Category: Contributors | Page 886 | Mediterranean Poetry

Simone INGUANEZ [si’mo:n iŋ’gwa:nets], b. Malta, 1971. Poet. Author of ftit mara ftit tifa (Malta: Klabb Kotba Maltin) and water, fire, earth and i (Malta: Inizjamed and Midsea Books Ltd ) and co-author of 7 poets 4 days 1 book (Texas: Trinity Press).

Writer in residence at the University of Iowa International Writers Program in 2007. Read her poetry at a number of transnational festivals. Works of hers have been translated into English, French, Arabic, Turkish, Hebrew, Italian, Russian, Hungarian, Bulgarian, Latvian and Finnish. Represented in several anthologies and literary reviews and on a number of literary websites. Aired on radio and TV, and set to music.

She holds a doctorate in Laws and is Arts Executive for Literature at the Malta Council for Culture and the Arts and Vice-President of the Malta National Council for the Maltese Language.

Impressions of the Mediterranean

Original poem in Maltese	Translation
sqaq nru 1 (alley no 1)	EN – FR – AR – IT – HU
din l-art (this land)	EN – IT
nibqa’ (i’ll stay)	EN – FR– TU – IT
ninfa (nymph)	EN – FR – HU – LV
metropolitain	EN
ix-xwejjaħ tal-muntanja (the old man of the mountain)	EN

sqaq nru 1

hemm tifla tittawwal – wieqfa fi sqaq
laħamha skur fomm mitbuq xofftej’ sħan
hemm napli sqallija u sardinja
hemm kreta u ateni ċipru u madrid
– maqfula fil-ħarsa t’għajnejha msammrin
hemm l-azzar il-baħar u n-nar vjaġġatur
hemm uġigħ u lfiq
– il-qamar sar ramel u x-xemx mistoqsija
qalb ruħ u x-xej’ – imwaħħdin

u hemm jien – nippassiġġa x-xatt

ħdejn ix-xiħa li torqod bilqiegħda – sodditha
fil-bokka tal-bieb
hi u toħlom

Il-Kalkara, Malta

alley no.1

there is a girl peeping – standing in a lane
dark flesh, gaping mouth, hot lips
there’s naples, sicily and sardinia
there’s crete and athens, cyprus and madrid
– locked into the look of her fixed eyes
there is the steel of sea and fire of voyage
there’s pain and tears
– the moon’s turned to sand and the sun is a question
heart, soul and nothing have become one

and there’s i – strolling round the coast

close to the old woman who sleeps sitting up – her bed
in the door’s mouth, while she dreams–

Il-Kalkara, Malta

allée no 1

là une fillette observe – se tiens dans la ruelle
peau brune, bouche béante, lèvres chaudes
là naples, la sicile et la sardaigne
là crète et athènes, chypre et madrid
– toutes enfermées dans les yeux cloués de la fillette
là le métal de la mer et le feu du voyage
là la douleur et les larmes
– la lune s’est transformée en sable et le soleil est une question

et il y a moi – vagabond rodant sur la côte

près d’une vieille femme qui dort assise – son lit
dans la bouche de la porte, quand elle rêve –

vicolo numero 1

c’e una ragazzina dalla pelle scura
e dalle labbra tenere mute
che si sporge e sta a guardare
c’è Napoli, Sicilia e Sardegna
c’è Creta e Atene, Cipro e Madrid
– dentro lo sguardo fisso dei suoi occhi
c’è l’acciaio, il mare, il fuoco, il viaggio
la tristezza, ci sono le lacrime
– la luna diventa sabbia e il sole è una domanda
l’anima, il cuore, il vuoto – si fondono

e ci sono io – passeggiando sulla riva

vicino alla nonna che dorme seduta nel suo letto
di fronte alla porta aperta
mentre sogna

