Scivolare delicatamente verso l’Inverno sotto un plaid e leggere i versi di Jen Hadfield, una giovane poetessa, il cui lavoro è radicato nelle sue Shetland adottive, nelle paludi, le maree e gli paesaggi celesti del grande Nord, Oggi.

 

Daed-traa

I go to the rockpool at the slack of the tide to mind me what my poetry’s for.

It has its ventricles, just like us –
pumping brine, like bull’s blood, a syrupy flow.

It has its theatre – hushed and plush.
It has its Little Shop of Horrors.

It has its crossed and dotted monsters.

It has its cross-eyed beetling Lear.

It has its billowing Monroe.

I go to the rockpool at the slack of the tide to mind me what my poetry’s for.
For monks, it has barnacles 
to sweep the broth as it flows, with fans, grooming every cubic millimetre.

It has its ebb, the easy heft of wrack from rock, like plastered, feverish locks of hair.

It has its flodd. 
It has its welling god with puddle, podgy cheeks and jaw.
It has its holy hiccup. Its minute’s silence.

daed-traa.

I go to the rockpool at the slack of the tide to mind me what my poetry’s for.
Jen Hadfield