ERMANNO SPERA

 

His Time

 

I have seen you beat the leaves of an olive tree

rip the skin of a rabbit with your bare hands

place your weapon on the trunk of an oak tree

eat the gall pulled out of a warm body

read books upon books, your house is full of them

perhaps more than the cartridges of your rifle

scattered everywhere, even on your bed

I saw one of your paintings that brought back a primitive image

like those found in the caves inhabited by the first men

you carry in the verse the rawness of life

with the same intensity

as when a soul is torn from a lifeless body

I disappeared

buried even when I then understood

how much wisdom there is in those who listen to the moon

so that the harvest is abundant

rather than in those who look at the moon

chasing their own fantasies

indulging in meaningless turns of phrase

revolving around questions that will never be answered

you keep pouring oil without wasting a drop

my words have been carried away by the wind

we have travelled through turnip fields

I have lost myself once again

you again to remind me that everything has its time

 

IL SUO TEMPO

 

ti ho visto percuotere le foglie di un ulivo

strappare la pelle di un coniglio a mani nude

posare l’arma sul tronco di una quercia

mangiare il fiele tirato fuori da un corpo caldo

leggere libri su libri, la tua casa ne è piena

forse più delle cartucce del tuo fucile

sparse ovunque, persino sul tuo letto

ho visto un tuo dipinto che riportava a un immagine primitiva

come quelle ritrovate nelle grotte abitate dai primi uomini

porti nel verso la crudezza della vita

con la stessa intensità

di quando un’anima viene strappata da un corpo esanime

sono scomparso

sotterrato persino quando poi ho capito

quanta saggezza c’è in chi ascolta la luna

affinché il raccolto sia abbondante

piuttosto che in chi osserva la luna rincorrendo le proprie fantasie

abbandonandosi a giri di parole senza senso

girando attorno a domande che non avranno mai risposte

continui a versare olio senza sprecare una goccia

le mie parole sono state portate via dal vento

abbiamo percorso campi di rape

mi sono perso dentro me stesso un’altra volta

tu ancora a ricordarmi che ogni cosa ha il suo tempo

 

A Buried Voice

 

-        don’t make your skin an ornament-

said a man whose body is now dull

a man who had lived through so many cloths

not to be his

but they were

a man not destined for great things

a small man with wrinkled skin

he began each day as if it were over

a life of filling a basket and finding it full of holes

he did not satiate his hunger

he walked a path

where though the primroses were in bloom

he did not see them

he is gone

yes he is gone

one day a cloud called by the wind

wrapped his flame

forever he expired at that moment

-        don’t make your skin an ornament-

 

UNA VOCE SEPOLTA

 

- non fate della vostra pelle un ornamento-

lo disse un uomo il cui corpo è ora spento

un uomo ad aver vissuto tanti panni

a non essere suoi

ma lo sono stati

un uomo non destinato a grandi cose

un uomo piccolo con la pelle aggrinzita

iniziava ogni giorno come fosse finita

una vita a riempire un paniere ritrovandolo bucato

non saziava la sua fame

percorreva un sentiero

dove seppur le primule erano in fiore

non le scorgeva

se ne è andato

sì se ne è andato

un dì una nuvola chiamata dal vento

avvolse per sempre la sua fiamma

spirò in quel momento

- Non fate della vostra pelle un ornamento-

 

ERMANNO SPERA

 

ERMANNO SPERA, was born in Rome (Italy) on 11 March 1967, where he lives. He is a writer, poet and painter. He has participated in various poetry competitions and his poems have been included in national and international literary anthologies. Philosophical concepts, metaphorical expressions and a great lyrical ability are highlighted in his poems. He knows how to juxtapose with skilful stylistic ability images and landscapes of the soul and strong conceptual intuitions. Ermanno Spera’s poems are a treasure trove of ideas, inventions, hidden adventures where the poetic and artistic spirit of the author is compressed and expressed. In his works, the concept of troubled humanity almost always manifests itself even if the poet tends to hide and mask reality, making it become joyful and peaceful as his soul thirsting for peace and justice desires. Sometimes his poetry becomes hermetic and enigmatic. Many metaphors, visions and how much thought his mind releases which does not rack his brain over memory, but always tries to pave the way for new paths of the spirit.