Leone D'Ambrosio

A poet mixing powerful lyricism and modern poetry, his book Non é ancora l'addio www.azimutlibri.com (Its not the parting yet. Azimut books) is a tribute to his father in life and the extreme anguish felt at his death. I was honored to translate the book in English. Here are some poems.

IT'S NOT THE PARTING YET

Don't close your eyes
it's not the parting yet,
I'll count the hours
that are missing to your farewell.
Don't ask me
where pain resides,
I'd answer
it's in most live sleep.
Winter has a closed door
and a brief day
it doesn't know how to contain
my steps
that postpone your death
until tomorrow.

PAIN SPOILS THE DAY

In artificial canals and in channels
so among voices at home
pain spoils the day
to those bringing drinking water.
In the upturned wicker basket
it hides at the most certain distance
so I may surprise it
as a magnet attracting to itself
every iron shaving.

WITHOUT KNOCKING

I will continue to call you father
with comets set apart on the roof
not to trouble your sleep.
The sea where you were born is bereft
and you mother will dress in mourning
its eternal fullness.
If you need to go, go,
illness is a cross
that arrives without knocking.

SCENT OF MUST

There's unexpected scent of must
the air is light with October's sun.
The ground is an announced landing
and you are no longer its watcher.
The compassionate olive tree grows
with a plea to the sky
and in the crack of the wall
the vineyard innervates its root.
No one ever returned
to the orange orchard,
the work around too much
and the ilex I knew
is closed in your hand.

FROM WHICH WINDOW

The Seleucian sky
shoulders the evening.
From which window
do I hear myself being called,
you're word here and there
never resigning itself.
Unknown to every cloud,
the wind that fills the voids
understands me
without any hurry.

A BREATH WITHOUT DIFFICULTY

Remember to bring comfortable shoes,
a handkerchief with all the fears,
the pension booklet
and three sugared almonds,
those from our old tree.
The walk to the end of the sky is long
and less that the joyful whistle of the nightingale.
Death is an evening thought,
a breath without difficulty.

ALL THAT REMAINS IS TO WAIT

From the highest peaks
a faint rending of evening
finds its breath among the fertile
stars of the heavens.
All that remains is to wait
for a new light to be
relief to the tender bitterness.
Grapes are ripe in my town
and the land over there isn't moving.

IF ONE WERE TO DIE FOREVER

The house has some mute balconies,
pain is hidden in sleep
and no one ever visits you again
if one dies forever.
The quiet moon tells of you,
heaven at the last step sways
if your shoe stumbles
before entering.


You shut the light
and closed the front door,
but don't leave