POESIE VALGUARNERESI

VIAGGIO IN SICILIA
                                       Agavi folli d’arsura
                                       pungono l’aria pesante
                                       su coste dirute.
                                       Strade interminabili avvolgono
                                       brulle colline
                                       sotto un cielo di solitudini.
                                       Nella stoppia riarsa
                                       chiocciole secche di sole
                                       biancheggiano alla canicola.
                                       Finalmente sorge il paese
                                       grigio di pietre.
                                       Muli infingardi scalciano
                                       il torpore di scirocco
                                       Uomini dagli avidi sguardi di califfi
                                       consumano pietre sconnesse
                                       da millenni di resa, con intima
                                       angoscia fatta di noia.
Valguarnera, agosto 1969
                                     
(da “Il viaggio Verticale”, 2001)                
      
A NONNO LUIGI
                                         Ero giovane allora, quando
                                         ti vidi su pietre già consunte
                                         d’una afosa via. Seduto in cerchio,
                                         al viola del tramonto, sgranavi 
                                         il giorno coi soliti compagni
                                         ricchi sol d’anni e di saggezza antica.
                                         Mi abbracciasti felice,
                                         poiché novella sposa
                                         venuta di lontano a perpetuare 
                                         schietta la stirpe. Tu cogliesti per me
                                         mandorle acerbe, fresche
                                         di mallo intatte come gemme,
                                         e rubri fichi d’India cresciuti a caso fra la magra terra.
                                         Le acute spine del carnoso frutto
                                         togliesti netto, quasi a voler 
                                         fugare dolori e rovi dalla vita mia.
                                         Là dove morde il suono il marranzano,
                                         riposi in pace e resti vivo
                                         negli occhi di noi figli e nei pensieri.
                                           
Valguarnera, agosto 1976    

(da “Il mio terreno limite, 1984)
     
                                                 

VITA DI PASTORE
                                    
                                           Agra è la vita del pastore,
                                           che costeggia cupo
                                           fra crepacci e dirupi,
                                           il torrente dalla voce fragorosa.
                                           E nei giorni squillanti, sereni
                                           come un dio preistorico
                                           rintuzza il fuoco
                                           intorno alla caldaia
                                           e il caldo siero fumante
                                           con mestoli di legno, accaglia.
 
                                           Si spande sul vestito irsuto
                                           di lana, l’afrore del vino nuovo
                                           che arroventa la gola.
                                           E d’un fiato rapprende
                                           la mestizia dell’amata lontana,
                                           la nenia arcana del piffero.
                                           E nel deserto greve
                                           della rada sterpaglia
                                           rapido intaglia
                                           sulla conocchia della sposa,
                                           la fiera solitudine.
Valguarnera, s.d.
(da “I giorni del desiderio” 1988)
                                                 
GRANITA DI CAFFÉ
                                             Tornano gli emigranti
                                             nel natio paese
                                             con macchine spocchiose
                                             sempre più grandi.
                                             Giusta rivalsa d’atavica
                                             miseria che attanagliò

                                             la cruda giovinezza.
                                                   
                                             Tornano a risentire
                                             usuali sapori dell’infanzia,
                                             pane caldo di forno
                                             sapide olive, cremolate
                                             e granite di caffè.
                                                     
                                             Poi nelle afose notti,
                                             profumate di menta 
                                             e gelsomino, lanciano
                                             lunghi sguardi alle ragazze
                                             E passeggiano insonni
                                             voluttuosi e spavaldi, 
                                             confessando insanabili
                                             amori alla luna d’agosto.
Valguarnera, agosto 1973
(da “L’amore imperfetto” 2003)

GRANITA DI CAFFÉ (traduzione inglese)
                                              They come back, in the end,
                                               in their shiny cars
                                               bigger and bigger ones, down the years
                                               to the small town they left behind
                                               turning the tables fair enough
                                               on the ancestral privations
                                               that stunted their raw youth.
                                               They come back, to regain
                                                the taste and smell of then
                                                bread warm from the oven,
                                                salt-sharp olives, cremolate,
                                                granita di caffè.
                                                                 
                                                Then, in the thick, not night
                                                 full of the scent
                                                 of jasmine and wild mint
                                                 they eye the girls, intent
                                                              
                                                 and walk, insomniac,
                                                 cocksure, self-pleased,
                                                 uttering their unappeased
                                                 longings to the august moon.
                                                   
Valguarnera, august 1973