I dedicate this poem to anti-vax doctors, brush-phobic painters, wrench-phobic plumbers, cement-phobic builders, flour-phobic bakers, broom-phobic sweepers, gun-phobic policemen, scissor-phobic hair-dressers, cleaver-phobic butchers….e chi più ne ha, più ne metta.
| Il Ponfo Fosco Maraini Il Ponfo non smorbilla e non varisce rosseggia e derma, rascia e poi s’acquatta e quando il savalente lo ghermisce esanto e matico, sovente schiatta. Rossolio è il ponfo e pieno di liquello sbercia imbolloso, luspo, mai dermiente, e in compagnia sgraffendo questo e quello, sbrucia e sbrucia con grattico furente. Eppure il vecchio ponfo scarlattino che papuloso invéscica prudello, se istaminchiando scurtichi eczemìno t’abbandona, ti tira lo sgramello crostico, e nello spazio d’un mattino resti sperduta in fondo al varicello.. | The boil Fosco Maraini The Boil doesn’t smeasle and it doesn’t beal it pinkles and dermas, it brashes then squats and when it’s seized by the ointmeal exanthick and matick, it often splats. Rubellous is the boil and full of liquidness it pumfs blisterful, vigalant, never dermant, and at once bescratching that and this, it spurns and spurns gratingly ardent. And yet the old boil so scarletty which papulous everashing titches, if histaminously cherubbed excemally it abandons you, it pulls your crustous scabbicle, and in one sole morning you’re lost beneath a sea of poxes. Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2022 |
This is dedicated to the Italian government, which wishes to reintegrate the no-vax doctors after over two years of death, lock-downs and overall emotional distress.
Cheers. May we “tiche” and “bescratch” be lost among a sea of poxes.
parallel texts: words reflected 