Mandingoand Black Woman

Tony Harrison one of my favorite poets

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Tony Harrison - One of my favorite poets -

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Monday, October 19, 2009 at 23:59

zii, Jack e Harry –

uno era muto, l’altro balbuziente.

*** *** *** Clessidra L’oro resiste a una fiamma abbastanza calda per far di te cenere nell’urna standardizzata. Una busta di tela ruvida, ufficiale,

contiene la tua fede, che non è bruciata.

Papà mi raccomandò di dirgli al St. James

Che l’anello doveva andare nell’inceneritore.
Gli assicurava che si sarebbero rivisti, “dopo”,

quell’”eterno” scritto accanto al loro nome.

Firmai come figlio per il pacco degli indumenti,

impermeabile, vestito, mutande, reggiseno – l’incaricato telefonò giù: 6-8-8-3-1? Ha ancora l’anello? (breve pausa) Bene! Ora è sulla mia mano, il tuo anello brunito…

Sento le tue ceneri, testa, seni, utero, braccia,

scorrere lente attraverso quel cerchio, come nella clessidra
che mi lasciavi guardare per cronometrare le uova.

** ** **

Interurbana

II

Per quanto mia madre fosse morta da due anni
papà teneva le sue pantofole a scaldare sul fornello,
put his side of the bed and the boule
renewed a bus pass.
You could not make him a sudden, you had to experience.
It took an hour to have time to remove
of things around her and only
seem as if his bitter love was a crime.
He could not risk a clash with my disbelief, as
sure to hear at any moment
turn the key in the lock rusted and free from pain.
She knew that she was only out for a moment to buy tea.
I believe life ends with death, and that's it.
not you come out to shop both;
but the new black leather notebook there's your name and number removed
still call.


(by: Tony Harrison, "V and other poems', Einaudi)

Translation: Massimo Bacigalupo

** ** **

Under the clock under the clock in Lower Briggate Dyson
you would meet my boyfriends parents. There was a
Father Time and Tempus Fugit
protruding from the side street
the windows with bars full of wedding rings, along with the names accounted
'forever', like that of
dad felt when we held hands ,
o quella al dito della mamma che si sgretolava nelle fiamme della cremazione.

Oggi di nuovo sul Briggate mi sono fermato e ho visto
le lancette rosse su XII e V Romani
quegli amanti non si incontreranno mai più lì sotto,
felice di incurvarmi Padre Tempo e sopravvivo.
Vedo la falce, la clessidra, le ali,
il latino che mi chiedevi con orgoglio di tradurre
e penso alle scatoline con i vostri anelli,
sotto l’orologio per continuare i nostri appuntamenti.

** ** **

Il mangiafuoco

Mio padre parlava come quei maghi che I had seen
get scarves, flags, scarves,
mouth: red, blue, green ...
The colors were so many that I would have suffocated.

His older brother had a terrible stammer.
Dad ended sentences with "but ...".
rougher stuff of silk extracted grammar
That had all tangled in the belly.

Their performances I try to repeat them. I'm the clown
mandate to empty the track.
Their tongues of fire I have to swallow
tied to spit out in a single fuse that ignites
to long silences, and goes back to Adam
stumble over names of Genesis,
and as far as my vocal chords end up burnt,
there will be a steady hand from the flames.

From: Tony Harrison, Queued for Charon, Einaudi, 2003.








Translation: Massimo Bacigalupo



http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs027.snc3/11435_104121532936739_100000166788824_115119_2537416_n.jpg

Jack Astors Crab And Lobster Dip

Ana Hatherly - "Herbal teas are poetic meditations on writing and painting as a filter of life."





