Marilyne Bertoncini, a poet and translator, co-editor of the online review Recours au Poème, http://www.recoursaupoeme.fr – divides her life between Nice on the French Riviera and Parma in Italy. She has published numerous articles on teaching literature, and European writers, and translated the work of poets from the United States, Israel, Serbia, China and Australia. Her own writings and photos are published in various international journals, and her latest collections are Labyrinthe des Nuits, (march 2015, Recours au Poème éditeurs) and La Dernière Oeuvre de Phidias (may 2016 – Encres Vives) – her work in progress can be followed on her blog: http://minotaura.unblog.fr
The Underside of the Riviera
A sooty morning flickers behind the window,
under the mist embroidered by the tangled breaths
in the metallic belly of the train.
Crumpled bodies are folded on the seats under the vulture wings
of an unfolded newspaper.
The platform is rustling with mixed languages,
and the panting of the train, the squeak and stink of the brakes,
the snort of the cars, and shrill of the rails.
A silent bird is soaring very high – No one sees it but me.
A geostationnary satellit twinkles like a star.
The light on the platform down here
jigsaws the knife-blade profiles of the palms
and the morning glow barely hems the pass of Villefranche.
In Monaco, the train slowly vomits –
empties its paunch under
the gloomy neon light of the tunnel,
where the bitter light of the daybreak
drills like an eye.
A tiny range of blue-grey clouds on the skyline,
where the ruddle-rose morning oozes in the sky,
is streaked by a geometrical flight.
Then the rows of buildings
and the cranes before the station
swallow the sky.
Turning back,
facing the sunset, blink your eyes
and keep on the weary retina only bars
of fire
instead of the rollers.
Poetry in this post: © Marilyne Bertoncini
Published with the permission of Marilyne Bertoncini