Spirited away by the northern winds (Part I) – Poems by Marcello Tagliente

Red coral

It may happen that a dolphin

Becomes stranded in the north

Following the sad sound of a horn.

Unaccustomed to land-borne sins

The ancient sea creature

Surrenders to the undertow

Bemusedly watching

A shadow following it

Like a quiet nightmare.

Red coral, bivalve sea scallops

Its sin.

In a basket of apricot blossoms

It collects girls

Who have lost their smiles

At sea.

Stories from the island

Stories from the island.

Ordinary tales

Of shipwrecks,

Or perhaps not.

Rainbow boats

And the young ones

– your own kids –

Safeguarded

In a chest of roses

Spirited away

By the northern winds

Even today.

So many gazes

And hopes

Scattered in the north wind.

Almost next to the shore,

Dolphins

Dancing

Their tears

Impalpable

On Aphrodite’s chariot:

Their ode to life

At the end of the journey

Shed as consolation

For the sorrow of the sea.

Amal, or hope

At the end of the journey

Amal, or hope

Was birthed.

Far away

Is the island of the sun

Its freedom

The gateway to heaven.

It is a dream that appeared

One night

To the tired, old wise men,

Of Carthage

Waiting for a kind of dawn

Oblivious to the light of day;

It is a dream delivered

Like a song of the soul

By the breath of sea angels.

The gods of harmony

Will be there

Waiting for you

– such was the prophecy-

And there will be endless liturgies

Of almond blossoms

And sky-scented shells

To gift the slow processions

With a kiss

Of Birsa’s flashing lights.

Exhausted with sadness

And the ghosts of Atlantis in their eyes.

Amal, or hope

Was born

At the end of the journey,

On a magic carpet

Of corals and starfish,

A witness of peace

At heaven’s gate.

Ebla

In the origin story of the world,

Ebla

Is the wisdom of Magi,

Alchemies of peace

Between opposing stars

On the white city of Ishtar,

Moon of the East

Illuminating with its innocence

The silent lands of Ur.

Yours is

The sorrow of the world

Leading astray

The flight of the grey herons

Suspended

Between hills of hawthorn and gorse

Stained with the blood of the righteous.

Spice trading ships

Now bring only an unforgiving sorrow

No sign of spring.

It is not Phoenician red, nor is it Damascus rose.

The red color of the sea

At the gates of Ebla.

The Tadmor Oasis

Palmyra,

A miracle of pink,

Is in danger.

Heavenly prophecies say so.

The sun of the Nabataeans hidden

Behind a cloud of herring gulls

Lest it see (witness) the foretold carnage

Of jasmines,

Blue flowers of hope.

Zenobia,

His secret love

Wanders in the Elysian Fields

Like an angel saddened

Because it cannot return

And defend

The banks of the Euphrates River.

The desert

Is an unexpected enemy.

Sadness is in the heart

Of a night with no stars

To guide the angels of the East

Toward the oasis of Tadmor.

No one speaks sabir anymore,

Language of harbors and peace.

Khaled, the last memory of Syria*

In one night

Tamil

And the gods of Palmyra

Scattered in the sky

A canvas of clouds and byssus

With the precious colors of Syria.

White as the incense beads

And the holy kyrie liturgy.

Mar Elian was the light.

Green were the mosques of Homs

On the first day of Muharram:

The feast of gifts.

It’s the beginning of the year.

The next one shall be

Beautiful and peaceful:

That was the chant rising

From the gentle soul of the casbah.

Red is the courage of the people of Syria,

In the blinding light of sunset.

In one night

The khamsin,

The desert wind

Covered

With dust and misfortune

The most beautiful

Among the lands of Abraham.

Mar Elian was devastated.

Khaled gave his life

To defend

Syria’s secret heart

Its last memory.

The springs in the oasis

Are only sinful stains

Desperate, shapeless blood.

All in one night.

The sea stars have bloomed

In clusters,

A prayer to heaven

To remember the souls of the righteous.

It’s dawn.

The poem is dedicated to Khaled Mohamad al-Asaad who was a Syrian archeologist and head of antiquities at the ancient city of Palmyra who was killed by ISIS when he refused to reveal where the archaeological artefacts had been hidden to keep them safe from destruction.

Your mother star

Between the moon and the badlands
Your mother star
Meets infinity.
There is always a boundary
Before reaching
The faraway
Island of Thule,
Your tenderness,
But not here.
Time’s memory
Knows no boundary.
Ancient voices,
Earth angels,
Clouds suspended
In a sky of clay.
The star
That reads hearts
Is an enchanted tale
Between the moon and the badlands,

A sea that has come to the surface again
And bears a silken light.

Poems from Sogni dei bambini siriani, Manni 2018, translated by Pina Piccolo.

Marcello Tagliente is an archeologist and a poet who for many years has engaged in the task of making archeological sites enter into a conversation with contemporary art, literature and issues. In 2018 he published Sogni dei bambini siriani with the prestigious poetry press Manni.