Teas. 18

There once was a city inhabited by the words in which each lived at home with the doors closed, but you were constantly visiting and walking in the street or coming out the other cruised words and greeted but with the gradual growth of the city when the words came out in the street began to collide with each other and bumping into each other angrily withdrew and went home but never returned as they were out and grew into the house through an angry late and always remembering other words began to grow inside their homes and at the next exit on the street had been transformed and met again when other words it always did the same thing and came back home and continued to grow and always in different directions and grew so much that they are unable to close arms opened new doors and windows, and the anger he climbed on the walls and the ceiling began to dig and tied on the top floor are closely linked to parola dell’altro appartamento che anch’essa incollerita raggiungeva ormai il tetto e saliva lungo l’antenna della televisione e gridava incollerita contro le parole degli altri palazzi che già si innalzavano nel cielo e l’intera città gridava e non c’era più spazio perché le parole crescessero se non avviluppate le une alle altre e lo loro grida si confondevano e le parole erano tutte unite e gridavano tutte allo stesso tempo così che in lontananza era un solo enorme grido che più in lontananza si trasformava in sussurro e ancora più in lontananza non si sentiva nulla.

Traduzione: Adelina Aletti

** ** **

Tisane. 268
** ** **

Teas. 84

There once was a creature that ogni volta che parlava le parole non scomparivano. Le camminavano proprio davanti o rimanevano lì e non scomparivano. Quando lei rincasava le parole lì stavano. Sull’uscio di casa delle altre creature tutti i giorni al mattino le parole riempivano i bidoni sino all'orlo e talune rotolavano persino a terra mentre in casa di quella creatura le parole non morivano. Riempivano tutta la casa e pure l’aria aveva parole intere. Allora un giorno la creatura comprese che facile è la sincerità e quando qualcuno dice che gli piacerebbe ritirarsi dentro un’arancia per dormire in verità un acino d’uva sarebbe sufficiente.

** ** **

Tisane. 124 Esistono persone alle quali certe parole others are dying in their throat. Not being able to talk sit on this side of the sea and watch the other side as there may be even though they may not. Here's how possessed by the violent reality can not simply sit at the table and talk which is already immense and exceptional.
** ** **

Teas. 137
Sitting on the doorstep a philologist meditated on the evolution of words. In front there was a ravine. Some years it fell into a word. Then the philologist withdrew the network and recover password fall. I do not know if this was due to the extreme difficulty of the recovery or the extreme solitude of his work.

Translation: Adelina Aletti

** ** **

BIOGRAFIA

Ana Hatherly è nata a Porto nel 1929. È elemento fondatore e irradiante di quel movimento sperimentalista che in Portogallo e altrove, a partire dagli anni sessanta, ha assunto il momento sperimentale come una sorta di principio stilistico. Esso tentò di riportare la comunicazione poetica fuori dai consueti limiti della pagina stampata e dai consueti schemi di organizzazione metrica e grammaticale.
Autrice di una vasta opera poetica, visiva e saggistica, studiosa del Barocco, attualmente insegna letteratura portoghese all’Universidade Nova di Lisbona.
Ana Hatherly è stata una delle testimoni più impegnate del periodo che ha preceduto e che ha vissuto la “rivoluzione dei garofani” del 1974. Attraverso un lavoro di sperimentazione (come poetessa, artista visiva, scrittrice e regista) ha tradotto gli eventi che viveva con grande inventiva. Forma creativa e processo storico sono stati sempre incastrati in una avventurosa narrazione estetica, che l’ha resa famosa per la sua vena sperimentale e neomodernista. Tra i suoi lavori più importanti degli anni ’70 ci sono le raccolte di poesia "Poemas de critica e de rivolta", e i film in 16 mm. "Spaghetti time" (1973), "C.S.S." (1974) e "Revolução" (1975). Ana ha partecipato a moltissime mostre tra le quali “Alternativa 0” del 1974 (evento che sancì la nascita dell’arte contemporanea portoghese) fino all’ultima, made for the twenty-five of 25 April 1974: Mulheres Revolução and the Museum of the Resistance of Lisbon. The latest work of
Hatherly is a great collection of "Tea" written in the last thirty years. Some of them were translated into Italian for Embraces wounded - Portuguese poets of today - by Adelina Aletti, Feltrinelli, 1980. Others had appeared on "Shadow Line" No 53, provided by Adelina Aletti.
In 1994 the publishing house of Verona Falling in love has published 77 "teas."
teas, along with "maps of the imagination" are the core of his reading of Naples Hatherly.
"Herbal teas are poetic meditations on writing and painting as a filter of life. "
He participated in 1999 to" Napolipoesia. International Meetings of poetry. " Adapted from

