Translated from Italian by Pina Piccolo, from Lucia Cupertino’s forthcoming Italian /Spanish bilingual collection. Cover art by Laure Keyrouz, Eden.
Author’s Note
My forthcoming poetry collection by the title Dall’altra parte di una cicatrice (On the other side of a scar), due to be published in 2024, brings together poems written between 2015 and 2023. It is divided into three movements with remarkably different histories, geographies, atmospheres and registers, tied together by the common perception of a scar running through our world. Linguistically speaking, it is an experiment, as it mixes poems that I originally wrote in Italian or Spanish and then self-translated into the other language. Though they flowed together into this collection, I found it hard to disassociate each poem from that indistinct magma in which they were born and grew together, positioned at the ridge between two languages.
My solution, then, was to create a moveable, facing text, which would somehow allow readers to grasp the double track of my writing without risking any derailment. This shifting, dual language device is meant, in fact, to facilitate the reading process by allowing readers to choose either the facing text or its translation, depending on their linguistic knowledge and curiosity. In Section I, the facing text is Italian and in section III Spanish, as I opted for the language that was dominant at the time of their writing. Section II consists, in the first half, of poems in Italian and for the second half of poems written in Spanish, making that transition from the dominance of one language to the other more apparent. (Lucia Cupertino)
What is presented in this article is a poetry selection that is representative of the three movements that make up the book, starting off with poems translated into English by Pina Piccolo, followed by the same poem as it was written originally in Italian or Spanish, and, finally, the Spanish or Italian poem self-translated by the author herself.
BORDERS
Once upon a time there was a world
that was firmly split:
on one side heart and wisdom
on the other appearance and frivolity
the material and the spiritual, here
truth and falsehood, there
everything neatly arranged
as in certain Klee paintings.
There is a point at which iron,
though strong, gives way
and so do joints, the welded sections.
That world was collapsing
crossed now only
by the unequal flight of birds
with their breast full of song.
FRONTIERE
C’era una volta un mondo
saldamente scisso:
da una parte cuore e saggezza
dall’altra apparenza e frivolezza
materiale e spirituale qui
lì verità e menzogna,
ogni cosa ben sistemata
come in certi dipinti di Klee.
C’è un punto in cui il ferro,
pur resistente, cede
così le giunzioni, le saldature.
Collassava quel mondo,
lo attraversava ormai solo
il volo disuguale di uccelli
dal petto pieno di canto.
FRONTERAS
Había una vez un mundo
firmemente partido:
por un lado el corazón y la sabiduría
por el otro la apariencia y la frivolidad
aquí lo material y lo espiritual
allí la verdad y la mentira,
todo bien ordenado
como en ciertas pinturas de Klee.
Hay un punto en el que el hierro,
si bien resistente, cede
al igual que las conexiones, las soldaduras.
Ese mundo iba colapsando,
ahora sólo lo cruzaba
el vuelo desigual de pájaros
con su pecho colmado de canto.
ON THE OTHER SIDE
What’s there on the other side of a scar?
The two edges of time?
The crack of a no return?
The distance between the plates?
You arrange books one by one
in a library that is not yours,
you open windows and slam doors
of a house that does not belong to you,
you collect dew between your fingers.
There, in a transparent trace
someone sews a drum
an abyss, a dance.
What’s there on the other side of a scar?
DALL’ALTRA PARTE
Cosa c’è dall’altra parte di una cicatrice?
I due lembi del tempo?
La crepa di un non ritorno?
La distanza tra le zolle?
Sistemi a uno a uno i libri
di una biblioteca che non è tua,
apri finestre e sbatti porte
di una casa che non ti appartiene,
raccogli tra le dita la rugiada.
Lì, nella trasparenza di una traccia
qualcuno cuce un tamburo
un abisso, una danza.
Cosa c’è dall’altra parte di una cicatrice?
AL OTRO LADO
¿Qué hay al otro lado de una cicatriz?
¿Las dos orillas del tiempo?
