the cobbled streets, their wisping back and forth from the Castel Sant’Angelo, those flames that would sputter out and stop sometime around the 19th century.

(An awareness of the burnings at best obscure now in autumn’s crisp seams of smoke, glimpsed maybe but to remain unprocessed passing the grim unintentional irony of the bars that belt this once Field of Flowers, that flame against the cold and damp)

The guttering amber light of Rome. Resin-like, seductive it is somnambulist.

Happy Birthday, Herr Waiblinger

https://i0.wp.com/upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d6/Wilhelm_Waiblinger.jpg/170px-Wilhelm_Waiblinger.jpg

Wunder bietet die Vorwelt dir an,
Und Wunder die Mitwelt

Wilhelm Waiblinger (1804 Heilbronn – 1830 Rome)

*

Wonder the past offers you still,
And wonder too today

At September’s end

No Rome syndrome, but
Roman hue of ruin this orange
Late September sky

New site

Alexander Booth has a new site: please visit here.

Misera e stupenda città of course shall continue.

PEN 2012

Misera e stupenda citta‘s Alexander Booth has been awarded one of PEN America’s 2012 translation fund grants

For a complete list of this year’s recipients & their projects please visit

PEN American Center

Renzo Vespignani exhibit

Periferia con gasometro, 1946 Olio su tela, Roma, Museo della Scuola Romana

from: Musei di Villa Torlonia

29 June – 18 November 2012

*
A Renzo Vespignani

Salivano lente le sere
e il mondo restava beato.
La giovinezza mia era la lieve
lieve gioia imprevista di soldato.

Venne la guerra poi o, nella vita,
non salirono più lente le sere.
Polverosi i tramonti. Ed infinita
la noia fitta delle primavere.

-Sandro Penna. Poesie. Garzanti, 2001.

To Renzo Vespignani:  Slowly nights ascended/And the world was blessed/My youth was the gentle/Gentle and sudden joy of a soldier // Then war came or, in life,/The nights no longer slowly ascended/Dusty the sunsets. And unending/
Springtime’s heavy boredom (translation: Alexander Booth)