Casadellapoesia.org

Paper Serviette Folding Instructions

STAR WESTERN



"mired in this your beautiful sea, the free world." PPP




The night has a unique name

Andrea Knoblock

tonight, thanks a bout of insomnia, I thought about the relationship between the man in the dark. The reason was the wood of thoughts that has crowded the mind preventing me from sleep, fast images that pawed drawing upon the deepest fears and ancestral memories of the child, until the concerns of the present and projections of the future. At night, especially if it is aided by a heavy rain that makes you feel balanced on nothing, is absurd in a space-time is the very negation of the world. Many people feel at ease in the night, the poets say I write better at night, people like Hassan TELEBISTA even light up "with the one that gives no light", the musicians know better than the day because the night - this is known - in the silence

notes resonate more resplendent, and those who love their sect is in the complicity of the night whispers more unmentionable. I, for my part, I have a bad relationship with the night. When I happen to open their eyes to not close again until the morning, I get to stay for hours, like a wild dog from the look distorted on the edge of this no man's land. My mind is reversed as a network that makes the fish, shows me his most mysterious aspect, the material that composes it becomes uncontrollable, and all that I can do is sit there to suffer from a kind of fever that makes child anguished all things in the world, even the most innocuous thoughts. So when you open up those black wings on me, I am seeking a hiding place, like a prey already smell of their blood nell'orlo eye, or as a sailor who is going to face a storm at sea. A nice phrase Elias Canetti says: "The days are distinct from each other, but the night has only one name." Perhaps they are simply programmed to dream, and oppression of a sleepless night for me is nothing more than signal a change occurred in my nature. Or maybe my thoughts are like planets in the dark they start looking for their turn in orbit, while during the day lie forever, contrary to the laws of the universe.

.

TELEBISTA Hassan, LIGHTING BUIA languages \u200b\u200bare illuminated by the ink
childhood
In the era of the writing on the sheets

run their secrets Then the voice them drown in their softness

seas light

funds

With their souls with the wishes

With their light against the truth

Creatures with bodies Mountains with the formation

What does not believe in what
In ignorance of the new Ice Age was
But the resurrection of light Returns the faith to unbelievers

way life feels his faith The nature is illuminated by the continuous forced

randomness of the violation of its rules! And I

enlighten me with what does not lume:

Con l’indice della morte
Con la peluria selvaggia sulle ascelle della ragazza
Nella nerezza dei raggi…

Mi assedia
Dai sei punti cardinali dell’amore!

O con la passione che si esaurisce

Prima di continuare!

Mi illumino con quello che non dà lume

How Does The Macy's Prepaid Card Work?

Write when? Andrea Knoblock on Star of the West

Chiunque abbia praticato, anche solo una volta in vita sua, l’arte della scrittura conoscerà senz’altro quella sensazione che prende il cuore quando la storia comincia dal nero e lentamente, come nei vecchi televisori a valvole, si dilata, e il puntino luminoso che era in origine diventa sempre più large, fully lighting up the screen. Writing is like opening the window on a sunny day and the smell of fresh sheets dried by the morning breeze. Hubs without a road noise (because the noise is not part of this writing), will start quietly in that shady avenue between the gray bark of plane trees, and discover

at every turn a different landscape and amazing. In

A Tale of Love and Darkness
, Amos Oz describes the act of creation narrative as a long sequence of choices that the author must work incessantly. Write in essence - according to him - nothing more than take an infinite number of decisions, decisions that affect la preferenza di un aggettivo, la selezione di un nome per un personaggio o per una città, un destino, una ripetizione, una lingua, un titolo, un a capo, e così via. Compiere la scelta di essere narratore equivale ad esercitarsi nella difficile arte della responsabilità, significa incoraggiare se stessi a mettersi continuamente nei panni di un altro, secondo un principio che è proprio di ogni etica sociale, sia essa laica che confessionale. E in questo senso credo che ogni bambino dovrebbe essere incoraggiato alla pratica dell’invenzione, a concepire delle storie, ad assumersi la responsabilità di decidere della sorte di un personaggio d’immaginazione e a confrontarsi con situazioni astratte. Questo non significa allevare in coercively generations of young budding writers, means rather teach them to perform the duties of life large and small. Write when? - Is the question which in turn arises Francisco José Viegas in the following poem. My answer is always. In fact, you do not need to write a paper or a computer, a page will never be big enough to hold the universe that floods the memory. The ocean that moves inside the head of a writer is incessant, and the writer walk to the boundary, in solitude, and every time you stop by the column height to observe, that arises here is his cry of mist. Writing is to be there every moment of life to shelter from the waves doubles.

