Pantano third pagesA burning rider explodes from the hillside A burning wheel, the round day of earth’s endless agony A bush rocks yellowhammers in its lap A calm modesty enters

ORAKLd a n i e l e pa n ta n o

For my children Fiona and Giacomo

CONTENTS

Author’s Note 1Introduction by Okla Elliott 3

A v 11 B v 30C v 35D v 37E v 40F v 42G v 45H v 47I v 49J v 54K v 55L v 56M v 58N v 60O v 61P v 67Q v 68R v 69S v 70T v 77U v 93V v 94W v 95X v 100Y v 101Z v 104

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I have translated. I have alphabetized. I have nothing to regret.

—Daniele Pantano St. Moritz, Switzerland May 2016

INTRODUCTION

Daniele Pantano’s ORAKL melds the best aspects of conceptual poetry and traditional lyric verse. It has been said that conceptual poetry needn’t even be read to be enjoyed, since its entire pleasure is usually found in the conceit the poet has adopted; once you’ve grasped the concept behind the poetry, you’ve depleted its reserves of interest and excitement. This is demonstrably untrue in ORAKL. It is conceptual poetry of the highest order, yet there are literary joys to be found beyond the concept.

But before I get to those, we should look at the conceptual element here. Pantano, a renowned poet and translator, has brought both of these talents to bear on his project. His process was to loosely trans-late all of the poems of Georg Trakl, then order the lines in alpha-betical order by their first words. One further aspect of the organiza-tion is that while these lines share this overt linguistic kinship—due to the alphabetical ordering, but also due to the frequent repetition of a starting word—the lines do not share any apparent meaning relations. Like the Persian ghazal, where each couplet is meant to stand alone, seemingly disconnected from the others, yet also force by way of lyric disjoint a powerful effect on the reader, Pantano’s conceptual poetry forces us to leap from line to line, navigating the voids along the way. There is a jarring-yet-also-pleasurable effect created by this structure and organization. Also, the reader will immediately notice that the title of the book is only one letter off from Trakl’s name, transforming it into an oracle of sorts. This is entirely fitting, given that the lines in Pantano’s collection echo the enigmatic pronouncements of an oracle from ancient myth and

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given that Pantano himself serves as a sort of oracular medium in translating/altering/arranging these lines.

Here is a particularly successful series of lines that illustrates in miniature what Pantano is up to in the book as a whole:

Black skies of metalBlack snow trickles through her armsBlack soars the mournful ceremony of churchesBlack walls crumble on the squareBlazing beatsBlessed too, the flowering wombs of poor maids

who stand there dreaming by the ancient well Blind lament in the wind, lunar moonlike winter days Blood and weapon-fray of times past soughs in the pine ground Blood blossoming on the altar stone (31)

Notice the suggestive subterranean connections between the lines. We have black skies, then we have snow, and then soaring—all images that have to do vaguely with the sky yet do not form a nar-rative or a direct sensical connection. And later we have flowering wombs and then blood blossoming—two flower images and an association of blood with wombs and childbirth. And this loose associative quality of the progression of lines makes what other-wise might become wholly unanchored fragments a virtuoso dis-play of free association—or not precisely free, since order is imposed as well. What we get in the end is a kind of controlled mutation, whereby each line grows into the next, though often in unexpected ways.

Aside from the overall playfulness of the concept itself, we also find here and there an attractive and sideways sense of humor, which serves to prevent the collection from veering into the realm of the overly serious, as conceptual poetry or “experimental” poetry often does. One bit of playfulness is that the letters X and Z are included, but there are no lines in those sections, merely blank

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pages, which I read as both a pun in one instance (the content has been X’ed out) and a playful admission that unlike the other letters, X and Z present particular challenges, given the paucity of English-language words that begin with them. But that playfulness and humor are set beside an irreverent darkness: “Angels with feces-spotted wings emerge from gray rooms” (27). We also find sincere and highly poetic lines: “Exalted is the silence of the forest, greened darkness / and the mossy creature fluttering up when night falls” (41). In short, ORAKL navigates several poetic techniques and tonal registers with enviable dexterity.

Renowned novelist, poet, and translator David R. Slavitt has said that to translate is to collaborate with the original author, and I can think of few examples where this is truer than in ORAKL. It is as though, through some oracular feat, Trakl has been channeled through and by Pantano in order to collaboratively produce this fine collection.

