This minute lock of hair does not softly disperse
the Arabic perfume of some Hetaera
nor the spikenard aroma of that young
Venetian lady painted by Dürer.
It's rather redolent of the sirocco, and
-closing the eyes- the jasmines in La Giudecca.
This black lock of hair, along with the dolce sound of your voice
will be my dananke, the coin which I ought to pay
the ferryman for my last voyage.
*
This relic-wise curl now remembers
how I bowed down to you
just in front of the Palazzo Mocenigo to say:
I experience your beauty like a child
to whom someone tells beautiful stories.
This relic-wise curl now remembers how
I kneeled down before the Madonna and kissed
her floral votives, her golden radiance to confess:
C'est elle, c'est Mimi que j'aime.
I know we have just lived among the clouds.
I know we have danced just following
the pure musicality of those names:
Venetia, Santa Maria dei Miracoli, Canaletto...
Je vous aime. J'entends des cloches.
II
For you I was no more the 'Doctor Seraphic'
neither 'quel poeta Maria';
For you, my name was just a murmur
of an angelic choir caressing your lips...
Or maybe a blank musical score where
your hands of daydreaming pianist
improvise blue sonatas of autumn.
Perhaps my name, for you, was only a sentiment
as was Venice to me, or something unutterable
like the smile of God.
Dites si les violettes sont arrivées.
*
Ah, from the voice of the barcaiolo
I glimpse the aroma of violettes.
When you play the piano in the penumbra
of your rosato-de-Istra home
All the acrid fog from the Gran Canal fades away.
even the pious face of Mary Magdalene
smiles in San Pietro de Castello.
For you, my name was only the golden susurration
of the wind upon the oleanders, the bell towers,
The amorous cats at sundown.
Rainer, Renee, Orpheus, Seraphic, Maria...
I am listening (here in the angelic realms)
the echo of my name like the sonata
that someone plays in the penumbra
di una stanza rosa.
I say 'someone' because I hardly can tell
If you are Persephone, Aphrodite or Mimi...
Mio dolce amico
III
I forebode something eternal
when we stroll around the Campo San Polo.
I forebode something like the touch
of God on my elegies.
I am no longer feeling oppressed by the scirocco
the noisy ragazzi playing tug-of-war
nor by the sad paleness of the sheets
hanging on the balconies
suddenly galloping along the wind
like the white horses of Apollo.
Inebriated by the aroma of
pomegranates, tamarisks, palm trees,
sheltered in the shade of your voice
nearly breeze, andiamo per la fodere
and forebode something divine.
I have no more the melancholy of that lion
sitting at the feet of the Cross
in the Scuola di San Marco...
La contemplation du soleil
sur la Piazza de San Marco
t'avait fait te precipiter à la maison
pour me voir.
When we walk along a dark salizzada
and your cupped hands brimming with rainwater
Quench the thirst of black cats and stray ghosts
I foresee that I already own the immense time
of all the universes possible to be loved.
Never the hostile gaze of Fugacity.
You are my most accomplished Ding-Gedicht.
I forebode that I will never suffer afresh
from the everlasting exile of those
who were born in No Man's Land.
*
Within an hour, in La Riva,
We will be watching the full moon.
And we'll see walking over the waters
not the Virgin but the deer with a golden necklace
coming from the woods of Senlis
just to smell the fragrance of your hair,
and the deer furtively will approach
to your hands illumined by the moon
and tamed will drink rainwater and tears of joy.
And you will sing to him old ballads
in Venetian dialect, like the Virgin to the licorne.
And you will read at last, in a stupor,
the inscription on the golden necklace:
"Anno 1037, Mimi Romanelli hoc me donavit."
The deer will run away
vanishing into a blue fog.
Voulez vous aller a la maison du Lido?
I y aura de roses.
IV
The aroma of grappa, peaches, sardines...
The aroma of your body flowering
like a white lotus at sunrise.
A solitary cat wandering near the beach
under this azure calm of autumn.
And there goes Goethe, like a child, collecting
multicoloured shells and pebbles.
And there, Gaspara Stampa, donna ideale, melancholy,
walking towards the sun-kissed horizon.
I am here perfumed by the locks
of your hair in my hand
and the incessant foam of waves.
I wanted to be a dragon and not an anemone.
I wanted to have the strength of a monster
and not this fragility of the white rose.
You recompose my selfhood in one piece again.
My selfhood ripped in thousands of lost homelands.
"You made a lute of me. Now you are the hands
that play it by the sea. Orphean melodies."
The aroma of grappa, peaches, sardines.
I am here, resuscitated, in your arms
under this azure serenity
in the island of Lido.
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