POEM, Francesca Cricelli, Here My Tongue
Francesca Cricelli is a Brazilian poet, translator and researcher. She grew up between Brazil, Italy and Malaysia. She has a PhD in Foreign Literatures and Translation from the University of São Paulo. Cricelli is a visiting fellow at the Institute of Languages Cultures and Societies at the School of Advanced Study at the University of London. She currently lives in Iceland.
Here my tongue
is mute
or nearly so
it only exists in silence
an intimate whisper
the offspring of translation.
My tongue is an inside-out blossom
a word that means both body and language
and I cannot bridge the gap.
*
When you bite into a fig
the pulpessence
it’s like stepping into a graveyard of wasps
your tongue tastes the fruit
its sweet swell, awaiting pollination.
*
What ritual is this, still repeating itself
after 34 million years?
*
When I step into this language
the ancient pith of it
I’m biting into a fossilized memory deep within me
of a tongue older than teeth
the boundless swell of my primitive existence.
*
We don’t just lose our wings when we fall
(they must be left outside)
but also when we crawl into a contracting passage
searching for sustenance and sustained existence
When we worm our way into the fig, we relinquish
flight.
*
To dig yourself out of a soundless passage
you need a strong jaw
eager teeth and tiny eyes
— you’ve got to be able to get around in the
dark.
*
That sprig of mint didn’t die because it was pulled from the soil
— it’s survived in a vase —
sprouted new roots and leaves.
*
In my city we wait for the ground to thaw
like tongues awaiting milk teeth —
prodding the crowns as they poke through gums
ready to bite —
what survives under that white mantle?
Our alien bodies make ready
(like mother wasps laying eggs in figs)
mint roots
searching for earth.
︎
This poem is a literary experiment by Francesca Cricelli and Larissa Kyzer. It was originally written in English and Portuguese by Francesca Cricelli, the English version was translated into Icelandic by Þórdís Helgadóttir for the anthology Pólífónía, organized by Natasha Stolyarova. The English version is featured in the anthology Wing by Wing selected by young editors from Denmark, Iceland and Sweden as “The Best Non-Required Nordic Poetry of 2021”.
The poems were published in the Nordic languages and in English. Initially, the poem had been back-translated into English, from its Icelandic version, by Larissa Kyzer. As the translator found out that the poem had originally been written in English too, she joined hands with the author to come up with this version. A testimony of how words and literary objects travel back and forth from one language to the other, one could ask him or herself: which was the original text?
Image: Polina Tankilevitch
is mute
or nearly so
it only exists in silence
an intimate whisper
the offspring of translation.
My tongue is an inside-out blossom
a word that means both body and language
and I cannot bridge the gap.
*
When you bite into a fig
the pulpessence
it’s like stepping into a graveyard of wasps
your tongue tastes the fruit
its sweet swell, awaiting pollination.
*
What ritual is this, still repeating itself
after 34 million years?
*
When I step into this language
the ancient pith of it
I’m biting into a fossilized memory deep within me
of a tongue older than teeth
the boundless swell of my primitive existence.
*
We don’t just lose our wings when we fall
(they must be left outside)
but also when we crawl into a contracting passage
searching for sustenance and sustained existence
When we worm our way into the fig, we relinquish
flight.
*
To dig yourself out of a soundless passage
you need a strong jaw
eager teeth and tiny eyes
— you’ve got to be able to get around in the
dark.
*
That sprig of mint didn’t die because it was pulled from the soil
— it’s survived in a vase —
sprouted new roots and leaves.
*
In my city we wait for the ground to thaw
like tongues awaiting milk teeth —
prodding the crowns as they poke through gums
ready to bite —
what survives under that white mantle?
Our alien bodies make ready
(like mother wasps laying eggs in figs)
mint roots
searching for earth.
︎
This poem is a literary experiment by Francesca Cricelli and Larissa Kyzer. It was originally written in English and Portuguese by Francesca Cricelli, the English version was translated into Icelandic by Þórdís Helgadóttir for the anthology Pólífónía, organized by Natasha Stolyarova. The English version is featured in the anthology Wing by Wing selected by young editors from Denmark, Iceland and Sweden as “The Best Non-Required Nordic Poetry of 2021”.
The poems were published in the Nordic languages and in English. Initially, the poem had been back-translated into English, from its Icelandic version, by Larissa Kyzer. As the translator found out that the poem had originally been written in English too, she joined hands with the author to come up with this version. A testimony of how words and literary objects travel back and forth from one language to the other, one could ask him or herself: which was the original text?
Image: Polina Tankilevitch
Short Story ︎︎︎ Carola Saavedra, Brief Beginning of the World
Novel Excerpt ︎︎︎ Marcela Dantés, Hollow Wind
Short Story ︎︎︎ Flavia Stefani, Connection interrupted
Poem ︎︎︎ Luciane Borges, When She Died
Art Essay ︎︎︎ Ana Teixeira, Still
Poem ︎︎︎ Francesca Cricelli, Here my Tongue
Poem ︎︎︎ Flavia Stefani, National Park
Short Story ︎︎︎ Carola Saavedra, Brief Beginning of the World
Novel Excerpt ︎︎︎ Marcela Dantés, Hollow Wind
Short Story ︎︎︎ Flavia Stefani, Connection Interrupted
Poem ︎︎︎ Luciane Borges, When She Died
Art Essay ︎︎︎ Ana Teixeira, Still
Poem ︎︎︎ Francesca Cricelli, Here my Tongue
Poem ︎︎︎ Flavia Stefani, National Park
© LATITUDE JOURNAL
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