Chiara Micheli

Ascolto rock. Fermo istanti. Traccio segni. Inseguo visioni. Tengo Londra nel mio garage. Qualche volta dormo. E scrivo. Mi piace la verità, per questo invento storie.

Tag: poesia

Stupro (Rape) by Charlotte Jade Puddifoot

by Charlotte Jade Puddifoot

October: I’m eighteen, shortcutting home
through an autumn-burnished churchyard –
copper-lustred leaves, moss-skinned stone –
a jaunty swing of skater skirt and arm,
college folder square-sturdy in my hand.
In the moment. In the last pale pulse of sun.

“Hey, can you tell me…?”
I halt. I turn…

Cold earth. Colder blade dimpling my skin.
My coral cameo earrings scatter,
daisy-dotting the green.
My back is spiked by needles of yews.
Sun skews, sky side-slides
until his face is the firmament.
I’m staring into the tumid blank-bloat of blue;
the ground hardening beneath me,
the death-spike trees stiffening.

Heavy Special Brew breaths,
grubby, moist fingers
like grubs crawling over my breasts,
and, weirdly, I’m smelling pepper
horror-spice of pungent lust
its acrid nose-thrust –
and woodsmoke is drifting from somewhere…
lung-flame, tongue-flames
of searing words – his words –
blazing like the umber tumbling leaves.

Fear-forced bargaining, but I’m beyond care.
And I’m aware
of the church steeple rising,
its phallus penetrating sky.
The tilting church could topple
as tears crystal-crush in my eyes.
Fear-faint, already half gone
in a soundless scream, my muted mouth
mouths silent goodbyes
to Sarah, to Mum.

Time slows to a crawl.
I try to call. Nobody comes
but the man who has me ground-pinned.
Bleachy stink of semen
whitening my ripped skater skirt,
but some things don’t fade
and there is no clean in this, just dirt,
wet leaf-mulch, shame.
Ineradicable hurt.

Sacred soil is soiled, sullied.
Stunned, I stumble
shoeless, knickerless,
into the trees and heave
into the mud, into the leaves
strings of spittle-sick,
my thoughts strung out,
reality spun out.

From stinking, pulped leaves I retrieve
crushed coral earrings,
ground-grimy knickers,
my white court shoes
that whitely scream the 80s,
the scattered tatters of essays –
white, like fallen feathers, sunk in the sludge,
muddied, the red-inked words bloodied.
I gather them together.
Gather myself.
I go

forward into my future, stained from pain
and tainted touch, the smears of fear, self-disgust.
And oozing slime-soft into my ears
the mire of incongruous apology: I’m sorry
don’t tell anyone
– I won’t.

I don’t.

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Mark Strand 1934-2014 Lines for winter/Versi per l’inverno

Letto: 7268 volte


Dì a te stesso
mentre si fa freddo e il grigio scende dall’aria
che tu continuerai a
camminare, ad ascoltare lo stesso motivo
non importa dove sarai,
dentro la cupola dell’oscurità
o sotto il bianco accecante dello sguardo lunare
in una valle innevata.
Stanotte, mentre si fa freddo
ditti ciò che sai,
che non è altro se non il motivo
che le tue ossa suonano
mentre continui ad andare.
E potrai per una volta distenderti
sotto il piccolo fuoco
delle stelle invernali.
E se succede che non potrai andare avanti
né voltarti indietro
e ti ritrovi
dove sarai alla fine
in quell’ultimo fluire di freddo nelle tue membra
che ami quello che sei.



Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

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