Renato Ranaldi

Clinamen – An exercise in deviance

I have taken the poem Alone, I come to you by Alexander Blok, and at the end of each line I have added, in bold, segments from some of the captions to my drawings. The enforced coexistence of the two poetics fosters bewilderment generated by the reciprocal dislocation of meaning, an assault on the fluidity of the rhythmic unity in an oscillation of intent, a swerving of judgement. It is as if, while writing the poem, the poet suddenly succumbed to an entirely different modus of parodistic vein, and then at the beginning of the next line resumed his original voice again.

Alone, I come to you but can't he change the chords that idiot in the yellow shoes playing the sax

Bewitched by the fires of love I think of how many butts are smoke in the space of a moon

You speak of chance– don’t call me – I won't be home tonight, dear Xanthippe, I'll be with the saints

I've been racking my brains for so long in the mistaken prospect of French kissing

From the heavy weight of years which exploding with intense brief colic sink into the Gehenna of the bog

Sorcery alone has saved me while turning you into a strutting hunchback

And again I rack my brains about you shaman and search the sky for the constellation of your return

But the reply is confused and unclear because by now I'm shrunken and wrinkled and no longer bulge

The days are enthralled by sorcery you can always say I wasn't there I had nothing to do with it

I cosset the years – don't call …in any case I raise you to my nose like a rose

Perhaps the fires will soon die down so that I can don the mourning garb out of solemn embarrassment

Of that bewitched brooding love? Hark my brother and I shall tell you how fine culture weds the song.

(Alexander Blok, 1901, Renato Ranaldi, 2014)

Renato Ranaldi is an artist who lives in Florence.