ELECTRA

Of all the days you had to choose from
Why did you have to leave on a Monday?
Birds are singing and summer is nearly here
Time for sun, sea and lemon water-ices 
No mincing of words in the witty 
and subtly sarcastic comments you could have made 

Up with Italy, soccer and testosterone!
Shady dealings and hormone-ridden sluts!
We like tv rather a lot I’d say
I mean - the actual tv set – on display in the drawing room
Who knows what bitter remarks
You would have made out of a sheer sense of decency

Send us a postcard and a cheerful picture
Of you sunbathing on the beach
Wearing a typical white shirt, reading the sports page
And lingering upon the strand basking in the sunset

Of all the days you had to choose from
Why did you have to leave on a Monday?
Hectic street traffic and arguments at the crossroads  
Lots of bad-mannered people in ugly looking cars
Who knows how witty and subtly sarcastic
You could have been in such miserable circumstances

Send us a postcard and a cheerful picture 
Of you sunbathing on the beach
Wearing a typical white shirt and reading the sports page
Lingering on the strand and humming a love song

Send us a postcard and a cheerful picture
Of you sunbathing on the beach
Wearing a typical white shirt

Send us a postcard and a cheerful picture 
As you linger on the strand 
And with a sense of awe welcome a new day

Days fly by in confusion and restlessness
Like flies at the dining table
Tomorrow is a holiday and the whole village
Is excited about the procession
Be generous, madam,
And in exchange the martyr saints will rejoice.

The weather forecasts say
Spring will be late this year
This Atlantic weather front
Is a disaster for my roses

Be patient, madam,
Plants don’t rush or meet deadlines
It’s only a matter of a few weeks
Why worry that they won’t bloom

Through the tangled mess of endless hours of uncertain waiting  
Suddenly a flock of swallows sweeps and swoops across the sky
If I close my eyes I get a hot, chafing feeling 
The sun in May has never been so close

In good times or bad 
I’ll fight at your side, my captain
Be patient, madam,
Plants don’t rush or meet deadlines
It’s only a matter of a few weeks
Why worry that they won’t bloom

Through the tangled mess of endless hours of uncertain waiting  
Suddenly a flock of swallows sweeps and swoops across the sky
If I close my eyes I can feel the thrill of high altitude
And a strong lack of oxygen 
But I have already caught my breath
And can now breathe again effortlessly
The weather forecasts say 
Spring will be late this yea

My love, things don’t always follow the right course
And it’s not just bad weather 
That ruins the harvest 
It’s funny how time goes by better than expected
Impending panic forces us to tame a fervid smile
And a sudden sense of well-being

Is happiness, perhaps, a remote hope?
Like sunshine in December
Not very far from here it’s snowing
Not very far from here
People devise ways to run around breathlessly
So anxious are they to get back to where they started from
That they forget how much is at stake
And how to follow suit.

My love, it’s not your fault
If you can’t handle joy
And you feel at ease 
Surrounded by pain and resignation
And it’s only natural if  sometimes,
we force ourselves to ignore the constant cry
of our real inclinations
The margin of error in an endless subtraction
  
Is happiness, perhaps, a remote hope?
Like sunshine in December
Not very far from here it’s snowing
Not very far from here
People behave in an odd and mysterious manner
Driven by an uncontrollable desire to be amazing
They don their masks but somehow
Forget to wear the one that shows courage
When the stakes are down

Not very far from here it’s snowing
Not very far from here it’s snowin

I’m wearing red lipstick in sign of mourning
And a black coat
My uncle was a distinguished man.
Don’t cry, mother! Just swallow it down and forget
His greedy hands between my legs
He’s in God’s grace now

Good girl, play eenie, meeny, miny, moe
The less shame you feel the better your score
Let’s play Blind Man’s Buff
Your uncle is taking you to the mountains

We pay our final respects to a pure soul
A noble example as a father, brother and friend
And I feel their deep contempt, their eyes on me
I revealed the sordid incest and nobody believed me
Good girl, a little bit at a time
Don’t worry, it won’t bite or run away
Let’s play Blind Man’s Buff
Your uncle is taking you on holiday

Good girl play eenie, meeny, miny, moe
Those who seek sooner or later shall find
Do it again sweetie
Your uncle is taking you to the merry-go-round
Your uncle is taking you to the merry-go-round

I’m wearing bright red lipstick
And nothing under my coat …
In honour of my persecutor

That Sunday morning a sorrowful breeze
Came blowing in from the sea
The thought of Odysseys to far-off places
For pleasure-seeking travellers

I will survive the violence of your words
In the South East, the margins of darkness yield to the sun
And I will wait for the evening dressed in diamonds
Would you like to come and see the stars?

What’s the point, tell me, of longing for summer
And then regretting  the coldness of winter
When the sky is clearer
With the taste of winter.  