Il-Kalkara, Malta

skátor, no. 1

bámészkodik a lány – ott áll az úton–
fekete bőr, tátott száj, forró ajak–
nápoly, szardínia, szicília,
kréta és athén, ciprus és madrid–
szemébe fér, mindet arcába zárta
utazás tüze tenger acélja
fájdalom és könny
– a hold homokká lett kérdés van-e nap–
szív, semmi, lélek, azonos szavak

közöttük én – járom körbe a partot

az öregasszony ülve alszik – nyitott ajtaja
mögött az ágya, szemén az álom–

Il-Kalkara, Malta

din l-art

din l-art li trabbejt fiha mutraba – mutraba sew
taħt iż-żrar taħt il-konkos tindifen
bir-ruħ u l-ġisem tinhereż
wied wied jaqa’ s-skiet
sa ma tiksru r-riħa
li taqsmu

nannuwi jagħżaq nannuwi jsaqqi
nannuwi f’soddtu jistaqsi
telax il-ful telax l-għeneb
fetħux isbaħ id-dalji dix-xitwa
dir-riħa t’għelieqi
maqfula sod fi mnifsejh nieżla miegħu
iż-żebbuġ, il-basal ta’ ħdejn in-naħal
il-bużbież, u t-tina x-xiħa, u l-ħawħa–

jaqsmuh
is-skiet jaqsmuh
meqruda wied wied
tinhereż ġisem u ruħ irmied
taħt iż-żrar taħt il-konkos tindifen
mutraba – mutraba u midfuna l-art li trabbejt fiha

this land

this land in which i was bred is choked by dust
it is buried by gravel by concrete
its soul and body crushed
silence falls valley by valley
till it’s gashed by the scent
which splits it

my grandpa ploughs my grandpa sows
my grand pa in his bed must know
if the beans have grown if the grapes have grown
if the dahlias are more beautiful this winter
this scent of fields
locked tight in his nostrils failing
– the olive – the onions next to the hive
the fennel – and the old fig-tree – and the peach –

they split it
they split the silence
ripped valley by valley
shaken body and soul ashes
buried under the gravel concrete
choked by dust and buried is the land i was bred in

questa terra

questa terra dove sono cresciuta è soffocata
– troppo soffocata dalla polvere
sepolta sotto grava e cemento
anima e corpo macinati

cade il silenzio valle dopo valle
finché il profumo lo scioglie

il nonno che ara, il nonno che semina
il nonno nel suo letto vuole sapere
se i fagioli sono cresciuti e se l’uva è gia matura
se le dalie sono più belle questo inverno
quest’odore di campo racchiuso in lui
se ne vanno col nonno sotto terra
gli ulivi, le cipolle di fiancho ai canali
il sedano, gli alberi di nespole, le pesche–

si scioglie – scioglie il silenzio
valle dopo valle lacerata
macinati anima e corpo
diventati cenere sotto grava e cemento
soffocata – soffocata dalla polvere
e sepolta questa terra dove sono cresciuta

nibqa’

jien mnej’ jien ma nafx
fix-xtut tiegħek, imma, noqgħod
ma jweġġagħni xej’ l-isfar tagħhom mar-riħ
jew l-aħdar iħaxwex f’widinti minn taħt l-ilsien
jew il-melħ iċafċaf jitbandal

mnej’ jien ma nafx

jekk tħallini, imma, nibqa’

i’ll stay

i don’t know not where i’m from
but i fit into your shores
their yellowing on the wind
does not hurt
nor does their green rustling softly in my ear
or their salt on the wave – to and fro to and fro

i don’t know where i’m from

but, if you let me, i’ll stay

je reste

d’où je viens – je ne sais pas
sur tes rivages, pourtant, je reste
leur jaune porté par le vent ne me nuit
ni le doux bruissement de ce vert dans les oreilles
ou le sel qui fait plouf qui va et qui vient

d’où je viens – je ne sais pas

mais, si tu me laisses, je reste

burada kalayım

nereden geldiğimi bilmiyorum
ama kumsalların bana göre
rüzgarda uçuşan bu sarılık acıtmıyor
acıtmıyor kulağımda kaçan kumların
yumuşak, yemyeşil fısıltısı
yükselen ve alçalan dalgaların tuzu

