Poems by Stefano Strazzabosco 

A man

 
A man is rolling up a cigarette
while rain keeps falling on the leaves
and the tattoo saying “Marc Bolan” turns
deep-blue as a summertime pond
on his pale naked forearm.
 
Morning has all it needs,
says the man sitting still. He smokes
what he was meant to be
 

 
Punto negro
 
Dicen que por acá
no hay paso: pero cuánta mar cruzamos
alta nadando como patos
entumecidos por el frío; cuál
desierto atravesamos, con la boca
tapada y la mirada tiesa
hasta este punto negro
que se fija en la página
y la convierte en un campo de tiro
donde el blanco eres tú –
tú que me escuchas o me lees
cómodamente sentado en tu silla
y con tus armas invencibles
 
 
 
Black Point
 
They say there is no passage
around here: but no matter how much sea we cross
high swimming like ducks
stiff from the cold; how
much desert we traverse, with mouth
covered and brittle gaze
to that black point
that affixes itself to the page
and transforms it to a firing range
where the target is you--
you that listen to me or read me
comfortably sitting in your chair
with your invincible weapons.
 
 
Translated by G. Leogena

Stefano Strazzabosco (Italy, 1964) has published poetry collections, translations, anthologies, essays, and a theatrical monologue. He lives in Vicenza (Italy) and Mexico City.

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