Ira Sadoff

Ira Sadoff, True Faith. Sei poesie e una nota.

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Ira Sadoff, True Faith. Sei poesie e una nota. Traduzione di Angela D’Ambra





If the sun and moon should doubt
They’d  immediately go out

                                    – William Blake










I cannot fawn
Dear Lord – oh I see
You tinker

With temperatures,
Bringing loves
For some to bury.

My friends
The diasporas
Shake a few fists

At your favoured clouds
About to storm.
I won’t deny

Parishioners’ joys
With faces both
Coming and going.

I too want a bliss
Like theirs:
Blankened or beautied.







How did Yahweh
Become a still
Small voice and not
A thunderclap?

In moments
Of transition, the gods
Depart: to translate
Into scripture,

There is none like you
Among the gods,
O Lord, so the Agape
Must search out

The vacated houses,
Although the word
Agapeh once implied
A genuine affection

And deep love
Of the goddess,
Of goodness
We misheard.



Objectively, in Church



The house
Is rocking: blues
Waves a hand
Above the head
And the fingers
Wiggle like
Signifiers. I like
Singing to no one
Just like this



A Mighty Fortress



A mighty fortress
I’m not, Dear god.
I’m just a flimsy
Little number, hanging
From Bond Street
In 1908; I can’t
Afford to live
In a kingdom
I’d call a tenement.
I can’t behold
The works
Of desolation
Wrought by no one
In particular
But daily
Abrade my sisters
Who take
In laundry. So
Individual they are,
You might miss them
In the next
Lightning  storm






What did you think
Of yourself? Stricken,
A Once Favored Nation,
A former savior,
A little Satchmo,
Decrepit and diseased
But still breathing
Hard? 1971: “What
A Wonderful World”:
Mount Etna
Erupts, Attica erupts,
The end of the War
Bubbles up, end
Of Empire’s on edge,
The country dodders
Over its millionaires.
Light my cigarette
With your sawbucks,
Big Daddy, then
Warm yourself
A little number
By the Hot Five
Over an oil drum
With two-by-fours.




The War



Is a holy war.
Scratch your ass
Then get in
The death box:

Say your prayers
In the next
Wife you’ll harbour
Resentments –

Out of habit
The kill word
Will cross your lips,
A memorandum
Pointed at a person.


[1] Prime sei poesie della sezione Maybe





If the sun and moon should not doubt
They’d  immediately go out

                                    – William Blake










Non so blandire
Mio Dio – oh lo vedo
Tu armeggi

Con temperature,
Causando amori
Che qualcuno inuma.

I miei amici
Le diaspore
Agitano qualche pugno

Contro le tue nubi dilette
Lì lì per tuonare
Non starò a negare

Gioie da parrocchiani
Con facce che
Vanno e vengono

Voglio anch’io un gaudio
Come il loro:
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