Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi

Cesare Pavese

Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi-
questa morte che ci accompagna
dal mattino alla sera, insonne,
sorda, come un vecchio rimorso
o un vizio assurdo. I tuoi occhi
saranno una vana parola,
un grido taciuto, un silenzio.
Così li vedi ogni mattina
quando su te sola ti pieghi
nello specchio. O cara speranza,
quel giorno sapremo anche noi
che sei la vita e sei il nulla

Per tutti la morte ha uno sguardo.
Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi.
Sarà come smettere un vizio,
come vedere nello specchio
riemergere un viso morto,
come ascoltare un labbro chiuso.
Scenderemo nel gorgo muti.

Sonnet 18

William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee

Lord Randall

Ballata tradizionale inglese

O where ha you been, Lord Randall, my son?
And where ha you been, my handsome young man?
I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.

An wha met ye there, Lord Randall, my son?
And wha met ye there, my handsome young man?
O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.

And what did she give you, Lord Randall, My son?
And wha did she give you, my handsome young man?
Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fein wad lie down.

And what gat your leavins, Lord Randall my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?
My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fein wad lie down.

And what becam of them, Lord Randall, my son?
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?
They stretched their legs out and died; mother mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.

O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!
O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and fain wad lie down.

What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randall, my son?
What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?
Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.

What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randall, my son?
What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?
My gold and my silver; mother mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down.

What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randall, my son?
What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?
My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.

What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randall, my son?
What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?
I leave her hell and fire; mother mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.

The Last Days Of The Suicide Kid

Charles Bukowski
dal libro: Mockingbird Wish Me Luck

I can see myself now
after all these suicide days and nights,
being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes
(of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky)
by a subnormal and bored nurse…
there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair…
almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull
looking
for the mercy of death…

"Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?"

"O, yeah, yeah…"

the children walk past and I don't even exist
and lovely women walk by
with big hot hips
and warm buttocks and tight hot everything
praying to be loved
and I don't even
exist…

"It's the first sunlight we've had in 3 days,
Mr. Bukowski."

"Oh, yeah, yeah."

there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair,
myself whiter than this sheet of paper,
bloodless,
brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski,
gone…

"Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?"

"O, yeah, yeah…" pissing in my pajamas, slop drooling out of
my mouth.

2 young schoolboys run by ---

"Hey, did you see that old guy?"

"Christ, yes, he made me sick!"

after all the threats to do so
somebody else has committed suicide for me
at last.

the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush,
puts it in my hand.

I don't even know
what it is. it might as well be my pecker
for all the good
it does.

Scarica lapoesia letta da Charles Bukowski

A Poison Tree

William Blake

Il Canto Dell'Odio

Lorenzo Stecchetti

Quando tu dormirai dimenticata
sotto la terra grassa
e la croce di Dio sarà piantata
ritta sulla tua cassa,

Quando ti coleran marcie le gote
entro i denti malfermi
e nelle occhiaie tue fetenti e vuote
brulicheranno i vermi,

per te quel sonno che per altri è pace
sarà strazio novello
e un rimorso verrà freddo, tenace,
a morderti il cervello.

Un rimorso acutissimo ed atroce
verrà nella tua fossa
a dispetto di Dio, della sua croce,
a rosicchiarti l'ossa.

Io sarò quel rimorso. Io te cercando
entro la notte cupa,
lamia che fugge il dì, verrò latrando
come latra una lupa.

Io con quest'ugne scaverò la terra
per te fatta letame
e il turpe legno schioderò che serra
la tua carogna infame.

Oh, come nel tuo core ancor vermiglio
sazierò l'odio antico,
oh, con che gioia affonderò l'artiglio
nel tuo ventre impudico!

Sul tuo putrido ventre accoccolato
io poserò in eterno,
spettro della vendetta e del peccato,
spavento dell'inferno:

ed all'orecchio tuo che fu sì bello
sussurrerò implacato
detti che bruceranno il tuo cervello,
come un ferro infocato.

Quando tu mi dirai: perché mi mordi
e di velen m'imbevi?
Io ti risponderò: non ti ricordi
che bei capelli avevi?

Non ti ricordi dei capelli biondi
che ti coprian le spalle
e degli occhi nerissimi, profondi,
pieni di fiamme gialle??

E delle audacie del tuo busto e della
opulenza dell'anca?
Non ti ricordi più com'eri bella,
provocatrice e bianca?

Ma non sei dunque tu che nudo il petto
agli occhi altrui porgesti
e, spumante Licisca, entro al tuo letto
passar la via facesti?

Ma non sei tu che agli ebbri ed ai soldati
spalancasti le braccia,
che discendesti a baci innominati
e a me ridesti in faccia?

Ed io t'amavo, ed io ti son caduto
pregando innanzi e, vedi,
quando tu mi guardavi, avrei voluto
morir sotto a' tuoi piedi.

Perché negare - a me che pur t'amavo -
uno sguardo gentile,
quando per te mi sarei fatto schiavo,
mi sarei fatto vile?

Perché m'hai detto no quando carponi
misericordia chiesi,
e sulla strada intanto i tuoi lenoni
aspettavan gl'inglesi?

Hai riso? Senti! Dal sepolcro cavo
questa tua rea carogna,
nuda la carne tua che tanto amavo
l'inchiodo sulla gogna,

e son la gogna i versi ov'io ti danno
al vituperio eterno,
a pene che rimpianger ti faranno
le pene dell'inferno.

Qui rimorir ti faccio, o maledetta,
piano, a colpi di spillo,
e la vergogna tua, la mia vendetta,
tra gli occhi ti sigillo.

The Soldier, his wife and the bum

Charles Bukowski

I was a bum at San Francisco that once managed to go to a symphony concert along with the well dressed people. And the music was good but something about the audience was not. And something about the orchestra and the conductor was not. Although the building was fine and the acoustic 's perfect I prefered to listen to the music alone on my radio.

And afterwards I did go back to my room and I turned on the radio. But there was a pounding on the wall. 'Shut that god damn thing off!' There was a soldier in the next room bubbling with his wife and soon he would go over there to protect me from Hitler. So I snapped the radio off and then I heard his wife say 'You shouldn't have done that'. And the soldier said 'Fuck that guy' which I thought was a very nice thing for him to tell his wife to do. Of course she never did. Anyhow I never went to another live concert. At that night I listened to the radio very quietly, my ear pressed to the speaker

War has it's price and peace never lasts. And millions of young men everywhere will die. As I listened to the classical music I heard them making love. Desperatly and mournfuly to Shostakovich, Brahms, Mozart, through crescendo and climax and through the shared walls of our darkness.

Scarica lapoesia letta da Charles Bukowski