Essere, fare e colori autunnali

Questo autunno continua a produrre fiori e frutti, alcuni di stagione, altri meno.

A proposito di frutti, l’incontro dell’altro giorno è stato davvero fertile, ha portato idee, pensieri e connessioni che vi racconterò.

Quanto al cinema, ancora anni ’30, ho visto I 39 scalini di Hitchcock, e anche di quello vorrei parlarvi, per cui ho tante cose da dire, altro che declino, qui si preannuncia una stagione di fervore creativo e colori gioiosi. Più i lavori di ristrutturazione, più la scrittura, lo studio per la patente, le traduzioni, la famiglia, i libri, il cinema, l’università della terza età… Sento forte il desiderio di esserci e sento che per esserci bisogna, più che mai, fare (intendiamoci, il fare può ben includere lo star seduti in poltrona con un libro o un film, ogni tanto almeno!).

Venti stagionali / Season Winds

Alcune canzoni per i momenti di malinconia autunnale, quando la stagione che cambia può far pensare al tempo che passa e alle illusioni che continuiamo a coltivare, la più tenace delle quali è quella di non farsi illusioni.

Ma se la tristezza è un’emozione di cui a volte non sappiamo fare a meno, possiamo almeno farne una scusa per circondarci di cose belle, musica, libri, parole, nostalgia, tenerezza, silenzi, sono spesso tristi in maniera dolce, come una coperta calda e le coccole che ci concediamo per consolarci dai primi freddi. Così capita che ci prendiamo cura della nostra tristezza con un certo affetto, perché anche se sembra il contrario, in realtà ci aiuta a volte a vivere meglio.

AUGUST WINDS

/

When August winds are turning,
The fishing boats set out upon the sea,
I watch ‘til they sail out of sight,
The winter follows soon,
I watch them drawn into the night,
Beneath the August moon.

No one knows I come here,
Some things I don’t share,
I can’t explain the reasons why,
It moves me close to tears,
Or something in the season’s change,
Will find me wandering here.

And in my public moments,
I hear the things I say but they’re not me,
Perhaps I’ll know before I die,
Admit that there’s a reason why,
I count the boats returning to the sea,
I count the boats returning to the sea.

And in my private moments,
I drop the mask that I’ve been forced to wear,
But no one knows this secret me,
Where albeit unconsciously,
I count the boats returning from the sea,
I count the boats returning from the sea.

PRACTICAL ARRANGEMENT

/

Am I asking for the moon?
Is it really so implausible?
That you and I could soon,
Come to some kind of arrangement?
I’m not asking for the moon,
I’ve always been a realist,
When it’s really nothing more,
Than a simple rearrangement.
With one roof above our heads,
A warm house to return to,
We could start with separate beds,
I could sleep alone or learn to.
I’m not suggesting that we’d find some earthly paradise forever,
I mean how often does that happen now? The answer’s probably never.
But we could come to an arrangement, a practical arrangement,
And you could learn to love me given time.

I’m not promising the moon,
I’m not promising a rainbow,
Just a practical solution,
To a solitary life.
I’d be a father to your boy,
A shoulder you could lean on,
How bad could it be,
To be my wife?
With one roof above our heads,
A warm house to return to,
You wouldn’t have to cook for me,
You wouldn’t have to learn to,
I’m not suggesting that this proposition here could last forever,
I’ve no intention of deceiving you, you’re far too clever.
But we could come to an arrangement,
A practical arrangement,
And perhaps you’d learn to love me given time.
It may not be the romance that you had in mind,
But you could learn to love me,
Given time.

I LOVE HER BUT SHE LOVES SOMEONE ELSE

/

When a man of my age shaves his face in the morning,
Who is it that stares back and greets him?
The ghost of his father long dead all these years?
Or the boy that he was, still wet in the ears?
Or the terrible sum of all of his fears,
In the eyes of this stranger who meets him?

So his glance rarely strays from his chin or his jawline,
To face up to the truth of his soul,
It’s the eyes he avoids so afraid to acknowledge,
Something strange, unexpected, out of control.

There are times when a man needs to brave his reflection,
And face what he sees without fear,
It takes a man to accept his mortality,
Or be surprised by the presence of a tear.

It was only an arrangement, a practical arrangement,
I forgot the first commandment of the realist’s handbook,
Don’t be fooled by illusions you created yourself,
And fall in love with someone, when she loves someone else.

Like a covering of snow on a winter’s night,
It glistens and it sparkles in the moonlight,
But it’s gone by the morning, how quickly it melts,
You still love her but she loves someone else.

And where does that leave you?
You self-styled man of vision.
You feel stupid, you feel angry, are you losing your mind?
To destroy the one she loves, does that become your mission?
Like a pantomime villain with an axe to grind?
To regain your self-respect, hold your head up like a man,
Use the ice around your heart before it melts,
But you’re not fooling anybody, you’re only fooling yourself.

Like a covering of snow on a winter’s night,
It glistens and it sparkles in the moonlight,
But it’s gone by the morning, how quickly it melts,
You still love her but she loves someone else.

/

ALL THIS TIME

I looked out across
The river today
I saw a city in the fog
And an old church tower
Where the seagulls play
Saw the sad shire horses
Walking home in the sodium light
Saw two priests on the ferry
October geese on a cold winter’s night
And all this time
The river flowed
Endlessly,
To the sea.

