Paola Loreto was born in Bergamo (Italy), and teaches American Literature at the University of Milan. She is the author of L’acero rosso (The Red Maple, Crocetti 2002), Addio al decoro (A Farewell to Decorum, LietoColle 2006), La memoria del corpo (The Body’s Memory, Crocetti 2007), and In quota (Interlinea, 2012). She has published poems in literary journals and magazines, such as Poesia, L’Almanacco dello Specchio Mondadori, ClanDestino, Ciminiera, La Mosca di Milano, Il segnale and La colpa di scrivere. Some of her poems are posted on the Fonoscaffale della Poesia Italiana.
Her books won the following prizes: Tronto (2003), Benedetto Croce (2003), Calabria-Alto Ionio (2007), un fiore di parola (2007), Alpi Apuane (2008), Antonio Fogazzaro (2012); San Vito al Tagliamento (2013). Her awards include a residency at the Centre de Poésie & Traduction of the Royaumont Foundation in Paris, and a Copeland Fellowship (Amherst College, MA). She was the curator of LucaniaPoesiaFestival (2005) and of Suoni e Voci dal Vulture (2006), and a member of the jury of the San Pellegrino Poetry Prize and of the Città di Legnano-Giuseppe Tirrinnanzi Poetry Prize. She still is on the jury of the Subway-poesia Prize.
As a scholar, Paola has published three books on Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and Derek Walcott. She translates American poetry.
Please visit Paola Loreto’s website: Paola Loreto
Dedicated
I’ll take you to the red maple
unfolding and wide in the orchard.
A daring radiance, transparent in the air –
the omniscient narrator of what we really care for.
Dedicata
Portarti all’acero
rosso,
disteso e largo
nell’orto.
Lucore ardito,
trasparente nell’aria.
Narratore onnisciente
di ciò che c’importa.
A Dream of Sicily
I desire scents
of the Mediterranean.
A spicy palate and
thirst I can drink.
Unblackened stones:
immaculate walls
pour l’âme.
Sogno di Sicilia
Desidero odori
mediterranei.
Il palato piccante
e la sete da bere.
Pietre non atre:
candidi androni
pour l’âme.
The Golden Cage
The times I’ve followed with sated
fingers the outline of a shoulder
I know, where the bone
drops slightly at the end
of a gentle slope.
The times I’ve felt those fingers
search for the bone of the hip where
they liked to rest the hand
in the fair season.
I no longer count them. The times, I say,
I have wanted you so badly
that my body was infected.
He had recognized himself, in health,
in that peculiar walk of yours
somewhat tilted.
La gabbia d’oro
Le volte che ho seguito con le dita
sazie il profilo di una spalla
che conosco, dove l’osso
sbalza appena alla fine
di un declivio lento.
Le volte che ho sentito quelle dita
cercare l’osso del fianco dove
amavano posare la mano
nella bella stagione.
Non le conto più. Le volte, dico,
che ti ho voluto tanto
da infettarmi il corpo.
Si era riconosciuto, salubre,
in quel tuo passo singolare
e un po’ inclinato.
Remembrance
They are hooks
that tear the heart
in the month of March.
Notes that tangle memories
upon memories. The scent
of a different and same
air of another place.
Casual light that
pitiless uncovers
the flesh of sores.
There is no bottom to
the grieving of March.
Ricordanza
Sono uncini
che strappano il cuore
nel mese di marzo.
Note che impigliano
l’una sull’altra memoria.
Odore dell’aria diversa
e uguale di un altro posto.
Luce avventizia
che scopre impietosa
la carne di piaghe.
Non c’è fondo
al malesentire di marzo.
The Arzuffi Atelier*
An alley—some glass
arches to a house.
The dust on an apple does not
forbid the brush the absent trait
of light.
*in Bergamo, Italy; the Arzuffis are a family of
Bergamasque painters
Lo studio Arzuffi
Una via – degli archi
di vetro a una casa.
La polvere di una mela non vieta
al pennello il tratto assente
della luce.
Poetry in this post: © Paola Loreto
Published with the permission of Paola Loreto