A poem is a city
Charles Bukowsky
A poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,
filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war,
a poem is a city asking a clock why,
a poem is a city burning,
a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,
a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter...
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
this poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows...
a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world...
and now I stick this under glass
for the mad editor's scrutiny,
the night is elsewhere
and faint gray ladies stand in line,
dog follows dog to estuary,
the trumpets bring on gallows
as small men rant at things
they cannot do.
Charles Bukowsky
A poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,
filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war,
a poem is a city asking a clock why,
a poem is a city burning,
a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,
a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter...
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
this poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows...
a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world...
and now I stick this under glass
for the mad editor's scrutiny,
the night is elsewhere
and faint gray ladies stand in line,
dog follows dog to estuary,
the trumpets bring on gallows
as small men rant at things
they cannot do.
A poem is a city
di Charles Bukowski
versione in dialetto siciliano di
marco.scalabrino@alice.it
Na puisia è un paisi chinu di strati e chiavichi,
chinu di santi e d’eroi, di minzugnari e ciriveddi pirciati,
di cosi pistati e ripistati e genti chi si mbriaca
e di chiuvuti e saitti quannu no di siccarizzu,
na puisia è un paisi in guerra,
un paisi chi addumanna un ruloggiu di pirchì,
un paisi chi abbrucia e feti,
cu li pistoli sempri sfurrati
e li putii di li varveri vunci di cinici allitrati,
na puisia è un paisi unni Diu va a cavaddu pi li chiani
nudu comu a Lady Godiva,
unni li cani abbaianu a la notti e assicutanu la bannera;
na puisia è un paisi di pueti,
li chiù fatti cu lu stampu
nvidiusi e muzzicunari …
na puisia è stu paisi astura,
50 migghia arrassu di nuddu postu
a li 9 e 9 di matina,
lu sapuri di liquori e sicaretti,
nenti sbirri né nnamurati chi passianu pi li vaneddi,
sta puisia, stu paisi, li porti chiusi,
nsirragghiati, quasi un disertu,
bisitusu e senza lacrimi, jornu pi jornu chiù vecchiu,
li muntagni di rocca,
l’oceanu chi pari na vampa di lavanda,
la luna pi villiggiatura,
na musica surda di li finestri rutti …
na puisia è un paisi, na puisia è na nazioni,
na puisia è lu munnu …
e mentri cafuddu tuttu chissu sutta vitru
pi lu benistari di dda testa gluriusa di l’edituri
la notti è a nautra banna,
fimmini grici e fiacchi addritta alliniati,
un cani chi appizza appressu a nautru cani,
trummetti chi sturdinu l’aricchi
e ominicchi chi sparracianu di cosi
chi mai e poi mai ponnu fari.
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