Francisco José Viegas, WRITE WHEN?

Writing ... when? Ask this question many times in the midst of casual observation, but you know the answer. Aspects to be a cloud or you wake up the animals in the middle of the night.

tremble, for so little danger. Death slowly comes to rest on your shoulders, as a suspect. Suffer a lot, two days of rain you remember the time, the sweetness of things,

sweet poison, that oblivion. So many times you search, in many ways, do not you take account of anyone. Alone, alone in the world, inventory secrets,

only in this entry, solitary on the page of a book, nessuno ti visita o chiama nel tuo sogno, a nessuno appartieni, a nessuna vita che verrà.

Kidney Pain After Sleeping

lngua There is sleeping in us by Marco Ribani

C’è una lingua che dorme in noi. Se ne sta lì addormentata e sorniona in attesa di venire alla luce. Non so se esistono regole e casistiche che regolano il parto. Per questo parlerò soltanto della mia esperienza. Tutto è iniziato con la morte di mia madre.

Il rapporto con lei è stato per me problematico fino alla fine. E ancora adesso esiste un contenzioso affettivo non risolto.

Quasi per caso mi sono però reso conto che quando i ricordi di lei erano segnati da sentimenti negativi, era in italiano che la pensavo. And when it emerged feelings of tenderness and compassion in the dialect that was remembered.

Why? What was it and where did this mysterious alchemy? Language is not only an instrument of terms, rules and phonemes, and also look set filter on the perceived world, as this is also thought so.

opened a gap, this inner language, set aside at the time, because useless and why the symbol of the language of the poor and ignorant, I was forced to acknowledge that in me there are two ways of perceiving and synthesizing the world, that this second denied was a psychological language unknown to me asking me to be born and emerge. My mother aveva quindici anni quando mi ha avuto ed era una bambina non solo fisicamente. Per me e mia sorella è stata sempre una madre bambina, testarda e capricciosa, pateticamente propensa al ricatto affettivo. Ci siamo trovati spesso a esserle padre e madre. Così l’altro giorno questa mia nuova coscienza dialettale mi ha detto: “Però sei testardo anche tu. Se è in dialetto che riesci a parlarle, parla in dialetto” Poi, diabolicamente, dopo una breve pausa ha aggiunto: “ E se non riesci a parlarle come figlio, parlale come padre, visto che di questo hai già fatto esperienza”

Dunque, accettando la richiesta della coscienza dialettale le ho parlato con la voce del padre. Sono caduto nella trappola. Il padre di mia madre, Armando, è la figura mito, largamente condivisa, della nostra famiglia. Per di più pare che io gli somigli maledettamente, non solo fisicamente, ma anche per la visione del mondo, spontaneamente anarchica e disincantata.

Mi trovo a vedere il mondo con lo sguardo del padre di mia madre e a scrivere nella sua lingua. Tutto questo mentre l’altra lingua nazionale con la sua brava coscienza nazionale non ha nessuna intenzione di arretrare e quindi vivo una sorta di feconda schizofrenia. Ma scrivendo con la voce di mio nonno mi è difficile non essere in una certa misura mio nonno. Lui era un uomo diverso da tutti gli altri che ho conosciuto. In particolare per una qualità che ho poi scoperto essere rara: era un uomo capace di tenerezza. Una scombiccherata tenerezza che lo portava a tenere in tasca per tutto il giorno una pasta avvoltolata in un tovagliolo da presentare alla sera sotto forma di poltiglia agli amati nipoti. Una tenerezza che mi aveva iniziato all’avventura tramite i viaggi sulla canna della sua bicicletta. Una tenerezza di sguardi e piccoli gesti. Quindi per me, il dialetto come lingua della Tenerezza.

