Reunion

     Once upon a time, there was a restaurant in New York City called Saloon. It was conveniently situated across from the Metropolitan Opera -- one could go there for a late supper after a show, if one was not especially particular, just hungry. Since I've never lived in New York, but have only gone there to play auditions for the Houston Grand Opera and the HGO Studio, or to see a show at the Met once in a blue moon, I've actually eaten at Saloon more often than at any other New York restaurant. I realize Saloon is long gone, but then I've only been to New York twice since I left HGO. So I'm really waxing nostalgic right now.

     Back in my pre-monastery dark ages, when I was still secular and pagan (!), I was watching an episode of Sex and the City, in which Carrie goes to Saloon after a long absence to see if a particular waiter with whom she had a tryst was still working there. As I watched, I realized she was sitting at the very table where I had a post-opera supper with a singer friend some years earlier. This friend is one whom I rarely see, and when I do, it's usually only for a few hours or a couple of days, so each reunion is very precious. Consequently, I remember almost every detail of every one. It wasn't difficult, therefore, to write a poem about that late supper at Saloon.

     REUNION

     Tonight, at least,
     I see you -- in a candle's light suffused
     by ruby glass, the undulating arc
     cocooning us while headlights pierce the streets.
     The noisy years between remembering
     and living flesh are silenced by the voice
     I hear this moment, and I catch its words
     like colored moths, to pin them in a frame
     when daylight comes.

     Tonight, at least,
     you know me -- not the ink of written word,
     the masquerader hiding in plain sight,
     but sound and breath that waited out the page
     for temporary incarnation.  Yet
     what I intend to say is left unsaid,
     gray fumes dispersing in the wavering light.
     I only say the words that can survive
     when daylight comes.


     INCONTRO

     Stasera, almeno,
     ti vedo - nella luce di una candela soffusa
     da un vetro rubino, l’arco ondeggiante
     a proteggerci mentre i fari trafiggono le strade.
     Gli anni rumorosi tra il ricordo
     e la carne vivente sono zittiti dalla voce
     che ora sento, e ne catturo le parole
     come falene colorate, per appuntarle in una cornice
     quando la luce del giorno viene.

     Stasera, almeno,
     mi conosci – non l’inchiostro d’una parola scritta,
     la maschera che si nasconde in piena vista,
     ma suono e fiato che attendevano fuori alla pagina
     per provvisoria incarnazione. Finora,
     ciò che ho inteso dire è lasciato non detto,
     fumi grigi che si disperdono nella luce vacillante.
     Solo pronuncio le parole che possono sopravvivere
     Quando la luce del giorno viene.

     Italian translation by Federica Galetto
     © Leticia Austria 2011
     [first published in Italian and English in La Stanza di Nightingale]