Two priests came round
Our house tonight
One young, one old,
To offer prayers for the dying,
To serve the final rite
One to learn, one to teach
Which way the cold wind blows
Fussing and flapping in priestly black
Like a murder of crows

And all this time
The river flowed
Endlessly,
To the sea.

If I had my way
I’d take a boat from the river
And I’d bury the old man
I’d bury him at sea

Blessed are the poor
For they shall inherit the earth
One is better to be poor
Than a fat man in the eye of a needle
As these words were spoken
I swear I hear the old man laughing
What good is a used up world,
And how could it be worth having?

And all this time
The river flowed
Endlessly,
To the sea.

All this time
The river flowed
Father, if Jesus exists,
Then how come he never lived here?
Yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah

Teachers told us
The Romans built this place
They built a wall and a temple on the edge of the
Empire garrison town
They lived and they died
They prayed to their gods
But the stone gods did not make a sound
And their empire crumbled
Till all that was left
Were the stones the workmen found

And all this time the river flowed
In the falling light of a northern sun
If I had my way
I’d take a boat from the river
Men go crazy in congregations
They only get better one by one
One by one
One by one, by one
One by one

I looked out across
The river today
I saw a city in the fog
And an old church tower
Where the seagulls play
Saw the sad shire horses
Walking home in the sodium light
Two priests on the ferry
October geese on a cold winter’s night

Musica d’autunno – Autumn music

Amo pensarti la sera,
quando anche le porte degli armadi
smettono di correre inseguendo il giorno
e accolgono la liquida, tiepida dolcezza
dell’abbandono:
allora sciolgo in bocca le tue frasi ad una ad una
centellinando queste gocce di luce
danzanti sulla distesa salata dell’assenza
e parlo piano,
perché solo tu possa sentirmi, soltanto se lo vuoi.
Lo so che la pioggia non è mai d’argento
e neppure la luna, del resto,
che comunque, questa sera non si vede.
Non c’è niente, qui, che ti appartiene
se non questa mia anima un po’ sgualcita e lisa,
consumata dal troppo camminare a piedi nudi
sugli orli della distanza tra la terra e il cielo.

Amo pensarti di giorno,
in questo vortice in temporaneo movimento
che di cerchio in cerchio si avvicina al centro del tuo nome.
Tra orologi che tradiscono le mie partenze,
sempre in anticipo o in ritardo per il treno verso altrove,
tu sei il mio tempo giusto
e vivo senza risparmio entrambe le mie vite.
Non mi serve, forse questo amore,
non è che musica d’autunno, melodia di coriandoli
che sposta il mio cuore senza pentagramma,
un ghirigoro scarabocchiato con maestria
sul lineare andamento delle mie domande.
Ma l’utilità, del resto, mi serve ancora meno:
l’inutile ha imparato la preziosa arte
di non aver altro scopo che se stesso,
lo stesso senso di queste curiose sfere
gettate in ordine sparso nello spazio.

Dio se è difficile credere all’ignoto,
già è combattuta la mia fede
nelle cose che ho davanti agli occhi.
Chissà se gli angeli ridono davvero, adesso;
il paradiso, in fondo, è saper reggere al dolore,
perché sai cosa credo? Che senza dolore non si ride
– e nessuno più di te sa quel che dico.
Forse non ho quello che cerchi
ma so camminare sul ciglio dei burroni
reggendomi in equilibrio precario sulle mani
per non avere punti fermi, ma libertà d’aria,
viaggi di falchi pellegrini senza passaporto,
il muover silenzioso di una foglia incerta,
il miele scuro dei castagni, il sale nelle vele,
vento di mare e questo istante di corallo,
una strada che prosegue ben oltre le colline
e per noi, tutto il tempo del mondo, ora.

I love to think of you in the evening,
when even the wardrobe doors
stop running after the day
and welcome the liquid, lukewarm sweetness
of abandon:
then I melt your sentences in my mouth, one by one
relishing these drops of light
that dance on the salty expanse of absence
and I speak low,
so that only you can hear me, only if you want to.
I know the rain is never silver
and neither is the moon, indeed,
which, moreover, cannot be seen tonight.
Nothing, here, belongs to you,
except for this creasy, run-down soul
worn out by all this walking barefoot
on the brinks of the distance between earth and sky.

I love to think of you during the day,
in this temporarily moving whirl
that circle by circle, comes to the centre of your name.
Among these clocks that betray my departures,
always late or early for the train to somewhere else,
you are my right time
and I openheartedly live both my lives.
This love is useless to me, perhaps,
It’s nothing but autumn music, a confetti melody
that displaces my hearth without a pentagram,
a scribble drawn in a masterly way
on the linear trend of my questions.
Yet I need usefulness even less:
Uselessness has learnt the precious art
of having no other aim but itself,
the same sense of these curious spheres
randomly thrown around the space.

God, isn’t it hard to believe in the unknown
my faith is uncertain already
when it comes to things that are before my eyes.
Could it be that angels are laughing now;
heaven, after all, is just withstanding the pain,
‘cause you know what I believe? That without pain, one cannot laugh,
– and nobody more than you will know what I’m saying.
I may not have what you’re looking for
but I can walk on the edge of ravines
standing in unstable balance on my hands
‘cause I don’t want no anchor, but the freedom of the air,
the travelling of peregrine falcons with no passport,
the silent moving of an uncertain leaf,
dark chestnut honey, salt in my sails,
sea wind and this coral instant,
a road that carries on, well beyond the hills
and for us, all the time in the world, now