De Engelse dichter en schrijver Mario Petrucci werd geboren op 29 november 1958 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Mario Petrucci op dit blog.
A half hour after
you leave some al-
most thing starts : your
mattress impression stops
holding its breath – begins
to relax & swivel-chair
where you tackled
laces adopts that
strained angle of the clerk
requiring confirmation – then
i see through softly shut door
a house of pointers : your
draped towel on its rail
& bone scissors left
half-open there as though
simple addition of water could
jerk them to life : not so strange
then that a house should re-
member you with each
pine surface & glass
ornament its own sextant
keen for your one star to float
these bricks by – to hoist white
rooms thinned to canvas
by your sea-smell & i
no less join them : this
richer matter becalmed yet
seeming your merest breeze
might cast me off
21st August, 1991
I mush together the garlic and the butter
for Kiev
for Kostroma too, and Novgorod;
slip wafers
of potato onto the rough tongue
of my grill. An onion
brings tears. Its layered histories
come clean: Russian-doll rings
that quoit and bangle over reels of drumsticks.
I call you at work. Mothers
are telegramming sons not to shoot, women
encircle the cold, grey bulk
of tanks, while the junta plays
Chinese whispers.
Tonight, then, we’ll eat well –
sip that jerepigo wine
till dusk. For now, I prepare what I can;
I watch, and listen,
through the frame of my window –
a radio mutters and school-children
are a chaff of colour blown about the distant yard
where in one corner settles
a tiny mandala of linked hands.
Mario Petrucci (Londen, 29 november 1958)