EDWARD HIRSCH, Gabriel, trad. A. Panciroli, KNOPF POEM A DAY

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Gabriel  by Edward Hirsch is a book-length elegy for his son, whom he lost in 2011. In sections of ten tercets per page, Hirsch creates a form to carry the remembrance of a spirit that was freewheeling and hard to contain – indeed, he honors Gabriel’s memory by not taming the disorder but getting it down in detail, in black and white.

Edward Hirsch

Sig. Impulsivo usciva dalla classe
quando non gli piaceva quel che diceva l'insegnante
era una vera noia

Sig, Impulsivo si muoveva frenetico durante una tempesta
in pantaloni corti e canottiera
e subito tremava di freddo

I vicini si lamentavano col padrone di casa
si lamentavano con me ma Sig. Impulsivo
non poteva perdere tempo a chiudere il portone

Sig. Impulsivo usciva di casa senza chiavi
non so quante volte
si è accampato di fronte a casa

Una notte convinse un vicino
a forzare la serratura con una carta di credito
non rimase mai più chiuso fuori

Sig. Impulsivo non dormirà a casa
piuttosto non rientrerà e  sbatterà
ovunque si trovi alle cinque di mattina


Poteva essere stranamente cortese
ai genitori dei suoi amici
di solito stava simpatico


Dal notebook di Sig.Impulsivo
è meglio sgaiattolare da una porta laterale
che stare in fila come un idiota

Non è necessario prendere una direzione,
è molto meglio partire subito
il tempo non ha importanza

Queste erano le bizzarrie di Sig. Impulsivo
che non sapeva mai dove stesse andando
finchè non   è arrivato qui.




Mr. Impulsive walked out of class
When he did not like what the teacher said
It was boring 

Mr. Impulsive scurried out in a storm
Wearing shorts and a wife beater
Soon he was shivering 

The neighbors complained to the landlord
Complained to me but Mr. Impulsive
Could not be bothered to close the gate 

Mr. Impulsive left the house without his keys
I don’t know how many times
He camped out on the front stoop 

One night he convinced a neighbor
To shimmy the lock with a credit card
He was never locked out again 

Mr. Impulsive will not be sleeping at home
He’d rather stay out and crash
Wherever he finds himself at five a.m. 

He could be oddly well-mannered
To the parents of his friends
He was usually welcome 

From the notebook of Mr. Impulsive
It is better to sneak through a side door
Than to wait in line like a sucker 

It is not necessary to get directions
It’s much better to head out right now
Time doesn’t matter 

These were the antics of Mr. Impulsive
Who never knew where he was going
Until he got there 

John Updike's "61 and Some", trad. A.Panciroli, 61 e oltre

JOHN UPDIKE

61 e oltre

Ancora quante volte, mi chiedo,
sarò testimone di fini di Agosto così perfette -
le studentesse  abbronzate che ridacchiano  

rivivendo le chiacchere di scuola  mentre aspettano
                                                        sui marciapiede,
scure come semi d'acero, la striscia d'erba delle aiuola
riarsa dal sole sotto l'ombra frastagliata dell'acero

che nella sua nuvola globulare di cumuli verdi,
tiene ora un arco, una curva di rosso,
rattenuta all'annoiato cielo blu, come una guancia da baciare.



   

61 and Some

How many more, I must ask myself,
such perfect ends of Augusts will I witness?—
the schoolgirls giggling in their months-old tans,

reviving school gossip as they hang on the curbs,
as brown as maple seeds, the strip of curbside grass
sun-parched in the ragged shade beneath the maple

that in its globular cloud of green cumulus
holds now an arc, a bulge of rouge,
held up to the bored blue sky like a cheek to kiss.

DIANE LOCKWARD, My Husband Discovers Poetry , TRAD. A.Panciroli, Mio marito scopre la poesia

So to some extent, this is a kind of revenge poem. I also think of it as an ars poetica. It seems to be autobiographical, as first person poems often do, but by the time the reader gets to the end of the poem, hopefully he or she realizes that there has been some fabrication going on. That's what the wife does; that's what the poet does.  

