Anne Sexton: Menstruation at Forthy

by Silkoclock

Anne Sexton  – Menstruation at Forty

By Anne Sexton (1928–1974)

Menstruation at Forthy

I was thinking of a son.                                                    Stavo pensando  ad un figlio.

The womb is not a clock                                                   L’utero non è un orologio

nor a bell tolling,                                                                nemmeno il rintocco di una campana,

but in the eleventh month of its life                                  ma nell’undicesimo mese della vita

I feel the November                                                           sento Novembre nel corpo

of the body as well as of the calendar.                           come nel calendario.

In two days it will be my birthday                                     Un paio di giorni e arriva il mio compleanno

and as always the earth is done with its harvest.          e come sempre dalla terra arriva il raccolto.

This time I hunt for death,                                                  In questo periodo vado a caccia di morte

the night I lean toward,                                                      vado verso la notte

the night I want.                                                                   è la notte che voglio.

Well then—                                                                         Ebbene, dunque

speak of it!                                                                           parliamone!

It was in the womb all along.                                           Tutto il tempo è stato nel grembo.

I was thinking of a son …

You! The never acquired,

the never seeded or unfastened,

you of the genitals I feared,

the stalk and the puppy’s breath.

Will I give you my eyes or his?

Will you be the David or the Susan?

(Those two names I picked and listened for.)

Can you be the man your fathers are—

the leg muscles from Michelangelo,

hands from Yugoslavia

somewhere the peasant, Slavic and determined,

somewhere the survivor bulging with life—

and could it still be possible,

all this with Susan’s eyes?

All this without you—

two days gone in blood.

I myself will die without baptism,

a third daughter they didn’t bother.

My death will come on my name day.

What’s wrong with the name day?

It’s only an angel of the sun.

Woman,

weaving a web over your own,

a thin and tangled poison.

Scorpio,

bad spider—

die!

My death from the wrists,

two name tags,

blood worn like a corsage

to bloom

one on the left and one on the right—

It’s a warm room,

the place of the blood.

Leave the door open on its hinges!

Two days for your death

and two days until mine.

Love! That red disease—

year after year, David, you would make me wild!

David! Susan! David! David!

full and disheveled, hissing into the night,

never growing old,

waiting always for you on the porch …

year after year,

my carrot, my cabbage,

I would have possessed you before all women,

calling your name,

calling you mine.

Menstruation at Forty

Menstruation at Forty

By Anne Sexton 1928–1974 Anne Sexton

I was thinking of a son.

The womb is not a clock

nor a bell tolling,

but in the eleventh month of its life

I feel the November

of the body as well as of the calendar.

In two days it will be my birthday

and as always the earth is done with its harvest.

This time I hunt for death,

the night I lean toward,

the night I want.

Well then—

speak of it!

It was in the womb all along.

I was thinking of a son …

You! The never acquired,

the never seeded or unfastened,

you of the genitals I feared,

the stalk and the puppy’s breath.

Will I give you my eyes or his?

Will you be the David or the Susan?

(Those two names I picked and listened for.)

Can you be the man your fathers are—

the leg muscles from Michelangelo,

hands from Yugoslavia

somewhere the peasant, Slavic and determined,

somewhere the survivor bulging with life—

and could it still be possible,

all this with Susan’s eyes?

All this without you—

two days gone in blood.

I myself will die without baptism,

a third daughter they didn’t bother.

My death will come on my name day.

What’s wrong with the name day?

It’s only an angel of the sun.

Woman,

weaving a web over your own,

a thin and tangled poison.

Scorpio,

bad spider—

die!

My death from the wrists,

two name tags,

blood worn like a corsage

to bloom

one on the left and one on the right—

It’s a warm room,

the place of the blood.

Leave the door open on its hinges!

Two days for your death

and two days until mine.

Love! That red disease—

year after year, David, you would make me wild!

David! Susan! David! David!

full and disheveled, hissing into the night,

never growing old,

waiting always for you on the porch …

year after year,

my carrot, my cabbage,

I would have possessed you before all women,

calling your name,

calling you mine.

Stavo pensando di un figlio.
L’utero non è un orologio
né rintocchi di una campana,
ma l’undicesimo mese di vita
Mi sento di novembre
del corpo e del calendario.
In due giorni sarà il mio compleanno
e come sempre la terra è fatto con la sua raccolta.
Questa volta a caccia di morte,
la notte Mi sporgo verso,
la notte che voglio.
Ebbene-
parlarne!
E ‘stato nel grembo materno per tutto il tempo.

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