Pantano writes, furthering the classical theme which permeates this utterly contemporary work that:

From branches in wild shivers silver the night wind’slyre of Orpheus sounds forth in the dark mere fadingaway by greening walls (44)

And indeed, Pantano plays the role of Orpheus with aplomb, chan-neling Trakl as both muse and oracle. These poems bridge several poetic traditions and bring several layers of aesthetic and intellec-tual pleasure. We would do well to read and reread them and carry them long with us.

—Okla Elliott May 2016

“A voice comes to one in the dark.”—Samuel Beckett

“Language is worth as little as life itself, for it is life itself.”—Elfride Jelinek

ORAKL

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A

A bare tree is writhing in black agonyA bearded face full of pity turned away quietlyA beast breaks shyly through the yellowed reedA beast steps silently from tree arcadesA bell rings and the shepherd leads his herd of black

and red horses into the villageA black angel emerges from itA black silence already tremblesA black storm threatens above the hill A blackbird trills piteouslyA blackbird’s startled callA blackish swarm of fliesA blessed sound falls from apple branchesA blossoming outpour leaks away very gently A blue beast wants to bow before deathA blue breeze got caught brightly

in the ancient elder treeA blue cloud has sunk onto me in the duskA blue deerA blue deer quietly bleeds in the thicket of thornsA blue face softly leaves youA blue moment is only more soulA blue moth crawled from its silvery cocoonA blue smile on his face and strangely pupated

into his quieter childhood A blue water grievesA blue’s glance breaks from crumbling cliffsA bony horror strikes when black the dew

drips from bare willowsA boy lays his brow in her hand

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A boy sets a fire near the hamlet A bread smell and pungent spiceA breath of fever circles a hamletA breath of warm manure drifts byA bright corpse bending over a dark thing

and a dead lamb lay at my feetA bright day of childhood glides after youA bright number stands on a stoneA brother of yours dies in an enchanted landA brown tree stands secludedA burning rider explodes from the hillsideA burning wheel, the round day

of earth’s endless agonyA bush rocks yellowhammers in its lapA calm modesty enters cool chambersA carillon sounds into the small brown gardenA child stands in silhouette soft and tenderA child walks on the parched meadowA child with brown hairA child’s skeleton shatters silver against the bare wallA cloth of hair laid on a bierA cold luster darts across streetsA crimson cloud shrouded his head, which fell mutely

over his own blood and likeness, a lunar faceA crimson mouth arches in the hazel leavesA cross looms boldly amid sparkling starsA cross towers among wild vinesA dead face follows the boyA dead man visits youA delicate corpse lay silent in the dark chamberA deranged seer, he sang a song

by crumbling walls, and God’s wind devoured his voice

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A dog has died in front of her chamberA dog lunges along the pathsA dog runs past a dreaming manA dreamA dreaming soldier sings his mournful songA drunken faun is dancing in golden mistsA dry-boned fool leads the lepers’ dance A dying beast greets in partingA face has sunk drunkenly into the grassA faint glockenspiel sounds in Elis’s breastA fantastically mad sequenceA farmhand intones the prayerA faun with dead eyes staresA firelight blazes in the roomA firelight flashes from the cottagesA fisherman pulled with a net of hair

the moon from a freezing pondA flight of nuns

blows by on the landingA fluttering flowerbed paints

symbols, rare embroideriesA fountain falls in the darkness

of chestnut branchesA fountain liltsA gentle monk folds the lifeless handsA gentle silence lives in bread and wineA glowing boyA golden bargeA golden cloud follows the lonely

one, the grandchild’s black shadowA golden day glows to its endA golden ray breaks through the roof and flows

onto the siblings, dreamlike and confused

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A golden tumbrel wheels through the cloudsA good shepherd leads his flock along the forest edgeA graveyard shudderA gray stench permeates the airA greenish dusky mountain streamA guitar humsA halo falls upon the girl who waitsA harsh wind sneers in my earA hay-rick flees through gray, yellowed

and skewedA heart freezes in snowy silenceA herd loses itself in the red forestA horse’s skull stares from the rotten gateA host of wild birds migrating

to those lands, beautiful, differentA house glimmers to pieces, strange and vagueA jangling of coinsA light rouses shadows in the roomsA light shaft freezes in the cloudsA line of birds greets on its journeyA line of birds slips into the distanceA little bird trills like crazyA little fish flashes past and fadesA lonely fate glides down the forest edgeA long afternoonA long time the moon gazes inA lover stirs in black roomsA lute’s mocking strumsA magnetic chill hovers around this proud headA masculine red bending over mute watersA melancholy birchA minute of mute destructionA minute of shimmering silence

