Two Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli poems translated by Mike Stocks

Kiddiwinkies

Just listen to a mother talking crap:
the brat she drops has barely hit the ground
before she's bragging he's the best around,
and if you disagree you get a slap.

He knows who's who, his gifts run deep, he's full
of talk, he's right as rain, he stands apart---
he's lovely as a finished work of art
and packed with wonders, is this miracle!

In fact he'll be an ugly little monkey,
a stupid, floppy, whining, greedy critter
a dribbling stinking scabby nappy-shitter.

To mum, the gruntings of this tit-mad junkie
surpass the sweet songs of a West End name.
The mothers of this world are all the same.


The Life of Man

Nine months in a bog, then swaddling clothes
and sloppy kisses, rashes, big round tears,
a baby harness, baby walker, bows,
short trousers and a cap for several years,

and then begin the agonies of school,
the ABC, the pox, the six of the best,
the poo-poo in the pants, the ridicule,
the chilblains, measles, fevers on the chest;

then works arrives, the daily slog, the rent,
the fasts, the stretch inside, the government,
the hospitals, the debts to pay, the fucks...

The chaser to it all, on God's say-so,
(after summer's sun and winter's snow)
is death, and after death comes hell---life sucks.