¿La grieta del no regreso?
¿La distancia entre terrones?
Vas acomodando de a uno los libros
en una biblioteca que no es tuya,
abres ventanas y golpeas puertas
en una casa que no te pertenece,
recoges el rocío entre tus dedos.
Allí, en la transparencia de una estela
alguien cose un tambor
un abismo, una danza.
¿Qué hay al otro lado de una cicatriz?
THERE IS A PLACE
There is a place
not far from the coolness
of these skinny trees
where we once buried our hearts
But you, by who knows what spell,
seem not to remember it
and you stroll along the path
heedless of treading the void.
There is a place
not too hidden away
and yet not so obvious to the eye
where time arches its back,
I am the only one who returns there
and some benevolent deity
who has already taken charge
of making the grass grow abundant.
There is a place where your lips
stop kissing mine
and I don’t know what force
with its heavy necklace of sadness
drives me back there.
C’È UN LUOGO
C’è un luogo
non lontano dalla frescura
di questi alberi longilinei
in cui un giorno interrammo i nostri cuori
ma tu per chissà quale sortilegio
sembri non ricordarlo
ed incedi lungo il sentiero
noncurante di calpestare il vuoto.
C’è un luogo
non troppo recondito
ma neppure così alla vista
in cui il tempo si inarca,
solo io ci torno
e qualche divinità benevola
che si è già incaricata
di far crescere copiosa l’erba.
C’è un luogo dove smettono
le tue labbra di baciare le mie
e non so quale forza
con una pesante collana di tristezza
mi ci riporti.
HAY UN LUGAR
Hay un lugar
no tan lejos de la frescura
de estos árboles esbeltos
donde un día enterramos nuestros corazones
pero tú, quién sabe por cuál hechizo
pareces no recordarlo
y sigues por el camino
indiferente de pisar el vacío.
Hay un lugar
no muy recóndito
ni siquiera tan a la vista
donde el tiempo se arquea,
sólo yo regreso allí
junto a alguna divinidad bondadosa
que ya se encargó
de que crezca el pasto en abundancia.
Hay un lugar donde dejan
tus labios de besar los míos
y no sé qué fuerza
con un pesado collar de tristeza
me trae de vuelta aquí.
DOGS
Dogs bark when words are not enough,
skylights return more shadows than reflections
and curtains, stranded in time, get all creased.
The dogs in this liquor-strewn harbor
spin around like tops,
they wander carefree chasing some scent,
some ill-concealed desire, some gluttonous instinct
and then come back, as if nothing had happened, to rest
in the corner where they received their first petting.
Dogs never lose track of their masters
either that or are they so good at pretending
so that we go on believing that this is how they love?
And that, somehow, fuels a small miracle.
At that precise point of the intangible,
when nostalgia is about to get shipwrecked,
a dog barks because words are not enough.
LOS PERROS
Los perros ladran cuando las palabras ya no alcanzan,
los tragaluces devuelven más sombras que reflejos
y las cortinas, estancadas en el tiempo, se arrugan.
Los perros de este puerto regado de licor
dan vueltas como si fueran trompos,
andan despreocupados atrás de algún olor,
algún deseo mal guardado, alguna voracidad
y regresan, como si nada fuera, a descansar
en el rincón donde recibieron su primera caricia.
Los perros nunca pierden el rastro de sus dueños
¿o son tan buenos en fingir para que sigamos
creyendo que es su forma de querer?
Es lo que alimenta un pequeño milagro.
En ese preciso punto de lo impalpable,
cuando la nostalgía está por cumplir su naufragio,
un perro ladra porque ya las palabras no alcanzan.
I CANI
I cani abbaiano quando le parole non bastano,
i lucernari restituiscono più ombre che riflessi
e le tende, incagliate nel tempo, si sgualciscono.
I cani di questo porto disseminato di liquore
fanno giri su sé stessi come trottole,
vagano spensierati inseguendo qualche odore,
qualche desiderio malcelato, qualche voracità
e ritornano, come se nulla fosse, a riposare
nell’angolo in cui ricevettero la loro prima carezza.