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A monk, a pregnant woman there in the crowdA mournful smile about her mouthA nest of scarlet snakes rises languidly

in her ruffled wombA nightly wreath of violets, wheat

and crimson grapes is the year of the one who watches

A noble fate ponders down the valley of Kidron

A pale angelA petrified head storms the skyA procession of wild horsesA pure blue flows from its decayed shroudA purple flame went out by my mouthA quake of church chimes upswellsA quartet’s final chords A rabble of flies whirls around the flowersA rabid dog is walking through a barren fieldA red dress flies through a crowd of childrenA red flame leapt from your palm

and a moth burned in itA red shadow with a blazing sword

burst into the house, fled with snowy browA red ship on the canalA red that shakes you like a dreamA red wolf strangled by an angelA rolling drum, black foreheads of warriorsA roof of parched straw, the black earthA room wants to brighten palely for the murdererA rose-horrid lightning bolt flashes

into ringing spruce treesA rotting lineage livesA saint emerges from his black stigmatic wounds

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A scent of bread escapes from a shopA scent of milk in hazel branchesA scent of thyme hovers in the goldA sexA shadow, he walked down the bridle path

beneath autumnal starsA shepherd decays on an ancient stoneA shepherd mutely follows the sun

that rolls from the autumn hillA shrub full of larvaeA shy beast emerges from the edge of the forestA silence dwells in black treetopsA silence dwells in empty windowsA silken triad fades to a single noteA silver handA sinister corsairA small bird sings in the tamarind treeA small fish glides swiftly down the brookA sober clarity shows itself in the groveA soft violin sounds from the courtyardA song accompanies the guitar that rings out

in a strange tavernA square darkens grim and sinisterA stooping scribe smiles as if madA strange life dwells in the wineA stranger by the evening hill, who weeping lifts

his eyelids above the city of stoneA strip of meadow soughs windswept and faintA sultry mist brews on the watersA sweet playmate, a rosy angel approached him, so that

he, a gentle animal, slumbered into the nightA tattered flag steaming with blood, so that a man

eavesdrops in wild melancholyA thorn bush sounds

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A thrush frolics with themA tree, a dog steps back behind itself A tree burned down in red flamesA vile procession full of filth and mangeA village that dies away piously in brown imagesA waxen face flows through aldersA whispering that drowns in troubled sleepA white angel visits the three MarysA white shirt of stars burns the carrying shoulders

and God’s vultures mangle your metallic heartA white steamer on the canal carries bloody plagues upstreamA white stranger enters the buildingA wild beast standing still in the peace of the ancient elder treeA wild pain grows in the farmwife’s wombA wind whines morosely across the meadowA wolf mauled the firstborn to pieces, and the sisters fled

through dark gardens to reach the bony old menA yellow head turned away, the child, silentAblaze the bushes waverAbove falling cities of steelAbove Mount Calvary God’s golden eyes open in silenceAbove parks in grief and paleAbove the black patch Above the broken bones of menAbove the forgotten paths of the deadAbove the seaAbove the sleep of cowsAbove the vanished pathAbove the white nymphean mirrorAcross the pondAfter midnight, drunk on crimson wine

you leave the dark district of man, the red flame of his hearth

After shadows gliding into the dark

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After the one striding, the strangerAgain and again you return, melancholyAgain night returns and a mortal thing laments Again the delicate corpse meetsAgain the forehead darkens in moonlit stoneAgainst the gray sky lines of wild birds followAlas, one evening by the window, when

a gruesome carcass, death, emerged from crimson flowers

All about the forests are wondrously muteAll at once glittering rain rushes down upon the roofsAll guilt and red agonyAll roads lead to black decayAll this is unspeakable, O God, we