nerden geldiğimi bilmiyorum

ama izin ver, burada kalayım

mi fermo

non so da dove vengo
ma sto bene sulle tue spiaggie
il suo ingiallire con la sabbia sparsa dal vento
non mi infastidisce per niente
e nemmeno il soffice scricchiolio delle foglie
né il sale delle onde che ballano

non so da dove vengo

ma, se mi lasci, mi fermo

ninfa

jien ġejja mill-ilma, nogħdos u nitla’
naqdef, nogħdos u nitla’
u nibqa’
– jew naħrab
jekk tersaq viċin, jiena naħrab
jien gżira

kultant nitla’ għad-dawl, nintelaq fejn jilma
id-dawl jilma, u jaħji, id-dawl
– jew jagħmi
imma għajnejja mitbuqa, ma jiddi ħadd fihom
jekk tersaq viċin, jien nifqagħhom

jien ħlejqa ta’ l-ilma, il-mewġ irabbini
kultant iħeddilni, kultant iqajjimni
il-mewġ jiżfen, bħan-nar, il-mewġ jiżfen
imma l-mewġ jibqa’ jiġi u jmur, in-nar ma jitlaqx
jekk tersaq viċin, intemm ħajti

nymph

i come from water, dive and surface
swim, dive and surface
and stay
– or dart away
if you come close, i’ll dart away
i’m an island

sometimes, i rise to light, let go where it sparkles
water sparkles, and water soothes
– or it blinds
but my eyes are sealed, no body shines in them
if you move close, i’ll burst them

i’m a creature of water, water moulded me
sometimes it lulls me, sometimes it wakes me
waves dance, like fire, waves dance
but waves stay coming and going, fire does not leave
if you come near, i’ll end my life

nymphe

je viens de l’eau, plonge et remonte
nager, plonge et resurge
et y reste
– ou me précipite au loin
si tu t’approches trop près, je disparaîtrai
je suis une île

parfois, je m’éveille à la lumière, aller là où elle miroite
l’eau miroite et l’eau apaise
– ou elle aveugle
mais mes yeux sont scellés, personne ne brille en eux
si tu t’approches trop près, je les ferai éclater

je suis une créature de l’eau, l’eau m’a modelée
parfois elle me calme, d’autres fois me réveille
les vagues dansent, comme le feu, les vagues dansent
mais les vagues continuent à aller et venir, le feu ne part pas
si tu viens tout près, je finirai ma vie

nimfa

vízből jövök, lebukom, felmerülök,
úszva bukom, felmerülök,
így maradok
– messze szököm
ha közel jössz, messze szököm
sziget vagyok

néha feljövök a fénybe, pezsegni kezd,
pezseg a víz, úgy nyugszik el
– vakít a víz
de a szemem zárva, test benne nem ragyog,
ha közel érsz, szétpattanok

vízből vagyok, a víz éltet,
néha altat, néha ébreszt
táncol a víz, ahogy a tűz, táncol a víz,
elmegy a víz, megjön a víz, nem hagy a tűz,
ha odajössz hozzám, nem maradok élve

nimfa

es nāku no ūdens, ienirstu, iznirstu

peldu, ienirstu, iznirstu
esmu šeit
— un tad pazūdu
ja nāksi tuvāk, es pazudīšu
es esmu sala

dažreiz es paceļos gaismā, eju, kur dzirkstī tā
ūdens dzirkstī un ūdens remdē
— vai padara aklu
bet manas acis ir ciet, neviens augums neatspīd tajās
ja nāksi tuvāk, tās uzliesmos

es esmu ūdens radība, no ūdens izlieta
tas mani ieaijā, tas mani modina
viļņi dejo, kā liesmas, viļņi dejo
viļņi atnāk un aiziet, bet uguns paliek
ja nāksi tuvāk, manis vairs nebūs nekad

metropolitain

narahom sikwit għadni

tirfes l-aħħar tarġa,
dar-raġel iswed
f’għadira sigaretti u frak tal-galletti
jagħti b’rasu sejra minn hawn għal hemm
tistad ħarstek taħrab ħbubu miksurin.

