Monthly Archives: February 2015

Pavane (translation of my poem for the French gypsies, in La Revue Des Ondes)


Link to the French translation by Marie Moore of my poem Pavane, a poem inspired by the cause of the gypsies in France. Thanks to the translator and editors of La Revue Des Ondes.

La revue des ondes

Arturo Desimone

Une gitane est allongée près d’une fontaine
(dans son esprit) une balle entre les dents

et une balle dans chaque pli de sa robe.
Le ciel est vide de vautours
mais plein de France.
Des mains noires font tourner l’horloge qui rassure
les passants
de l’appartement au bureau
par les mornes parkings
ils arriveront à l’heure à leur travail
insensibles aux prières des mendiantes
à leurs jupons de sarabande
aux jeunes garçons qui dansent.
C’est l’heure de la messe, la vigne est abondante
mais personne n’est caché sous la treille.
Le pays, une pomme acide, coupée en deux
avec dedans un ver blanc
et un mille-pattes beaucoup plus sombre
chacun défends ses droits pour ne pas être dévoré
deux moitiés, l’une scrutant l’autre férocement
Dans ce pays à odeur de savon
sculpté dans la graisse d’un cygne borgne
on vote à couteaux tirés, c’est devenu sport de combat

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Selected Nudes Volume 1: Drawings by Arturo Desimone. //Book for sale on Blurb or Al-mammon.zom Sell sell, sell like their ain’t no hell


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The Fly and the Lute


The Soeur-chatter swarms in my head. I have gone
I have left
I have been slid down the cords, the ridges of metal, the levers broke
under my back. I am the playful, decadent fly
circumferes swoops under and over the cords of the varnished wooden lute. The unvarnished lute means nothing, it is a bird-house
played by a monk.
I am the fly whose 6 ankles are trapped in the varnish
the lusterlacquer of the lute
that shakes the oranges, still bluegreen, tiny fists, timid, invisible.
I have fallen from the whiskered mouth,
from the grease-crowned head of the player,
I have missed the gaping hole of the cedar
that represents the hole in a woman’s back
through it I once had stuck my murk-head
with more eyes than Argos constable
of the cow stable. (Eyes of blue-red-green clarity, like stable windows
without cumbersome glass, through which bats and death can enter
without breaking traffic laws of the private.)
I have not found the fruit-sugar of my pilgrimage,
I have died before the end of the concert,
drowned in the varnish and not
in blood swirling,
not in the flames
where the lute will find its end like all rails that guide the locomotives
of sliding hands and of selves and of volition intelligently orchestrated.

For the lute must not outlive its player, unless to be held an kissed by his talented orphans
born of the holes in women’s backs, longing for the iron laws of their iron pansy-liver’ed, warrior-lutist fathers.

and the honey cleaned with fire of the flies’ feet,
sugar-toed. 

 

 

–Arturo Desimone

Buenos  Aires 2014

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