Uit: Eight poems for Ninetto
After a long absence, I put on a record of Bach, inhale
the fragrant earth in the garden, I think again
of poems and novels to be written and I return
to the silence of the morning rain,
the beginning of the world of tomorrow.
Around me are the ghosts of the first boys,
the ones you knew. But that is over. Their day
has passed and, like me, they remain far from the summit
where the sun has made glorious their heads,
crowned with those absurd modern-style haircuts
and those ugly American jeans that crush the genitals.
You laugh at my Bach and you say you are compassionate.
You speak words of admiration for my dejected brothers of the Left.
But in your laughter there is the absolute rejection of all that I am.
The ruthless fan
smothers among its meridians
the Ocean’s overdone blue,
its Indian enchantments.
undulates in its motion
changing the satin shades
of the Jun on the surface.
In its pale breath
the cholera has designs on
ships in quarantine.
A hanged Chinaman
traces on the fan
the outline of shimmering
0 fan of remote
aromas like snows
trampled on by dead
men in othcr ages!
Innocent and limp
as a faded cloth,
you excite in the air
a poison that chokes.
Who has spoken of death?
O fan, your absinthe
breathes faintly, incessantly.
Pier Paolo Pasolini (5 maart 1922 – 2 november 1975