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Down by the Queanbeyan River
A river too is like a library, Its banks like storied shelves, Its memories written on water, And in the nearby land. The suspension bridge still bounces like it always did, And on each end the obelisks Painted brilliant white, Hold up the spiralled cables, Steeled taught across the gulf, Across the space between one world And that which is beyond. It looked old when I first saw it And it is, a dole project schemed for Depression Era men Raised up to replace an older bridge That floods had washed away, And before that stepping stones That linked Irishtown to To the Protestants and services That flourished on the…
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A Visit to the Queanbeyan Library
When I first visited the Queanbeyan Library, it was housed in the old council chambers. After that, it moved from place to place, and is now housed in a multistorey plexiglass building. The earliest memory I have of the library is borrowing a picture book version of the story of Ulysses. It was illustrated with beautiful coloured illustrations of the characters and the stories. I had spotted it behind the glass counter on the return desk and the librarian kindly processed it, with the old fashioned ink stamps then used, so that I could borrow it. La prima volta che sono andato alla Biblioteca di Queanbeyan, era ospitata nelle vecchie…
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Bagpipes over the Arboretum drift up to the hill
This poem was inspired by a visit to Canberra’s arboretum. It is a beautiful gift to the city by visionary leaders who rather than opening up the land for development, wanted to create a public park open to all Canberrans and an arboretum, which then city then did not have. These forests, like almost all the people of Canberra, come from far away. Many are species that are endangered in the homelands. On any fine Canberra weekend the arboretum fills with walkers and families enjoying the beautiful scene. Autumn is particularly special as many of the individual forests put on their autumn colours. However this poem is not just a…
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Desdemona’s Tears rain down for another than she
In recent times, I have been working both on translating May Ziadeh’s poetry and publication of Cinthio’s Desdemona: The Story that Inspired Othello. With both their stories on my mind, I thought to write the poem below. In this poem, I follow Cinthio’s version of Desdemona’s story, rather than Shakespeare. The figure of Scheherazad appeared in my commentary for Cinthio’s Desdemona. The reference to Cassandra honours May Ziadeh’s own poetry, which itself draws on ancient Greek mythology. I have published translations of three of May’s poems: Eyes, the Child and I, and Where is My Country? Desdemona’s Tears [In memory of May Ziadeh] My tears are not for me, I…
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May Zaideh’s poignant country lost and found
Of the many cruelties of colonialism, one of the worst was the dissection of colonial possessions as colonialism came to an end. That dissection left lasting wounds which are yet to heal in many parts of the world and the lines drawn on maps in the interests of in faraway capitals still plagues the destiny of millions. May Ziadeh’s life was marked by that kind of history; that kind of geography. This article is dedicated to her poem “Where is My Country?” (عين وطني) published in her collection Shadows and Light (ظلمات وأشعة). The poem is presented below in its original Arabic, with my English translation. May Ziadeh was born…
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Echoes of Other Tongues
The poem below plays with language and voice. Recently I have been publishing poems in bilingual form: an original accompanied by a translation (English-Italian or English-Arabic). My poem below experiments with blending language and meaning into a single whole. La seguente poesia gioca con la voce e con la lingua. Di recente ho pubblicato poesie bilingue: un originale con una traduzione (inglese-italiano o inglese-arabo). Questa poesia prova a fondere due lingue e significati in un singolo insieme. In Andalusia, when Arabic was still the language of government and literature, writers did not confine themselves to one language, but could mix Romance and Arabic or Hebrew together. Muwashah poetry (a particular…
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Japanese Breakfast is a Special Treat
Japanese Breakfast is a Special Treat La Prima Colazione Giapponese è un piacere speciale A quiet Kyoto neighbourhood, The scene of an act of love for visiting family, Time out to prepare steaming rice and miso. Un rione quieto di Kyoto, Scena di un atto d’amore per la famiglia arrivata da lontano, Una pausa per fare il riso e il miso fumante. The carefully crafted egg roll, Accompanied by grilled smoked fish, Sweet and salt in harmony. L’involtino primavera artigianato con cura Servito con pesce affumicato alla griglia Dolce e salato in armonia Pickled vegetables and natto laid out just so, Each with its own bowl or dish … Sottaceti…
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Hate speech
Hate Speech Discorso d’odio A sly joke in 8chan Lighten up, just harmless trolling … Before you get down to tin tacks, And take the knuckledusters for an outing But the problem ain’t just that … Una battuta furbesca su 8chan Resta calmo, solo trolling innocente … Prima che arrivi al sodo, E ti porti i tirapugni per una passeggiata Ma il problema non è solo questo … Hate, Well it’s on the hustings, Flag draped proud Around its shoulders. And on nightly news its number two. L’odio Beh è nella campagna elettorale Bandiera avvolta fieramente Sulle spalle E sul telegiornale, è la seconda notizia. Hate’s lurking in the bomb…
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The atomic bomb never defined Nagasaki
This poem doesn’t need explanation, at least if you have visited Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Outside Japan you may only know these names because of the atomic bomb. This single reductive moment does not define Nagasaki, nor Hiroshima. Nagasaki is not the bomb Nagasaki non è la bomba Nagasaki is not the bomb, not future nullified No present, obliterated past. Nagasaki non è la bomba Senza presente, passato svanito. Not the mere shadowed imprint Of a flash of falling fire Not just the runner up In Hiroshima’s winning race. Non solo stampa di ombra Del bagliore del fuoco fatale Non solo secondo premio Dopo Hiroshima, la prima. Hiroshima, where one brilliant…
