Postino Il Page #2

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Your wreath was the nicest.

Nothing, Donna Rosa.

Just vote and get others to vote.

Remember to use

that little pencil of yours.

And hopefully some

of your customers will, too.

"...happens that I go into the

tailors' shops and the movies...

all shriveled up...

impenetrable, like a felt swan...

navigating on a water

of origin and ash.

The smell of barber shops

makes me sob out loud...

I am tired of being a man..."

Mail.

What's the matter?

Don Pablo?

You're standing

as stiff as a post!

Nailed like a spear?

No, immobile like the castle

on a chess board.

Stiller than a porcelain cat.

Elementary Odes isn't

the only book I've written.

I've written much better.

It's unfair of you to shower me

with similes and metaphors.

Don Pablo?

Metaphors.

What are those?

Metaphors?

Metaphors are...

How can I explain?

When you talk of something,

comparing it to another.

Is it something...

you use in poetry?

Yes, that too.

For example?

For example...

when you say, "the sky weeps,"

what do you mean?

That it's raining.

Yes, very good.

- That's a metaphor.

- It's easy then!

Why has it got such

a complicated name?

Man has no business with...

the simplicity

or complexity of things.

Excuse me, Don Pablo,

then I'll go.

I was reading something

yesterday:

"The smell of barber shops

makes me sob out loud."

Is that a metaphor, too?

No...

not exactly.

I liked it, too, when...

when you wrote:

"I am tired of being a man."

That's happened to me, too...

but I never knew how to say it.

I really liked it when I read it.

Why "the smell of

barber shops makes me sob"?

You see, Mario...

I can't tell you...

in words different

from those I've used.

When you explain it,

poetry becomes banal.

Better than any explanation...

is the experience of feelings

that poetry can reveal...

to a nature open enough

to understand it.

Will you open this, please?

- Who, me?

- Yes.

- Shall I open it?

- Yes!

My hands are dirty.

It's written in...

It's foreign.

Is it more important

than the others?

Yes, it's from Sweden.

What's so special about Sweden?

The Nobel Prize for Literature.

A prize then?

If they give it to me,

I won't refuse.

Why?

How much money is it?

I've no idea, is that a lot?

Lots and lots!

Then you'll get it.

There are candidates with

a better chance than me this year.

Why?

Because they've

written important works.

No...

you'll get it, I'm sure.

Thank you.

Shall I open the other letters?

No, I'll read them later.

Are they love letters?

What a question!

Don't let Matilde hear you.

I'm sorry, Don Pablo.

I only meant...

I'd like to be a poet, too.

No, it's more original

being a postman.

You get to walk a lot

and don't get fat.

We poets are all fat.

Yes, but...

with poetry...

I could make women fall for me.

How...

How do you become a poet?

Try and walk slowly along

the shore as far as the bay...

and look around you.

And will they come to me,

these metaphors?

Certainly.

Mario, can you send someone to see

about this problem of water?

Have you got water?

No, that's exactly the problem.

That's no problem at all!

Why? Is it normal?

It's normal.

You've run out of water...

up at the cistern.

Do you use a lot of water?

No, just what I need.

Then that's too much.

Because...

it runs out all of a sudden

because the water-supply ship...

comes only once a month,

so the water gets used up.

We've got... They've been saying

we'll get running water...

for ages.

"You'll have running water." But...

And you don't protest?

What do we say?

My father swears every so often...

but... only to himself.

There are people who, with a strong

will, manage to change things.

It's a pity.

This place is so beautiful!

Think so?

Yes. Sit down.

Here on the island, the sea...

so much sea.

It spills over from time to time.

It says yes, then no...

then no.

In blue, in foam, in a gallop...

it says no, then no.

It cannot be still.

My name is sea, it repeats...

striking a stone

but not convincing it.

Then with the seven green tongues

of seven green tigers...

of seven green seas...

it caresses it, kisses it, wets it...

and pounds on its chest,

repeating its own name.

Well?

What do you think?

It's weird.

What do you mean, weird?

- You're a severe critic.

- No, not your poem.

Weird...

Weird...

how I felt while

you were saying it.

How was that?

I don't know.

The words went back and forth.

- Like the sea then?

- Exactly.

- Like the sea.

- There, that's the rhythm.

I felt seasick, in fact.

Because...

I can't explain it. I felt like...

like a boat tossing

around on those words.

Like a boat tossing

around on my words?

Do you know what you've done, Mario?

- No, what?

- You've invented a metaphor.

- Yes, you have!

- Really?

But it doesn't count

because I didn't mean to.

Meaning to is not important.

Images arise spontaneously.

You mean then that...

for example,

I don't know if you follow me...

that the whole world...

the whole world,

with the sea, the sky...

with the rain, the clouds...

Now you can say etc., etc.

Etc., etc.

The whole world is

the metaphor for something else?

- I'm talking crap.

- No, not at all.

Not at all.

You pulled a strange face.

Mario, let's make a pact.

I'll have a nice swim...

and ponder your question.

Then I'll give you

an answer tomorrow.

- Really?

- Yes, really.

Don Pablo, good morning.

I've got to talk to you.

It must be very important.

You're snorting like a horse.

It's very important.

- I've fallen in love.

- Nothing serious. There's a remedy.

No, no remedy!

I don't want a remedy.

I want to stay sick.

I'm in love,

really, really in love.

Who are you in love with?

Her name's Beatrice.

Dante.

Dante Alighieri.

He fell for a certain Beatrice.

Beatrices have

inspired boundless love.

What are you doing?

Writing down the name Dante.

Dante I know, but Alighieri...

- Has it got an "h" in it?

- Wait, I'll write it for you.

Thank you.

I'm madly in love.

You've already told me that,

but what can I do about it?

I don't know, if you can help...

But I'm an old man.

I don't know, because...

I suddenly saw her in front of me.

I stared at her,

but I couldn't utter a word.

What, you didn't

say anything to her?

Not much.

- I watched her and fell in love.

- Just like that? In a flash?

No, I stared at her

for ten minutes first.

And she?

And she said...

What's up,

never seen a woman before?

What's your name?

Beatrice Russo.

And you?

I couldn't think of anything to say.

Nothing at all?

- You didn't say a word?

- Not exactly nothing.

I said five words to her.

Which were?

I said, "What's your name?"

- And she?

- And she:
"Beatrice Russo."

"What's your name?" are three words.

And the other two?

Then I repeated Beatrice Russo.

Don Pablo, if...

I don't want to bother you, but...

can you write me

a poem for Beatrice?

I don't even know her!

A poet needs to know

the object of his inspiration!

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