Well, that was fun! The Cultural Center Foundation of the St. Stephen's School was the setting for a very nice reading by Mark Strand. Reprising my role as reading-hostess-lady, I had the pleasure of introducing; then Mark and Damiano read, in English first, followed by Damiano's Italian translations.
During the reading, I was standing over by the book table, looking out at the audience. It was wonderful to see, in addition to students, teachers, doctors, lawyers, and butchers, something like a Who's Who of contemporary Italian poets, writers, critics, and publishers. I had an irrational doom& gloom flash (I don't know, is it being Irish that puts these weird thoughts into my head?), similar to the one I had many years ago at the 92nd Street Y, when almost all of the poets who had each translated a Canto of the Inferno were in the same place at the same time: Please God don't let the ceiling fall in, what would we do for poetry?
In case you'd like a few reading suggestions to waltz with through the end of the weekend, the poems they read were:
The Whole Story
Orpheus Alone
The Idea
Fiction
The Next Time
I Have Been a Polar Explorer
Man and Camel
2002
Mirror
The End
Here is one of my favorites (and, as I thought it might be, a favorite of my student Chloe, who was acting as stalwart bookseller and excellent all-around assistant):
Mirror
A white room and a party going on
and I was standing with some friends
under a large gilt-framed mirror
that tilted slightly forward
over the fireplace.
We were drinking whiskey
and some of us, feeling no pain,
were trying to decide
what precise shade of yellow
the setting sun turned our drinks.
I closed my eyes briefly,
then looked up into the mirror:
a woman in a green dress leaned
against the far wall.
She seemed distracted,
the fingers of one hand
fidgeted with her necklace,
and she was staring into the mirror,
not at me, but past me, into a space
that might be filled by someone
yet to arrive, who at that moment
could be starting the journey
which would lead eventually to her.
Then, suddenly, my friends
said it was time to move on.
This was years ago,
and though I have forgotten
where we went and who we all were,
I still recall that moment of looking up
and seeing the woman stare past me
into a place I could only imagine,
and each time it is with a pang,
as if just then I were stepping
from the depths of the mirror
into that white room, breathless and eager,
only to discover too late
that she is not there.
and I was standing with some friends
under a large gilt-framed mirror
that tilted slightly forward
over the fireplace.
We were drinking whiskey
and some of us, feeling no pain,
were trying to decide
what precise shade of yellow
the setting sun turned our drinks.
I closed my eyes briefly,
then looked up into the mirror:
a woman in a green dress leaned
against the far wall.
She seemed distracted,
the fingers of one hand
fidgeted with her necklace,
and she was staring into the mirror,
not at me, but past me, into a space
that might be filled by someone
yet to arrive, who at that moment
could be starting the journey
which would lead eventually to her.
Then, suddenly, my friends
said it was time to move on.
This was years ago,
and though I have forgotten
where we went and who we all were,
I still recall that moment of looking up
and seeing the woman stare past me
into a place I could only imagine,
and each time it is with a pang,
as if just then I were stepping
from the depths of the mirror
into that white room, breathless and eager,
only to discover too late
that she is not there.
* * *
and here is what it looks like in Italian, as translated by Damiano:
Specchio
Un salone bianco nel vivo di una festa
e io stavo con amici
sotto un grande specchio dalla cornice dorata
leggermente inclinato in avanti
sopra al caminetto.
Bevevamo whisky
e alcuni tra noi, non provando dolore,
disquisivano
su quale fosse l’esatta sfumatura di giallo
che il sole cadente conferiva ai nostri bicchieri.
Chiusi gli occhi solo per un poco
poi alzai lo sguardo allo specchio:
una donna vestita di verde stava
appoggiata alla parete più lontana.
Pareva assente,
le dita di una mano
giocavano nervose con la collana,
e lei guardava fisso nello specchio
non me, ma oltre di me, uno spazio
che poteva essere colmato da qualcuno
che ancora doveva arrivare, che in quell’istante
forse iniziava il viaggio
che l’avrebbe condotto da lei.
Poi, d’improvviso, gli amici
dissero che era ora di muoversi.
Sono passati anni,
e anche se ho scordato
dove andammo e chi fossimo,
ricordo ancora l’istante in cui alzai lo sguardo
e vidi la donna guardare fisso oltre di me
un luogo che potevo solo immaginare
e ogni volta provo una pena acuta,
come se in quel momento uscissi
dalle profondità dello specchio
ed entrassi nel salone bianco, ansimante e ardente,
soltanto per scoprire troppo tardi
che lei lì non c’è.
Un salone bianco nel vivo di una festa
e io stavo con amici
sotto un grande specchio dalla cornice dorata
leggermente inclinato in avanti
sopra al caminetto.
Bevevamo whisky
e alcuni tra noi, non provando dolore,
disquisivano
su quale fosse l’esatta sfumatura di giallo
che il sole cadente conferiva ai nostri bicchieri.
Chiusi gli occhi solo per un poco
poi alzai lo sguardo allo specchio:
una donna vestita di verde stava
appoggiata alla parete più lontana.
Pareva assente,
le dita di una mano
giocavano nervose con la collana,
e lei guardava fisso nello specchio
non me, ma oltre di me, uno spazio
che poteva essere colmato da qualcuno
che ancora doveva arrivare, che in quell’istante
forse iniziava il viaggio
che l’avrebbe condotto da lei.
Poi, d’improvviso, gli amici
dissero che era ora di muoversi.
Sono passati anni,
e anche se ho scordato
dove andammo e chi fossimo,
ricordo ancora l’istante in cui alzai lo sguardo
e vidi la donna guardare fisso oltre di me
un luogo che potevo solo immaginare
e ogni volta provo una pena acuta,
come se in quel momento uscissi
dalle profondità dello specchio
ed entrassi nel salone bianco, ansimante e ardente,
soltanto per scoprire troppo tardi
che lei lì non c’è.