( Diane Lockward, da una intervista con Valparaiso Poetry Review)

Diane Lockward

My Husband Discovers Poetry   by Diane Lockward

Because my husband would not read my poems,
I wrote one about how I did not love him.
In lines of strict iambic pentameter,
I detailed his coldness, his lack of humor.
It felt good to do this.
Stanza by stanza, I grew bolder and bolder.
Towards the end, struck by inspiration,
I wrote about my old boyfriend,
a boy I had not loved enough to marry
but who could make me laugh and laugh.
I wrote about a night years after we parted
when my husband's coldness drove me from the house
and back to my old boyfriend.
I even included the name of a seedy motel
well-known for hosting quickies.
I have a talent for verisimilitude.
In sensuous images, I described
how my boyfriend and I stripped off our clothes,
got into bed, and kissed and kissed,
then spent half the night telling jokes,
many of them about my husband.
I left the ending deliberately ambiguous,
then hid the poem away
in an old trunk in the basement.
You know how this story ends,
how my husband one day loses something,
goes into the basement,
and rummages through the old trunk,
how he uncovers the hidden poem
and sits down to read it.
But do you hear the strange sounds
that floated up the stairs that day,
the sounds of an animal, its paw caught
in one of those traps with teeth of steel?
Do you see the wounded creature
at the bottom of the stairs,
his shoulders hunched over and shaking,
fist in his mouth and choking back sobs?
It was my husband paying tribute to my art.


Poichè mio marito non voleva leggere le mie poesie,
ne scrissi una dove dicevo di non averlo amato.
In versi di puri pentametri giambici,
descrissi la sua freddezza, la sua mancanza di umorismo.
Mi ha fatto sentire bene.
Stanza dopo stanza, divenni sempre più audace.
Verso la fine, spinta dalla ispirazione,
scrissi di un mio antico fidanzato,
un ragazzo che non avevo amato tanto da sposarlo
ma che mi faceva ridere ridere ridere.
Scrissi di quella notte  anni dopo esserci lasciati,
quando la freddezza di mio marito mi spinse fuori di casa
nelle braccia del mio antico fidanzato.
Inclusi anche il nome di uno squallido  motel
famoso per le sue camere ad ore.
Ho un vero talento per la verosimiglianza.
In immagini sensuali, descrissi
di come il mio amante ed io ci togliemmo i vestiti di dosso,
andammo a letto e ci baciammo e ribaciammo
passando la notte a raccontarci barzellette
molte proprio su mio marito.
Lasciai  il finale deliberatamente ambiguo,
poi nascosi la poesia
in un vecchio baule nel seminterrato.
Ora sai come la storia finisce,
come mio marito perse un giorno qualcosa,
andò nel seminterrato,
e frugando nel vecchio baule,
scoperta la poesia nascosta,
si sedette a leggerla.
Ma senti il rumore strano
che salì quel giorno dalle scale,
il rumore di un animale con la zampa 
stretta nella tagliola con denti d'acciaio?
Vedi la ferita creatura
in fondo alle scale,
le spalle curve tremanti,
il pugno tra i denti per soffocare i singhiozzi?
Era mio marito che pagava il suo tributo alla mia arte.




Diane Lockward earned her bachelor's degree from Elmira College and her master's from Montclair State University. She is the author of four full-length books of poetry: The Uneaten Carrots of Atonement (2016), Temptation by Water (2010), What Feeds Us (2006), recipient of the Quentin R. Howard Poetry Prize, and Eve's Red Dress (2003), all from Wind Publications. She is also the author of a poetry craft book, The Crafty Poet: A Portable Workshop (2013), and two chapbooks, Eve Argues Against Perfection (1997) and Greatest Hits: 1997-2010 (2012). Her poems have been published in Prairie Schooner, Spoon River Poetry Review, Poet Lore, Harvard Review,[1] and elsewhere. Her poems have also been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer's Almanac.[2] She is the recipient of a Poetry Fellowship from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts and serves as the Poet Laureate of West Caldwell, New Jersey. She founded the Poetry Festival: A Celebration of Literary Journals[3] in 2004 and has served as its director for twelve years. A former high school English teacher at Millburn High School, she has also worked as a poet-in-the-schools for the New Jersey State Council on the Arts and the Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation.[4] She lives in northern New Jerse.

http://dianelockward.com/

From Wikipedia