timxi ftit,
id-daqqaq bl-orgni jħarħar
sqaqien moħħu mserrpa wrajk
għaddejja quddiemu
jinsiġlek ave marijiet twal imriegħda
se jisktu, se jiżżarrdu; jaqbdek tħares lura
u jibdew jintisġu mill-ġdid.

titla’ tiġri t-tren, qabel jagħlaq
mara mgeżwra skur
wiċċha kulur deżert sħun bla qatr’ ilma
tgħannilek ħrejjef li jwennsuk
bħal tifla żgħira mitlufa–

metropolitain

i still see them, quite often

as you come to the last step,
this black man in a puddle
of cigarettes and crumbs
nodding, fishing for your eyes fleeing
from his broken pupils.

walk on, this musician, harmonica rattling
the alleys of his brain winding
behind you, walking past him
– he weaves long ave marias, shaken
stopping, fraying; catches you looking back
starts again, weaving.

go up the train, running, before doors shut
this woman wrapped in dark
her face a hot thirsty desert
singing you tales to appease
you – small girl, lost–

ix-xwejjaħ tal-muntanja
għal miljenko

x’naqbad ngħidlek fuq il-poeżija, binti? qalli
għasruli moħħi r-ringieli twal slaleb bojod żgħar
vukovar, dubrovnik, mostar, pristina

kont ħsibt li mietu l-poeżiji – kollox miet

ejja sarajevo,
inżommlok idek, ikteb dwar is-skiet
u r-riħ jonfoħ f’wiċċek
u l-irwejjaħ strambi
jiggranfaw ma’ xagħrek jitbandal

u ndaħħlek
nitimgħek il-manna u l-ħalib sħun,
mal-fuklar jaqta’ r-reżħa ta’ kamarti
u r-ritratti blekkendwajt mal-ħajt bit-tejp isfar.
u ara d-dell mal-ħajt jgħidlekx xiħaġa
jew l-art għarwiena tibdel ilwiena mat-tfaqqigħ taz-zkuk.

kont ħsibt li mietu l-poeżiji – stennejt ħa nilmaħ boroż kbar
xkejjer kliem mal-bibien, ta’ vrus imqatta’
u kenniesa jqandlu ’l hinn

u ġejt int. x’naqbad ngħidlek, binti?

darba kelli tifla kienet se ssir omm
u telqet–
minn dakinhar, qatt ma nsakkar
nista’ nraqqdek f’soddtha
naqralek l-istejjer li qrajt lilha

u titlaqx mal-kurrenti tax-xmara mgħaġġla
għax ikollok niftaħ tiqti wkoll
u nissokta npassi nipprova nisma’ leħnek
u nxomm ir-riħa ta’ fjuri żgħar li jikbru ’l bogħod

tħarisx lejja, li ma naħfnekx f’għajnejja

the old man of the mountain
for miljenko

what shall I tell you, girl? he told me
the long rows of small white crosses crushed my brain
vukovar, dubrovnik, mostar, pristina

i thought the poetry died – all has died

come to sarajevo, i hold your hand
write on silence
and the wind blowing in your face
and the strange smells clutching
at your hair swinging

and take you in
and feed you manna and warm milk
by the fire cutting through the chill
and the photos on the wall, black and white, yellow tape
and see if the shadow on the wall tells you something
or the bare floor changing colour as logs crackle

i thought the poetry died – expected
big bags of words by the doors, torn verses
sweepers dragging

then, you came. what shall i tell you, girl?

once i had a daughter – with child
she left–
since then, i don’t lock.
i can take you to her bed
i’ll read you the stories i used to tell her

and don’t leave with the currents of the river
for i’d have to open my window, this time
and to go on pacing, trying
to hear your voice and smell the perfume
of florets growing in distant lands

don’t look towards me
i don’t want to catch you in my eyes

Published with the permission of Simone INGUANEZ