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Poetry

Landscape

By Antonella Anedda
Translated from Italian by Wallis Wilde-Menozzi

I neared a branch heavy with snow
bending under the grip of one of the crows.
I became that gray and black rocking.
And an uncommon green (a mix of salvia and ice)
that spread a tint of bruise on the clouds.

I saw myself in that purgatory.
Everything was landscape.  Anger: a cloud.
Uncertainty—heaps: a hill.
Estrangement: trees with shivering shadows.

“Pay attention,” said shade from the bush closest to me,
“fog swallows your pain.
Learn in this earthly life
learning you almost touch paradise.”

Yes, I answered, and light lessened the morning’s fury
separated my body from anger
silenced the shadows.
And a sharp blue took—was heaven already?
the place of landscape, the first person.


From
Dal Balcone del Corpo (Milan: Mondadori, 2007). By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Wallis Wilde-Menozzi. All rights reserved.

English

I neared a branch heavy with snow
bending under the grip of one of the crows.
I became that gray and black rocking.
And an uncommon green (a mix of salvia and ice)
that spread a tint of bruise on the clouds.

I saw myself in that purgatory.
Everything was landscape.  Anger: a cloud.
Uncertainty—heaps: a hill.
Estrangement: trees with shivering shadows.

“Pay attention,” said shade from the bush closest to me,
“fog swallows your pain.
Learn in this earthly life
learning you almost touch paradise.”

Yes, I answered, and light lessened the morning’s fury
separated my body from anger
silenced the shadows.
And a sharp blue took—was heaven already?
the place of landscape, the first person.


From
Dal Balcone del Corpo (Milan: Mondadori, 2007). By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Wallis Wilde-Menozzi. All rights reserved.

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