That Sunday morning, without realizing it, I accepted 
an invitation to suffering
an eruption of tidal waves shook the horizon 
I had nothing but me and my cheerful little boat
I will survive the violence of your words
I will survive

What’s the point, tell me, of longing for summer
And then regretting the coldness of winter
Smells that cannot reawaken the senses
And restricted days that always pass too fast

What’s the point of stubbornly repressing a wish
Keeping it waiting at the door feigning absence
And once more being unable to say, that’s enough!

That Sunday morning, without realizing it I accepted 
An invitation to suffering.

Marie has already forgotten all the Christmas carols
My God what has she done, she has already sinned!

People say helicopters scare birds
That we are growing indifferent and insensitive

Marie has already forgotten all the bad thoughts
My God what has she done, she has already committed murder

The celestial body of the moon at night is enchanting but I ignore it
As soon as the sky awakes
The gardens smell of orange blossom and jasmine
Lost codes, secret languages, lost codes
How are you?

Marie has already gone through hell
Let’s kiss her feet, she killed her mother

Oh Marie I love you
Marie has already gone through hell
Let’s kiss her feet, she killed her mother

The memory is preserved in your roots
The memory is preserved in your roots
Stop

I look out of my window all the time and see people in the street
Beautiful, ugly, cheerful, sulky, angry people
People showing off their riches, raising an eyebrow, tightening their lips
“Turi, I’d like something refreshing, like a sorbet or freshly squeezed lemonade”
He replies: “Giusi, when you called yourself Giuseppina you were happy just having the usual brioche with lemon ice”
“Turi, you’ve come a long way but now that you are a big business man you’ve got to learn how to talk with a bit of class”.

I’m always looking out of the window watching people with nothing to do smoking one cigarette after another, sitting sprawled out on benches in the square.  People meeting and saying “hi” with a glance. People avoiding one another, hugging and kissing each other. People being thrifty, making sacrifices but never giving in or next winter they won’t be able to make ends meet.
People owning next to nothing and doing almost everything to make sure the table is  well laid for people in power.

“What are you looking at? Don’t you have anything better to do?
“Go and get a job!” shouts a spiteful old man “you’re bringing bad luck standing behind the window like that”
I reply “I’m sorry, this is my home and I can stand where I like”

Sunday morning, from the church speakers Father Coppola’s voice shakes the walls of the houses and rattles people’s bones,
“You sinners, renounce the pleasures of the flesh. When the devil knocks wear a second pair of knickers”
Then, beside the church a big car stops.
Saro Branchia, known as the Lion King, gets out.
Father Coppola stammers and cuts his sermon short 
Because his majesty wants to receive holy communion,

“What are you looking at? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”
“Why don’t you go to the seaside!” shouts a mean old man “you’re as pale as a ghost”
I reply “Excuse me, but why have you decided to stand there and provoke me?”

I’m always looking out of my window and seeing the great civilisation we once were 
Where Turks, Jews and Christians would shake hands
And people used to think “diversity means richness”
Times of beauty and poetry, love and wisdom.
What we had yesterday might come back today
If we find good seeds to plant
In this land of fire and water
Today deep in my heart I feel
That things will change

“What are you looking at? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?
“Go out dancing! Shake a leg and get a life!”
And I reply: “I’d love to. Can you recommend an eccentric dance?”

If separation is like the wind 
In the warm indifference of this passion
No more unexpected flames will catch us by surprise
No inflammable dream beneath the ashes

From the highest peak of this restless mountain
The festive blue of the ocean brings a smile to my lips

I hope one day you will stop confusing
Pain with pleasure
Fear with the need to hurt
I am sure one day we will call it
By its proper name
With newly found serenity 

If separation is like the wind
It will blow in opposite directions 
On the soft texture of unfurled sails
Against any sailing logic 

From the highest peak of this restless mountain
The festive blue of the ocean draws a secret from my lips

I hope one day you will stop confusing
Pain with pleasure
Fear with the need to hurt
I am sure one day we will call it
By its proper name

I hope one day you will stop confusing
Pain with pleasure
Fear with the need to hurt
I am sure one day we will call it
By its proper  name
With newly found serenity 

How shameful! You wet your pants 
While everybody’s having dinner. What will they think?
It is rumoured that in their country
Rudeness rules
Ambassador, what a thankless task it is
To represent such a subhuman ethnic group

I’d like to tell you about a recurring dream
Of  a woman with a normal body, the head of a dog and
Hands like my mother’s 
She was sitting on a bench in a railway station I’ve never seen before
On the board was a date of birth:
October twenty-first two thousand and thirty 

Dear gentlemen, I’ll drink to such rough and ready reasoning
Since middle class prejudices amuse me
Why spoil such a joyful atmosphere with tension 
Let’s drink to maternal, filial and physical love
Let’s drink to promiscuous, faithful and spiritual love  

Ladies and gentlemen
I am sorry to interrupt you
You’re under arrest. I must lock you up
Take off your shoes
Put all metal items and liquid containers on the table,
If you behave I’ll let you have a blanket for the winter