fall to our knees, shakenAllow one last glance upAlong autumnal walls, he, a young

sexton, quietly followed the silent priest

Along summer’s yellow wallsAlong the hill, by the springtime pondAlready in the black throng of horses and cartsAlready night beckons for a journey to the starsAlready the pondering man’s forehead is dawningAlready the rosy overgrowth begins to clearAlready the swallow prepares for its journeyAlso an age-old white head bends overAlwaysAlways chill’s dark figure follows the wayfarerAlways the blue bells of evening sounded

from twilight towersAlways the night bird shrieks in bare branches

over moonlit striding

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Always the sister’s lunar voiceAlways the white night leans against the hillAlways you walk down the green riverAmid an airless beech tree silenceAn ancient lullaby fills you with dreadAn angel’s blue poppy-eyes openAn animal face stiffens with blue, its holinessAn echo of dancing and violinsAn empty coffin loses itself in the darkAn even higher future that resembles you

as you resemble yourselfAn evening sinks through the arched window

mild and softAn evil heart laughs out loud in beautiful roomsAn icy wind sounds at the village wallsAn old man spins sadly in the windAn old square, chestnuts black and wastedAn open window, at which a sweet hope stayed behindAn organ chorale filled him with God’s tremorsAn organ comes playing in An organ sighs and hell laughs An unspeakable face emerged from the chalky wall

—a dying youth—the beauty of a lineage returning homeAncestors’ marble changed to grayAncient legendsAnd a blackish cloud shrouded

my head, the crystal tears of damned angelsAnd a blue wellspring rushed in the groundAnd a canal suddenly spews fat and bloodAnd a cock crows beneath the doorAnd a dark voice spoke from within meAnd a dreadful stench from the privy stinks after them

through which the ghostly moonlight shudders

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And a faraway friend writes a letter to youAnd a little lamp of goodness shines in his heartAnd a pulsating swarm of gnatsAnd a sinister guest gently closes the doorAnd a suggestive tree rustles above his deranged headAnd a swarm of flies buzzesAnd a white beast collapsesAnd Afra’s smile red in a yellow frame

of sunflowers, fear, and gray humidityAnd all around hills and forests sparkledAnd all night the female dancer’s steps ring

through the greeneryAnd an abundance of leaves is falling

onto the stone pathAnd an ancient water singsAnd an angel in the groveAnd angels step silently from the blueAnd another suffersAnd are the lonely one’s companionsAnd as I lay there gazing and dying, fear

and my deepest pain died within meAnd as though dead she glances overAnd at night they plunge from red shudders

of the star wind, like frantic maenadsAnd at times something deceased steps

from decrepit bluenessAnd back to the fieldAnd barely feel the hour hands moveAnd beautifully painted by sunshineAnd bees still gather with earnest diligenceAnd before Satan’s cursesAnd beneath elm trees, you walk

in familiar conversation down the green river

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And blacker and blacker melancholy veils the departed head, gruesome lightning frightens the nocturnal soul, and your hands tear open my breathless chest

And blood pounds in their templesAnd blue lakes, above them the sunAnd bows down low over mournful watersAnd bread and wine are sweetened by hard workAnd bursts the pines into flamesAnd called in night and desolationAnd carried a small rosy child in his black coatAnd coaxed by abasementAnd crimson blood flowed from the wound

beneath his heartAnd crouched together she freezesAnd crowd house and stores that are filled

with grain and fruitAnd dark readings of the flight of birdsAnd devoted to your will, ever movedAnd dissolved figures also flee in smokeAnd earth’s pilgrimage a dreamAnd eyelids dazed by fear flutter softlyAnd falls overcome to the groundAnd festive the air in spacious courtyardsAnd flutter upon black-crossed pathsAnd following old custom an evening bell singsAnd following the sister’s shadowAnd follows ferns and old stonesAnd from blackish gates emerge angels with cold browsAnd fruit drops from the treesAnd fruit ripens peacefully in a sunlit pantryAnd gently the dead friend’s hand moves And girls who embrace the Lord’s body like poisonAnd glass and chest in twilight

