Carino Bucciarelli

Carino Bucciarelli Poems

Carino Bucciarelli Biography

Born In Belgium, French speaking)

The Best Poem Of Carino Bucciarelli

Four Poems Translated By Alan Farrell

1
So now nothing more exists
and there is no time
in the lining of our coats
to jingle against the loose change
the mountains
have cracked open like eggs
and the world is out of breath

with narrowed eyes
those men and women
stared at one another
before putting out the lamps
to make everything new again
and how many tête-à-têtes
around their table
with their family
laughing out of innocence
as if to make believe no one knew
though everyone was waiting

2
Time got lost beneath a chapel's vault
at the beginning of the century
and the church where I am writing has gone back to low ceilings
the better to fleece that little old lady
and get at her precious pocketbook
I had spread the news that there is no space
I know how many impostures I have committed
by writing my poems
they had beaten my legs for it
I hold no grudge but my knees remember
the world had to pay for its eternity

3
During Septembre in hotel rooms in all the capital cities
couples are talking about the famine which has struck
the man speaks first and longest
he spills water next to his glass
it's two in the morning and the fatigue is in the air

in Brussels an eight-year-old child has been teasing his dog
it was in the paper this morning
but no one thinks about it anymore at bedtime
(and sleep that never comes)

evening has fallen once again
even the neighbors have pulled their shades
turned off the television
out in the street a wino has started to howl
and somme little old lady has called the police

4
I am going to find out who you remind me of
my old amnesia
tucked in the coal stove

the fairest of the trees shot through with black
frost all along the sidewalks of the great cities
all our arteries all our veins
have something to say

it's not enough to wait for you seven long hours
pacing up and down the floor at the station
they tell me that you are sleeping on a bed of thorns
three thousand kilometers from there

the cities are too lovely for the two of us
we know each other
without ever having seen one another
all because a photo blew out of a train
one gray evening in old Europe
passing through some nameless village

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