Translated from the Italian by Mikica Pindzo
Image used for representation.
Coming around, saturated with skin
the weaver, the apothecary among
his grafts, in the art of the wheel
initiated by love,
will be the expanded tributary without
God of the first heart, observatory,
core and coldness of axes turning
into sound, the germ a thunderbolt, in a time
without a place of his return.
What doesn’t happen remains
supreme, and yet through
the grains of an unspoken word falls
faithful to the lineage of Eleusis.
Head of an animal, dying soul
a garment that stays after the body has
vanished.
Invisibly
taken from his Event,
a child picks it up
hands it to the rock.
Perhaps, forgotten, it can happen?
Amulet, beyond the blooming,
is skin fortified by
the cave. Elsewhere the body
waits, for the first
time. Rodin seals, Renoir
keeps quiet, every wall starts
the prayer. The infinite shape
strips the voice imploded:
in simultaneous pain?
Neither life nor death: it lives
exposes itself, seed in a circle
bleeds, resting
on the glass, the shape of every earthly
thing mirrored in us, finds
its home in breath, falling.
An insect at night,
is a horde, if beside
the blood, the orphan
spills his milk.
Grapes go beyond the snow,
in the white earth loses
a specific hunger, the flame in the lily
smooths hands, cheeks, snow
inexhaustible between earth
in rapture: atrocious earth.
A monk, the grass, lascivious
caresses the statue in the cloister,
his hand melts life in the cold,
he invokes the dragon
his gaze clinging to longed-for
martyrdom. A drop of urine
flows between the hair of his leg, weaves
its holy baptism with the creator.
The monk observes the snow:
if the yellow trail
was the Immobility that falters
in the pupil of his Lord.
Also, read short French poems by Dominique Penez, translated into English by Patrick Williamson, and published in The Antonym:
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