by James Koller

We did all this before.

                     “Every time we saw him,” she recalled,
                            “he was with a pregnant woman
                                                              of that same age.”

Once upon a time.

                   “Come again,” she drawled.

                        “I’ll do my best.”

Early morning on the high plains.
Dry cottonwoods shiver in the warm wind.

The rising sun North of East. My road
                                                        South of the sun.

But the road turns Northeast.

                     He tells me,

                               “She’s too much alone.”

            The sun directly in front of me.

                               “Not a good time to be away.”

He said those very words, then
introduced me to that skinny Greek.

                                 “She didn’t look skinny to me.”

                                 “She don’t have that old time figure.”

                                 “That what you mean by skinny?”

                                 “Maybe the sun was in my eyes.”

                                               We all try
                                            to be articulate.

                                     She did have a way about her.

Bell shaped flowers
                                   move in the wind.

It’s the wind. Primes the pump.

               Hey diddle diddle. We keep
                                                                    circling
           back.

                                 “O Mama, can this be the end?”

We do what we do best.

                                      “Make babies?”

The cows still on their knees.

Sometimes things don’t work out.

A woman of the same age.

                                     “Getting wild,” he said.

“Are we done with all this?”

“Yah, we have talked about everything.”

“Twice.”

by Franco Beltrametti
     translated by Stefan Hyner

I
Five homes in six months
When I was living at the Bellevue
In Fall
Streetcars and hurried masses
Crossed my footpath to work
In the morning

II
When I was living at Weiten Gasse
The old man who repaired
Used typewriters
And the Venician who restored
Fake antique Furniture from Appenzell
for the Romanian dealer named Gesi
Crossed my footpath to work
In the morning

III
When I was living
In Dielsdorf in Winter
Next to the big disued quarry
Birds squarrels deer
Crossed my footpath to work
in the morning
And the stationmaster
Of the tiny station
Dreamt about future progress
A loutspeaker:
On platform 73 departs
the express train for Vienna and
The Orient Express is just arriving
Platform 21
Local train
To Solduno
Platform 27 closed under construction
For station extension
I took the train from Platform 1
And on Platform 2
Taciturn farmers used shovels
To fill freight cars full of apples
In icy wind and snow
When I was living behind Mythenquai
(Return! to the city!)
At the lake
Old Ladies clad in black
Dragged along by small nervous dogs:
Managers
of insurance companies
Who looked at me
Full of wickedness
Crossed my footpath to work
In the morning

IV
When I was living at 12 Oberdorfstreet
In spring
Beer delivery men
Baker printer
Girls
     Italian
          Greek
               Spanish
Just done with work
On the floors of the bars
Eyes like black and green olives
Hurrying home
Crossed my footpath to work
In the morning

V
One month later, end of April, I crossed the mountains again
In southern direction.

by Franco Beltrametti
     translated by Stefan Hyner

Dear Raffaello, the war had started
the Roman legions sowed
the counter revolution in Etruscia.
From the hills
above San Vincenzo
(entrenched behind the friendly shoulders of Volteras)
one looks out
for pirates on the sea. Plays chess
and already then the kept me imprisoned
the queen
          in one corner
          chained to a knight
          in range of a pawn
Outside Settimo was smoking
under a olive tree
leaned against a small tractor
prepared for cultivation.
          When
a box car came up between cypress trees
one got out said: Comrades
the house is confiscated.
f…..bastard
you said
now that I’m winning
this swine’s saving your queen
— admit it — she is pressed rather hard
in that bolted corner
by the knight, the pawn and
by your mistake.
— Je regrette — the former one said
beaucoup. Shortly the commissioner
          will arrive
          he doesn’t like
          (between you and me)
          he doesn’t like
chess, this occidental game
for urbanities —
My friends
said the Chinese commissioner,
I only come to see
Korsika from the balcony
and the white Tunis along the sea
no reason to worry.
This confiscation
is a habit
of the revolution the house
is allocated to you for life.
And finally, o sculptor
one more notification:
You are nominated
as commissioner of the arts
for Toscany, Tibet and Oregon
later sometime
when you feel like it
you create a monument
for the origin of Yin and Yang
the great sacrament
for a square in Peking.
For you architect
some work also: homes
for the miners and combatants
of Colonnata
and in the pine forest
a shop for salt, olives,
wine and cheap cigarettes.
But first
we must with all means
convince the Romans that
what they are craving for
is an illusion.

by Franco Beltrametti
     translated by Stefan Hyner

In Tanger
on the highest terrace
one drinks green tea and smokes
by sunlight
in harsh white.
In the basement
there’s shade and coolness.
There one throws oneself
between pillows and blankets
sleeps
waiting for the evening