{"id":9284,"date":"2019-05-04T09:34:38","date_gmt":"2019-05-04T06:34:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/?p=9284"},"modified":"2019-05-04T09:34:38","modified_gmt":"2019-05-04T06:34:38","slug":"mai-never","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/?p=9284","title":{"rendered":"Mai…\/ Never…"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"mai\"<\/a><\/p>\n

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Mai\u2026\/ Never…<\/p>\n

Mai nessun poema ispir\u00f2 il mio nome
\nmai musicista scrisse per esso sinfonie,
\nn\u00e9 Adagi, n\u00e9 notturni, n\u00e9 musica da canzonette,
\nda canticchiare sotto la doccia.<\/p>\n

Certo, poeti impazziti hanno scritto
\npoesie sul mio corpo di Venere acerba
\npoi sul mio corpo acerbo di matura Afrodite
\ne ancora sulle mie cosce come colonne corinzie
\nunite alla sommit\u00e0 da un cesto di foglie di acanto.<\/p>\n

Altri scrissero sulla dolcezza dei miei occhi
\ntranquilli laghi scuri in cui bagnarsi
\nquando il languore invade,
\noppure tempestosi, quando al culmine dell\u2019ira
\nscoppiano e mandano scintille
\ncome i mortaretti delle feste.<\/p>\n

Uno scultore cant\u00f2 i mie piccoli seni
\n[piccoli limoni da succhiare]
\nprima con cocente cera fusa,
\npoi col piombo rovente dell\u2019amore
\ninfine li immortal\u00f2 nel marmo.<\/p>\n

Si! Molti di me han cantato.
\nMa mai del mio nome.
\nEsso incute timore, non ha dolcezze scivolose
\nha dure consonanti \u2026 radici profonde,
\ne spine dolenti in cui incespica la lingua
\nprovoca paura, incute timore.<\/p>\n

No! Nessuno musico, nessun poeta
\nscrisse mai del mio nome
\ndalle dure consonanti
\ndel dolore in esso nascosto;
\nnessuno ne ha mai scritto
\nnessuno mai ne scriver\u00e0.<\/p>\n

Grazia Montanaro Lombardi
\n———————————
\nNever\u2026<\/p>\n

No poem ever my name inspired
\nnever a musician wrote symphonies for it,
\nneither Adagios, nor nocturnal, nor songs’ music,
\nto hum in the shower.<\/p>\n

Of course, crazy poets have written
\npoems of my fierce Venus body
\nthen of my unripe body of mature Aphrodite
\nand still of my thighs like Corinthian columns
\njoin at the top with a basket of acanthus leaves.<\/p>\n

Others wrote about the sweetness of my eyes
\nquiet dark lakes to get wet
\nwhen the languor invades,
\nor stormy, when at the height of anger
\nthey burst and send sparks
\nlike festive firecrackers.<\/p>\n

A sculptor sang my small breasts
\n[small lemons to suck]
\nfirst with scorching melted wax,
\nthen with the red-hot lead of love
\nfinally he immortalized them in marble.<\/p>\n

Yes! Many of me have been sung.
\nBut never my name.
\nIt inspires fear, it has no slippery sweetness
\nhas hard consonants … deep roots,
\nand painful thorns in which he stumbles his tongue
\ncauses fear, arouses fear.<\/p>\n

No! No musician, no poet
\nnever wrote of my name
\nfrom the hard consonants
\nof the pain hidden in it;
\nno one has ever written
\nno one will ever write about it.<\/p>\n

Maria Magdalena<\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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