Olio su tela / Oil on canvas – 120 x 170 cm – ottobre / october 2010 (Codice / Cod 16)

Categoria / Category: Jazz

(clicca sull’immagine per ingrandire / click on the image to enlarge)

da una poesia di / from a poem by
Wislawa Szymborska

THE SUICIDE’S ROOM
I’ll bet you think the room was empty.
Wrong. There were three chairs with sturdy backs.
A lamp, good for fighting the dark.
A desk, and on the desk a wallet, some newspapers.
A carefree Buddha and a worried Christ.
Seven lucky elephants, a notebook in a drawer.
You think our addresses weren’t in it?
No books, no pictures, no records, you guess?
Wrong. A comforting trumpet poised in black hands.
Saskia and her cordial little flower.
Joy the spark of gods.
Odysseus stretched on the shelf in life-giving sleep
after the labors of Book Five.
The moralists with the golden syllables of their names
inscribed on finely tanned spines.
Next to them, the politicians braced their backs.
No way out? But what about the door?
No prospects? The window had other views.
His glasses lay on the windowsill.
And one fly buzzed—that is, was still alive.
You think at least the note could tell us something.
But what if I say there was no note—
and he had so many friends, but all of us fit neatly
inside the empty envelope propped up against a cup.

Olio su lino / Oil on linen – 280 x 400 cm – aprile / april 2015 (Codice / Cod 49)

Categoria / Category: Sublimazioni / Sublimations

Collezione privata / Private collection

(clicca sull’immagine per ingrandire / click on the image to enlarge)

da una poesia di / from a poem by
Wislawa Szymborska

PORTRAIT OF WOMAN
She must be willing to please.
To change so that nothing should change.
It’s easy, impossible, hard, worth trying.
Her eyes are if need be now deep blue, now gray,
dark, playful, filled for no reason with tears.
She sleeps with him like some chance acquaintance, like his one and only.
She will bear him four children, no children, one.
Naive yet giving the best advice.
Weak yet lifting the weightiest burdens.
Has no head on her shoulders but will have.
Reads Jaspers and ladies’ magazines.
Doesn’t know what this screw is for and will build a bridge.
Young, as usual young, as always still young.
Holds in her hands a sparrow with a broken wing,
her own money for a journey long and distant,
a meat-cleaver, poultice, and a shot of vodka.
Where is she running so, isn’t she tired?
Not at all, just a bit, very much, doesn’t matter.
Either she loves him or has made up her mind to.
For better, for worse, and for heaven’s sake.