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And glimmers silver from tangled leavesAnd God’s heaven falters black and sheds its leavesAnd he saw the starry face of purityAnd her mouth is like a woundAnd her womb awaits the heavenly bridegroomAnd here and there a cross on a barren hillAnd his murderer searched for himAnd his tears fall hot and clearAnd horridly an empty garment decaysAnd hunters descend from the forestAnd I crossed the dormant pond

on a curved skiff, and sweet peace brushed my stony brow

And in holy blue luminous steps ring forthAnd in rose wreath and rowsAnd in the garden the friend’s silver face remainedAnd in the twilight rock nichesAnd it was noon and the animal’s silence was immenseAnd it was the murmur of the forestAnd later her shadow gropes along

cold walls, surrounded by fairy tales and holy legends

And leaves drift, trumpets blareAnd leprosy has turned their foreheads bald and rawAnd lifts its hands to God’s golden shrineAnd lovingly smoothes forehead and robeAnd my soul’s echo—the wind! that sneers and sneersAnd naked bones dance pastAnd night devoured the cursed descendantsAnd now and then buds crackle gailyAnd often smile in anguishAnd often the golden and true show themselves

to gentle madness

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And opens the soul fearful and wideAnd our wide eyes follow the passage of birdsAnd paints panic’s grim spectersAnd plays with her eyes black and smoothAnd pure his faceAnd quietly the hand of the dead woman

seizes his mouthAnd raised its cold eyelids over himAnd rats scream in the yardAnd ravens splash in bloody guttersAnd rolling constellations in the black briarAnd scurry this way, that way, like flutesAnd shadows enclose it, like hedgerowsAnd she breathes hard upon the pillowAnd she is like a shadowAnd she lies utterly white in the darkAnd she sees her filthy bedAnd she shudders before its purityAnd she slips past the gateAnd she staggers into the forgeAnd she stares shaken with painAnd shimmering a drop of blood fell

into the lonely one’s wineAnd silver bloom the flowers of winterAnd sink in darkness, dreamingAnd slowly lowers its heavy eyelidsAnd slowly the gray moon climbsAnd slowly the strangers depart once againAnd snow and leprosy drop from his foreheadAnd softlyAnd softly an ancient stone touches youAnd softly blood poured from the sister’s silver

wound, and a rain of fire fell upon me

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And softly open to strange constellationsAnd something goldAnd something unborn sighing from blind eyesAnd something you mistake for a fireAnd sometimes lustful glances meetAnd sometimes rose-colored mosquesAnd sometimes you can hear them fret over carrion

they smell is somewhereAnd sometimes you float, light and wonderfulAnd sometimes you see them in fretful restAnd space becomes a graveAnd sparrows flutter over bush and fenceAnd spew blood in winding thorns stiff and grayAnd strangely scattered in the evening windAnd suddenly they point their flight northwardAnd sunflowers sink over the fenceAnd terror seizes the heartAnd the animal’s scorching wildernessAnd the autumn gold of the elm treeAnd the awakening at the edge of the twilight forestAnd the bell in the valley drones mightilyAnd the blue bright skyAnd the blue hyacinth had just bloomed at the window

and the old prayer appeared on the breathing one’s crimson lip, crystal tears sank from his eyelids, crying for this bitter world

And the boy’s radiant blue shadow rose in the dark, a gentle song

And the boy’s rosy angel appeared softly before himAnd the chill of an evening springAnd the cock crows to the lastAnd the cool blue embraces him mightily and the burning

remains of autumn

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And the cypresses breathe calmlyAnd the darkAnd the day dissolves in the greenAnd the delight of greenAnd the flowers of summer that ring lovely in the windAnd the flying veils of night pass away in bursts of flamesAnd the footsteps grow quietly green in the forestAnd the gentle flutes of autumnAnd the gloomy voice lamentsAnd the head of the waif stiffens with the agony

of a golden dayAnd the heart rings softly in the nightAnd the heavenly distances open in bright purityAnd the house is well in orderAnd the lonely bird’s squall above the green silence of the pondAnd the lonely one’s brow quietly greens againAnd the melodious sound of its spiritual yearsAnd the moon chased a red animal from its caveAnd the moon eavesdrops from the treesAnd the moon that glowing sinks into sad watersAnd the mother’s lamenting shape staggers

through the lonely forest of this mute griefAnd the murderer’s shadow in the twilight corridorAnd the oars silently row as oneAnd the peace of the mealAnd the red deer, the green flower

