1.nEspecially in weepingnthe soul revealsnits presencenand through secret pressurenchanges sorrow into water.nThe first budding of the spiritnis in the tear,nthis slow and transparent word.nThen following this elemental alchemynthought turns itself into substancenas real as a stone or an arm.nAnd there is nothing uneasy in the liquidnexcept the mineralnanguish of matter.n2.nI have finally learnednhow to read the livingnconstellation of womennand men, to trace the linesnwhich connect them into figures.nAnd now I recognize the hintsnwhich bind the disorder of the heavens.nAcross this vault designed for thoughtnI discern the revolution of the lightnand the wavering of the signs.nSo the day draws to a closenwhile I walknin the silent garden of glances.nIn the evening when the light is dim,nI hide in bed and collectnthe silhouettes of reasoningnwhich silently run across my limbs.nIt is here I must weaventhe tapestry of thoughtnand arranging the threads of my selfndesign my own figure.nThis is not worknbut a kind of workmanship.nFirst out of paper, then from the body.nTo provoke thought into form,nmoulded according to a measure.nI think of a tailornwho is his own fabric.n4.nEvery evening, bent over the brightngarden of pages,nI gather the fruits of the daynand assemble them. Lined up,nthe thoughts run in parallel rows,nthe trails of shrewd grafting.nSeven Poemsnby Valeria MagrellinTranslated by Dana GioiannnMy life is boundnto this frugal harvest,nthese humble, everyday commodities.nThere is no logic in takingnthe dry fruits or flowers. The only reason,nwhich may suffice, is in this spontaneousnand plant-like secretion of an idea.nThe slow stirrings of the troubled earthnwhich conceives it. The kitchennwith its plain companions.n5.nHe slides the pennacross the groin of the page,nand silently the writing assembles itself.nThis sheet has the geometric bordersnof an African state in whichnparallel lines set the dunes in order.nI am drawing nownwhile telling thisnwhich in the telling takes its shape.nIt is as if a cloudnarrived to takenthe form of a cloud. .,n6.nTen poems written in one monthnis not much even if this onenwill become the eleventh.nNot even the subjects differ greatly ,nrather there is a single subjectnwhose subject is the subject, just like now.nThis is to say how muchnremains here of these pages —nand knocks but cannot enternnor even has to. Writingnis not a mirror, rathernthe rough-surfaced glass of a showernon which the body falls to piecesnand only its shadow shows throughnindistinct but real.nAnd the one who washes reveals nothingnbut his own gestures.nTherefore what purpose is therenin looking beyond the watermarknin case I am a counterfeiternand the watermark alone is my work.nIn summer, like the theaters, I close up.nThought flies away from me and gets lost,nthe billboard goes blank,nthe air is warm,nthe table stacked with fruit.nAPRIL 1991/17n