In memoriam: Antonio Tabucchi (24/09/1943-25/03/2012)
They say he died yesterday of cancer
and I thought no he didn’t
because all his books are still on my shelves
hugging me like a nest of sweet dreams
and I thought no he didn’t
because a few years ago a friend believed he had
and I resuscitated him by finding out he hadn’t
but since reality is shaped by the mass media
in fact he really had
and realism beats magic
and realism makes the crazy ugly
and realism says things should be
this way and can’t be that way
hurting the poet.
I wonder in which dream Tabucchi chose to eat a fava
bean and sausage omelet with his pal Fernando Pessoa
and if under their tango feet the sand is as white
as the moonlight coming from my computer screen.
When men like him die we are left
only with the faint
light of fireflies, heatless
like turned-off miracles.
Last week in Milano a man named Giancarlo
told me Italians no longer read books
they are the dunces of Old Europe he said
and we do have beauty here but everything is in ruins.
Before Tabucchi had to close his book
he told us “Take care
of the future.”
(Tel Aviv, 26/03/2012)
(Sabine Huynh, unpublished, StanzAviv)