and the babbling springAnd the redness creeps slowly through the torrentAnd the scythe clashes in the fieldAnd the shadows of the damned descend

to the sighing watersAnd the silence of the elderAnd the silver voices of stars

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And the sky leaden and vastAnd the stranger’s steps ring through the silver nightAnd the sun sets beyond the hillAnd the sweet chanting of the resurrectedAnd the twelve assembledAnd the white figures of the lightAnd the white voice spoke to meAnd the wilderness by the shore greens

darker, delight in rosy windAnd the wilderness of her eyebrowsAnd the women’s dark lament died sighingAnd the yard lies long desertedAnd the yellow flowers of autumn bend mutely

over the pond’s blue faceAnd their breath flows sweeter through the nightAnd their immeasurable melancholy overflows

into the evening blueAnd then climb down to earth, you glorious oneAnd then pales to nothing in the mirrorAnd there the mother rots with her childAnd these hopeless laments for the deadAnd they pour the wine and break the breadAnd they shriek eagerly as if madAnd things unborn rest in their own peaceAnd thinks the mother’s somber faceAnd those dead step from bare roomsAnd to the mild lamp insideAnd toads slept through the young leekAnd tranquil eyes look all around in their purple cavesAnd trickle away like a funeral cortègeAnd walks, a pale angel, through the empty groveAnd wanders slowly on the floodAnd wake your much-loved slumbering woman

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And we cried in our sleepAnd weakened by her protestsAnd when I bent over silent waters

with silver fingers, I saw my face had abandoned me

And when I drank of it, it tasted more bitter than poppyAnd whirl in through the open windowAnd with helpless gesturesAnd with shrills the scythes swing ghostly

back and forth in timeAnd yet, and yetAnd you move your arms more beautifully in this blueAnd you see lights that have lost their wayAnd your brother looks at you softly

with nightly eyes, that he may rest from thorny travels

And your eyes are staring at you like steelAnd your forehead rages through the soft greenAngels with feces-spotted wings emerge from gray roomsAppearing, the one sleeping descended the black forestAre so quietAre soundless in the reedsAre the clouds, white, wispingAround dark rims of weathered fountainsAround the pale flowers on a stifling floodAs his head sinks into the black pillowAs if man’s golden likeness were devoured

by the icy wave of eternityAs if the shadows of those long dead hovered above itAs in a dream she’s met by laughterAs though a brazen gate were slamming shutAs though a tender corpse followed in the shadowsAs when blue water roars in the rocks

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At evening a whispering rises on the islandsAt evening drift bloody linensAt evening on the terrace we got drunk on bronze wineAt evening: steps come through black landAt evening the autumnal forests resoundAt evening the cuckoo’s lament falls silent in the forestAt evening the place lies desolate and brownAt evening when we walk down dark pathsAt midnightAt night a shepherd leads his flock across the meadowAt night a snowy wellspring above mossy stepsAt night above the barren meadowAt night drink the icy sweat that runs from Elis’s crystal browAt night he remained alone with his starAt night his mouth broke open like a red fruit, and the stars

began to sparkle above his ineffable griefAt night I found myself on a heathAt night stars seek, Good Friday’s childAt night the sleeper found them beneath the pillars in the hallAt night they scream in sleep under olive limbsAt nightfall they carried the stranger into the chamber of the deadAt nightfall you hear the bats shriekAt red breasts and in black lyesAt the awakening the bells rang in the villageAt the cool feet of the penitent womanAt the forest edgeAt the forest edge, lighting the sinister pathsAt the gate by dark pathsAt the pond of TritonAt the sight of the ruined graveyard on the hillAt the stream the women still washAt the window whose stare is barredAt this hour I was the white son in my father’s death

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At times he recalled his childhood filled with sickness, horror, and darkness, furtive play in the garden of stars, or how he fed the rats in the twilit courtyard

At vespers the stranger looses himself in November’s black ruin

At your feetAt your mouthAutumn: black pacing along the forest edgeAutumn in roomsAutumn is quiet, the spirit of the forestAutumnal graveyard, holding his mother’s frigid handAutumnal reeds rustle their lamentsAutumnal retinueAutumn’s golden breathAutumn’s path and crosses enter eveningAutumn’s sinkingAvanti!