Lucio Battisti
La Sposa Occidentale

"Reading with Brown Eyes, It Could Be Evening"

"When I get a text, I read it: if I don't understand a thing, that's perfectly fine."(Pasquale Panella).

"The problem is not to make divorces easier, but to make marriages harder."

"All names of good or evil are similes: they do not express, they merely hint. He who expects knowledge from them is a fool. Brothers, take heed at all times when your spirit wishes to speak through parables: there lies the origin of your virtues."

"It Rests Me"

The plane taxis
on the clear runway,
and the little brook gushes,
skimming within the shadow,
where, unseen, it does
certain things.
As boring as you are,
you are precious to me.
Optimal monotony,
your confidence
without variety rests me,
the blunt music
that softens my eyelids,
melts them into fused wax
and seals them
on pages not closed.
Boring, you forget about me,
and we are alone.
And you speak of us
without abandon,
and without animation and with correctness
of a translation that resonates
easy and faithful without those
useless traps and styles.
Practical, with you are practical,
leafing through a favored topic,
but they are not petals: you devour flowers,
like thrillers:
"The Assassinating Corolla",
"The Pistil That Knows".
You are passionately dazed, all at fingertips
at the change of flowers.
And you devour them,
like an illiterate little goat
at the titles
of the yellow wild rocket blossoms.
Boring in an exile,
marked by the polish,
you apologize if your hands
look like something else.
You cross and uncross your legs, suddenly,
like windshield wipers,
and in fact, you clarify, it shows,
that inside the clear idea,
the young bodies wobble
with the trident spearing
the tight,
armored, and deep loves of sea urchins.
The round and sweet stain of little glasses,
the decollate shoes,
that dizziness, that
shakes the earrings,
the wave the color of wines,
and bronze wisps
of childish hair.
Static, you return static,
with slight cracks,
serpentines within the structures
a love of mine comes out,
like a dove,
from the loopholes,
that travels so much,
has already traveled among the bores,
dives headfirst,
becomes a little brook
that gushes,
skimming within the shadow,
and your voice rolls
over the clear runway.
Hoarse, you become hoarse,
with a voice, little,
like a female guide
who explains how beautiful she is,
how beautiful she is herself.
Our teas drink themselves,
very correct,
and meanwhile has begun
the parade
of whole collections
of biscuits.

I am not an effervescent reader of poetry; I prefer writing it to reading, but faced with certain pearls of rare beauty...

Only a memory quote