March, 2019
Vor der Nacht / Before Night
POSTED IN Roland, translated German-English March 23, 2019
Vor der Nacht / Before Night
Die fast blinde Fensterscheibe
über dem wüsten Garten
blinkt auf einmal,
woher rührt das
seltsame Licht.
Ich seh noch einmal hinaus
und bin für Sekunden erstaunt,
alles wie tot, wie
verrammelt,
Freund und Feind immer
so fern, heftig agierend
irgendwo im
zerstückten Terrain.Das hässliche schwärzliche
Grün
vor der Nacht.
Doch dieses Licht da
im Fenster.ROLAND ERB
……………………………………….
BEFORE NIGHT
The almost blind windowpane
over the desert garden
blinks at once,
where does
the strange light come from?
I look out again
and am amazed for seconds
everything as dead, how
barricaded
Friend and foe always
to act violently
somewhere in the
dismembered terrain.The ugly blackish one
green
before the night.
But this light there
in the window.
translated by Maria Magdalena
Fellini Face
POSTED IN Roland, translated German-English March 23, 2019
Fellini FaceReines junges Gesicht,
retuschiert
zur Trauermaske
eines alternden Clowns.Aufgestörte Finger,
zaghaft die weiße
Papierblume
schwenkend.ROLAND ERB
…………………………..
Fellini FacePure young face,
retouched
into the funeral mask
of an ageing clown.Disturbed fingers,
tentatively the white
paper flower
waving.translated by Maria Magdalena
Cos’è mai la Poesia…? / What is Poetry …?
POSTED IN essays March 23, 2019
Cos’è mai la Poesia…? / What is Poetry …?
Cos’è mai la Poesia
se non un’emozione
del cuore, scritta
con l’inchiostro
dell’anima,
nel intonso bianco cielo
d’un foglio?Si sveglia nel
cuore della notte
e pulsa, e freme
impaziente al lume di candela
o ai primi cinguettio del mattino:
come uccellino ancora implume
dal nido vuol alzarsi
e in un canto alto levarsi in volo.Nell’albe d’ogni età
e d’ogni tempo
è impaziente…
Germoglia con il gelo o in pieno sole
ti grandina nell’anima
nel tormento di un’insonnia.
Ha sembiante di rondine.
Ma a volte no:
A volte è nera
come un corvo
ed esala tristezza e pena.Altre, ha levità e colori
di farfalla a primavera.
Si posa e s’annida
su ogni ramo d’anima
su ogni fiore che l’accoglie
come un’ape la feconda
con la sua gioia:
la tormenta di melanconia.Instancabile.
Immortale.
Nasce ovunque,
senza distinzioni
nel cuore di una capanna
tra i marmi di un palazzo
nelle piazze affollate
o negli ermi in riva al mare.
Non distingue tra le genti
contagia e vaga senza sosta.Ogni tanto presa da improvvisa urgenza
senza un foglio e con un lapis inumidito
al primo passante che incontra chiede:
“permette la sua mano…
mi sta nascendo una poesia!”Grazia Montanaro Lombardi
————————————-
What is Poetry …?What is Poetry?
if not an emotion
of the heart, written
with ink
soul,
in the blank white sky
of a sheet?it wakes up in the
middle of the night
and pulses, and quivers
looking forward to candlelight
or the first morning chirping:
as a featherless bird
from the nest it wants to get up
and in a high song take flight.In the dawn of every age
and every time
is impatient …
Sprouts with frost or in full sun
hails you in the soul
in the torment of an insomnia.
It has the appearance of a swallow.
But sometimes not:
Sometimes it’s black
like a crow
and exhales sadness and pain.Other time, it has the levity and colours
of butterfly in spring.
It rests and nests
on each soul branch
on every flower that welcomes it
like a bee fertilizes it
with his joy:
the storm of melancholy.Tireless.
Immortal.
Born everywhere,
without distinction
in the heart of a hut
among the marbles of a palace
in crowded squares
or in the golden sand by the sea.
It does not distinguish between people
infects and wanders without pause.Every now and then taken by sudden urgency
without a sheet and with a wet pencil
the first passer-by met, it is asked:
“allow your hand…
a poem is being born to me!”…
translated by Maria Magdalena
