Untitled

By GIAMPIERO NERI

 

Of the few walks we took together, my father and I, I recall well the one to the Torretta. Having loaded our backpacks with food, which consisted of bread and bresaola, we took off at a good clip.

The Torretta, a medieval tower probably for observation, was tumbledown then, and has now vanished.

Until the Forties it still stood atop one of the mountains soaring above the plain of Erba.

We were walking in silence, I was used to the silences of my father, who had lost the good habit of addressing me except to give orders.

That was a fairly common custom around us.

We finally arrived at the Torretta and right at its base took out our food.

My father cut the bread with a knife but, while slicing a lemon in half, deeply injured his fingertip.

He spoke a loud Ahi! and tried to make things nice and better. He attended a few minutes to his wound as the blood was exiting profusely but then, once the flow had ceased, we resumed eating.

After that unexpected interruption the silence came back. It would last til our return home.

 

Translated by Martha Cooley

 

In 2012, when Giampiero Neri’s latest poetry collection, Il professor Fumagalli e altre figure, was published, he received the Carducci Prize for lifetime achievement. 

[Purchase your copy of Issue 05 here]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Untitled

Related Posts

rebecca on a dock at sunset

Late Orison

REBECCA FOUST
You & I will grow old, Love, / we have grown old. But this last chance // in our late decades could be like the Pleiades, winter stars seen by / Sappho, Hesiod & Galileo & now by you & me. // Let us be boring like a hollow drill coring deep into the earth to find / its most secret mineral treasures.

Waiting for the Call I Am

WYATT TOWNLEY
Not the girl / after the party / waiting for boy wonder // Not the couple / after the test / awaiting word // Not the actor / after the callback / for the job that changes everything // Not the mother / on the floor / whose son has gone missing // I am the beloved / and you are the beloved

Sasha Burshteyn: Poems

SASHA BURSHTEYN
The slagheap dominates / the landscape. A new kurgan / for a new age. High grave, waste mound. / To think of life / among the mountains— / that clean, clear air— / and realize that you’ve been breathing / shit. Plant trees / around the spoil tip! Appreciate / the unnatural charm! Green fold, / gray pile.