We Christianized barbarians,
more alone than ever
in the world’s regard,
no longer have
the Ptolemies or the Basileuses
to explain us to others,
nor do we have other converted Goths
to hoist the two-sided blade
in our name.
We are alone,
without any remedy.
Searching the desert
that forewarns us of the lions,
we see everywhere
mirages of wild
beasts,
naked martyrs
forever in the center of the circus ring.
Antioch fell,
also Carthage and Byzantium,
the lighthouse of Alexandria,
the towers of Damascus,
the Twin Towers;
all the towers have fallen.
And while Vienna resists,
Lisbon is exhausted.
The blood rises up again
against the current
of the Tagus and the Guadalquivir.
Still stammering
from the revelation,
we cut our braids
to circle the seas
with Magellan.
Few of us returned
and few of us have remained
—a stunned handful
in Vancouver, in Brasilia,
in Riga, in La Valletta—
too few foot soldiers
for too many
unguarded gates.
From the passes of Friuli,
from the border crossings of the Pyrenees,
from the warmest waters,
the world approaches us
and surrounds us
in a circle of fire.
Firmly squeezed,
we burst away toward the heavens:
Apollo, Voyager,
Soyuz, Mir,
spouting into the ether,
new mirages
in new deserts.
(When the Justinian
empire fell,
we did the same:
We embarked
into the darkened sea.
But then
there were the Indies.)
Our eyes,
by the hundreds,
circle the planet.
They see everything
but understand little.
Would we want to eradicate
the frenzied preaching
with atomic strikes,
to remain alone,
talking
among the broken columns?
It’s not the nails that kill
during crucifixions.
It is only the weight
of the man crucified
that stops his breath.
At least this
we should have understood
seeing the crosses
on the hill.
But we barbarians
are like children.
We have no recollection
of the sacrifices.
We have no memory
of anything.
We don’t ourselves know
who we are.
We have not been given
centuries to learn it.
***
NOI BARBARI CRISTIANIZZATI
Noi barbari cristianizzati,
più che mai soli
sotto lo sguardo del mondo,
non abbiamo più
i tolomei né i basilei
per spiegarci agli altri,
né abbiamo altri goti convertiti
per impugnare il gladio
in nome nostro.
Siamo soli,
senza rimedio.
Scrutando il deserto
che preannuncia i leoni
vediamo dappertutto
i miraggi delle belve
inferocite,
martiri nudi
per sempre in mezzo al circo.
Sono cadute Antiochia,
Cartagine e Bisanzio,
il faro di Alessandria,
le torri di Damasco,
le torri gemelle,
sono cadute tutte le torri.
E mentre Vienna resiste,
Lisbona è stremata.
Il sangue risale,
controcorrente,
il Tago e il Guadalquivir.
Ancora balbuzienti
dalla rivelazione
abbiamo tagliato le trecce
per fare il giro dei mari
con Magellano.
Siamo tornati in pochi
e in pochi siamo rimasti
—una manciata stupita
a Vancouver, a Brasília,
a Riga, a La Valletta—
troppo pochi fanti
per troppe porte
incustodite.
Dai passi del Friuli,
dai valichi dei Pirenei,
dalle acque più calde
il mondo ci si avvicina
e ci stringe
in un circolo di fuoco.
Stretti, spremuti,
scoppiamo verso l’alto:
Apollo, Voyager,
Soyuz, Mir,
zampilli nell’etere,
nuovi miraggi
su deserti nuovi.
(Quando cadde
l’impero dei Giustiniani
abbiamo fatto lo stesso:
ci siamo avventurati
nel mare tenebroso.
Ma allora
c’erano le Indie).
I nostri occhi,
a centinaia,
girano intorno al pianeta.
Vedono tutto,
ma capiscono poco.
Vorremmo cancellare
le prediche esagitate
a colpi di atomica
per restarci soli
a parlare
tra le colonne mozzate?
Non sono i chiodi a uccidere
nelle crocifissioni.
È solo il peso
dell’uomo crocifisso
a bloccargli il respiro.
Almeno questo
avremmo dovuto capire
guardando le croci
sul monte.
Ma noi barbari
siamo come i bambini.
Non abbiamo ricordi
dei sacrifici.
Non abbiamo memoria
di niente.
Non sappiamo chi siamo
noi stessi.
Non ci sono stati concessi
i secoli per impararlo.
Please note: This poem is from the final poetry collection of Julio Monteiro
Martins, La grazia di casa mia, published in 2013 by Rediviva Edizioni
(Milan). Martins (1955–2014) was born in Niterói, Brazil, but lived for
many years in Italy. He was a prominent teacher, publisher and writer
of essays, stories, theater works and poetry. In his home country he
had worked as a lawyer for human rights and environmental causes; in
Italy he was director of the online journal Sagarana. Almost none of his
work has been published in English.
The translators: Donald Stang is a longtime student of Italian. His
translations of Italian poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in
Carrying the Branch, by Glass Lyre Press, Silk Road, Pirene’s Fountain,
Mantis, Newfound, Catamaran, Ghost Town, Blackbird, Apple Valley Review,
Apricity Magazine, America, We Call Your Name: Poems of Resistance and
Resilience by Sixteen Rivers Press, and thedreamingmachine.com. Helen
Wickes’ work appears in AGNI Online, Atlanta Review, Boulevard,
Massachusetts Review, Slag Review, Sagarana, Soundings East, South
Dakota Review, Spillway, TriQuarterly, Westview, Willow Review, ZYZZYVA,
thedreamingmachine.com (poems and translations of Italian poetry), as
well as many others. Four books of her poetry have been published.