Poems Translated and Introduced by Julia Pelosi- orpe

Translated from the Italian by julia pelosi-thorpe

Across the pages of her collection Comet (Ensemble, 2019), human bodies and natural bodies fuse. Especially vibrant are the parts of us that communicate and, in doing so, connect—“[s]ounds / and knots exist amongst throats wind / and mountains,” and “ elds of quivering light” are paired with “lips that tremble.” Our vocal organs and the sounds they generate are central to Comet, which explores individual and collective voice across communities and spaces. “Is the mouth enough for narration, / a piano’s keys?” asks the speaker of one poem. Another poem’s speaker compels the poem’s reader to communicate, to “[w]hisper me your / enthusiasm like surprise,” closing the circle with reciprocal speech acts.

Just as N’Djoku’s speakers both address and request address from their readers, we occupy a split existence opposite a poetic speaker (as “you”) and with a speaker (as “us”). In one elegy, we rejuvenate the soil from dual perspectives; implicated in the burial of a person, we are also the buried:

—chance, a strange word

for us throwing roses upon you as rain strengthens the earth.

Drawn inside the planet, we are a body that, once our life ends, continues to spawn life in the world. Here, the role of loss—loss of loved ones, of this earth, this cosmos—is key for renewal. We simultaneously give and lose. Simultaneously, we are alone in our bodies but connected to other bodies in a complex, multi-corporeal existence where “our resemblances / in eyelids and evergreens” reveal the likeness between our shape and plant shapes. rough observations like this, Comet’s speakers link us to rhythms beyond our perception, in which, as we resurrect ourselves, we fall further into nature. roughout these seven poems, human, earthly, and celestial bodies spiral in and out of intricate dances, joining and rejoining. ese are the bodies that depart, the bodies that arrive, and what lingers in the interim. An ever-reproducing (ever-dying) echo, we are ultimately left with the links,

the resemblances, the hum of so much metamorphosis, “the intensity of what remains.” As old and new life intertwine across the universe, N’Djoku’s elegies reckon with the threads of continuity spun by regenerating ux: “life doesn’t nish, / you’ll come home.”

From my very rst encounter with N’Djoku’s verse—in an anthology of poems responding to the pandemic (Dal sottovuoto: poesie assetate d’aria, Samuele Editore, April 2020)—I was enchanted. In interpreting Comet’s beautiful, elusive rhythm, I hope to match N’Djoku’s movements as closely as I can while accepting their ultimate untranslatability. It never ceases to inspire me to watch my English reach a place of such elegance through correspondence with N’Djoku’s words.

—Julia Pelosi- orpe

is wasn’t what I meant —a chance to meet again— I preferred metaphor. Instead you’re here fallen before me—chance, a strange word

for us throwing roses upon you as rain strengthens the earth. Non era questo che intendevo —occasione per rivedersi— preferivo le metafore. E invece ci sei caduto davanti—occasione, che strana parola

per noi che ti gettiamo rose addosso mentre la pioggia rinsalda la terra.

Love is exiting the burrow catching in the act love a nosing for the right moment. Amore è uscire dalla tana cogliere sul fatto amore uto del momento adatto.

e sky does not explain the winter nights the line that strokes mountain spines the glimmer of dusk kisses.

is night so blue has sounds of steps a Christmas wait. Non si spiega il cielo delle notti d’inverno la linea che s ora la schiena alle montagne il chiarore dei baci alle ombre.

Questa notte così azzurra ha il rumore dei passi l’attesa del Natale.

But hands taste all the tang of stars have memories of meteorites of the most luminous slipstreams and sounds.

Whisper me your enthusiasm like surprise. Ma le mani sentono tutto il sapore degli astri hanno ricordi di meteoriti di scie luminosissime e suoni.

Sussurrami tu l’entusiasmo come sorpresa.

Now you too can hear what crickets narrate rubbing forewings, distanced between second and pointer. Is the mouth enough for narration, a piano’s keys? Only tendons know mystery it’s an echo. Ora puoi sentire anche tu ciò che raccontano i grilli sfregando le ali anteriori, a distanza tra secondo e lancetta. Basta la bocca a raccontare, i tasti di un piano? Solo i tendini conoscono il mistero è una eco.

I’d found it simple covering same corridors each day sitting bedside

I’d put my hands again in yours our resemblances

in eyelids and evergreens

life doesn’t nish, you’ll come home.

What does the dangler of a sword by one horsehair over Damocles’s head know of all this. Trovavo semplice percorrere ogni giorno gli stessi corridoi sedermi al lato del letto

Rimettevo le mie nelle tue mani le nostre similitudini

tra le palpebre e i pioppi

la vita non nisce, tornerai a casa.

Che ne sa chi ha appeso a un unico crine la spada che pende sulla testa di Damocle.

ere are instincts that end rainbowed elds of quivering light lips that tremble.

Sounds and knots exist amongst throats wind and mountains.

I saw boughs stretch rootlike and nights call to you with the intensity of what lingers. Ci sono istinti che terminano con l’arcobaleno campi di luce vibrante labbra che tremano.

Esistono suoni e nodi tra gole vento e montagne.

Ho visto rami espandersi come radici e notti chiamarti con l’intensità di ciò che resta.