I cani non perdono mai le tracce dei loro padroni
o sono così bravi a fingere per farci continuare
a credere che è così che loro amano?
È ciò che alimenta un piccolo miracolo.
In quel preciso punto dell’impalpabile,
quando la nostalgia sta per compiere il suo naufragio,
un cane abbaia perché le parole non bastano.
MAIS
This land is swollen with blood:
its belly harbors
a piece of each of you
who have never had peace.
It may perhaps be the head of your neighbor’s aunt
that is feeding the future harvest in the fields,
so unbeknownst to us we are cannibals
of a history that is not erased but
rather reverberated by a gust of wind.
Let’s gather around the fire
let us prepare a simple arepa,
let us tell each other how hurtful it was
having to suspect
even of your brothers,
we shall be able to live
in peace with this land,
we shall be able to plant new corn
rather than the dead with the next moon.
MAÍZ
Esta tierra está hinchada de sangre:
su vientre alberga
un trozo de cada uno de ustedes
que nunca han tenido paz.
Tal vez haya incluso la cabeza de la tía de un vecino
alimentando la futura cosecha en los campos,
así que sin saberlo somos caníbales
de una historia que una ráfaga de viento
no borra sino reverbera.
Juntémonos alrededor del fuego
preparemos una simple arepa,
hablemos del mal que nos hizo
tener que sospechar
hasta de nuestros hermanos,
será posible vivir
en paz con esta tierra,
será posible sembrar nuevo maíz
y no muertos en la próxima luna.
MAIS
Questa terra è gonfia di sangue:
la sua pancia alberga
un pezzo di ognuno di voi
che non avete mai avuto pace.
C’è forse anche la testa di una zia del vicino
ad alimentare il futuro raccolto nei campi,
così senza saperlo siamo cannibali
di una storia che una folata di vento
non cancella bensì riverbera.
Raduniamoci attorno al fuoco
prepariamo una semplice arepa,
diciamoci il male cha ha fatto
dover sospettare
perfino dei fratelli,
si potrà vivere
in pace con questa terra,
si potrà piantare del nuovo mais
e non morti con la prossima luna.
LUCIA CUPERTINO (1986, Polignano a Mare). Writer, cultural anthropologist and translator. After her degree in Cultural Anthropology and Ethnology (University of Bologna), she earned a Masters in Anthropology of the Americas (Complutense University of Madrid) with a thesis on the translation of Nahuatl literary sources. She has been living for many years between Latin America and Italy, with shorter stays in Australia, Germany and Spain, linked to research, educational and agroecology projects. She writes in Italian and Spanish and has published: Mar di Tasman (Isola, Bologna, 2014); the bilingual collection Non ha tetto la mia casa – No tiene techo mi casa (Casa de poesía, San José, 2016, Versante Steep Communalism Award); the origami book Cinco poemas de Lucia Cupertino (Los ablucionistas, Mexico City, 2017, her short story collection I rituali dell’addio was published in 2023 by Giulio Perrone Editore). Her poetry and works of fiction have appeared in Italian and international magazines and anthologies. Some of her literary production has been translated into English, Chinese, Spanish, Bengali and Albanian. She is the editor of the poetry anthology 43 poeti per Ayotzinapa. Voci per il Messico e i suoi desaparecidos (Arcoiris, Salerno, 2016, critical mention in the Lilec Literary Translation Award – University of Bologna); MuoviMenti. Segnali da un mondo viandante (Terre d’Ulivi, Lecce, 2016) and Canodromo di Bárbara Belloc (Fili d’Aquilone, Rome, 2018). Jury member for the Trilce Prize 2018, Sydney, in collaboration with the Instituto Cervantes. One of the founding members of the digital literary journal www.lamacchinasognante.com, she uses that space to promote literary and cultural initiatives in Italy and abroad.
