Three poems from Italian poet Franco Buffoni, translated by Moira Egan.
I’D LIKE TO TALK TO THIS PHOTO OF ME
I’d like to talk to this photo of me next to the piano,
To the eleven year-old boy with flaming cheeks,
Tell him it’s not worth it to get so caught up
In games with his cousins,
To go along with them, brick-bombing
The neighbors’ dahlias —
Not for fun
But just to feel a real part of their gang.
Really? a part?
I’d like to tell him, Leave them alone
with their targets,
go back quietly and finish your drawings,
your maps. This way,
you will overcome. You’ll have to suffer.
*
VITTORIO SERENI DANCED VERY WELL
Vittorio Sereni danced very well
With his wife, but not just with her.
It was a question of the knotting of his tie
And of the crease of his trousers.
Because that was the education
Of an infantry officer,
Authoritative and, when needed, tough,
Both with family and at work.
Tough with his underlings, protecting yet
Requiring of them absolute obedience:
“It’s an order!”
Recognizing peers with whom to establish
Relationships of alliance or of absolute
Belligerence.
Organizing his library, series by series.
With his wife, but not just with her.
It was a question of the knotting of his tie
And of the crease of his trousers.
Because that was the education
Of an infantry officer,
Authoritative and, when needed, tough,
Both with family and at work.
Tough with his underlings, protecting yet
Requiring of them absolute obedience:
“It’s an order!”
Recognizing peers with whom to establish
Relationships of alliance or of absolute
Belligerence.
Organizing his library, series by series.
*
MY FATHER’S SCENT
I was looking for the documents to our house,
An ancient change-of-property, with maps,
In a bag that had been closed for thirty years.
There was his scent,
An officer’s uniform.
It wafted out fresh
And covered me
In singular love.
An ancient change-of-property, with maps,
In a bag that had been closed for thirty years.
There was his scent,
An officer’s uniform.
It wafted out fresh
And covered me
In singular love.