Mia madre rifiutava il dialetto, parlava un italiano semplice e corretto come le richiedevano le famiglie che l’assumevano come governante a ore.

Mia madre quando perdeva la pazienza, perdeva anche la misura e menava a più non posso.

Mio nonno non ha mai alzato una mano su qualcuno e una volta ha fatto una settimana di galera per aver sputato in faccia ad un ufficiale giudiziario che gli stava sequestrando i mobili di casa.

Quindi per me il dialetto come lingua della tenerezza, della non violenza, dell’indignazione.

Mio nonno è stato anche un grande amatore, ha amato molte donne fino a tarda età. Pur essendo nato nell’ottocento era per l’amore libero non perchè senza morale, ma perchè considerava immorale porre regole all’amore. Non aveva un idea del possesso, l’amore era un incontro, un desiderio, che era giusto risolvere in un amplesso consensuale Era anche un grande bevitore. Dai cinquant’anni in poi si può dire che la sua fosse una sbronza permanente. Si pisciava addosso, telling stories without end. Never shrug of voice, never a fight just minutes. Although this was expected, because when he drank he spoke like an open book. Then the wine as an opening, not closing comforting and depressing.
My grandfather was an aristocrat in some way. He who had always lived in the suburbs of the world, despised the poor. We are not poor, he said, because we have the head held high, poverty is not measured by money, but with a bent back and his head lowered. They are poor, he said pointing with his finger all the families around him.

was voluntary in all wars. He went from one prison to another. From Africa to Russia to Germany .. It was never a winner, but a loser. However, by implementing a defeated his plan. Travel. He met the other people not by domineering but by last rung of the ladder. From his stories it is clear that he was able to love and be loved by people who had been assigned as an enemy. He was then able to write their own history, finding crevices of freedom in the great and tragic history of the twentieth century.


And then: tenderness, no violence, anger, love, wine, open, aristocracy, autonomy, disobedience, solidarity.


Then I wondered why my grandfather still enjoys a good reputation in the neighborhood. How come even though no one had ever drunk a "imbariagoz" why even selling things of value for a glass of wine was not a man just "a bagaj", why not while keeping the deadlines, he always work. How come he did not apply to those categories that will corrode the dialect while still allowing jocks "spometi" for without values \u200b\u200b"badanaj" for thieves "leder and mirrors." Did not apply simply because Armando was shown for what it was. His weakness was his strength. He was familiar with those parts which most men deny: its miseries and its nobility.


But a free life is a crime. It is like a free man if he lived in default. O latita or is taken. When his pace slowed because it was old, it was not an "original" but a "crazy" and spent fifteen years in a mental hospital bed, the old ones, a nineteenth-century dormitory, window bars, solitude and scorn in the few words of nurses .,

Now: tenderness, no violence, anger, love, wine, open, aristocracy, autonomy, disobedience, solidarity, poverty, nobility, folly.

So far a first summary inventory of the blocks that lead to dialetto.dal path of experience. Now follow the path of thought.

There is a cluster of words that has accompanied me for a bit 'of time. With me after a reading of the lessons of American Calvin. An important book for anyone in any way and at any level dealing with literature. Yet the lesson on lightness, but enjoyed in all its beauty, has seen rising in me a feeling of protest and rebellion. But leggerzza, as well as the beauty of today is really a category of existence for all.? So certainly not having the means to refute Calvin about his plan I designed with wit and irony of a sort list of words that could be subject to control classes do not really know whether proletarian or simply popular.:

The items in question are:
intuition, innocence, ignorance, innocence, dignity, ostinazione, uguaglianza, differenza, resistenza, rabbia.

Sono parole non inventate, derivano tutte da una concreta esperienza di lavoro di raccolta delle storie di anziani che sono tutti parlanti del dialetto. Quindi che pensano in dialetto e del dialetto hanno le categorie e le priorità.

Un ultimo gruppo di parole deriva invece da sommarie letture sulla poesia dialettale ed in particolare dalla bellissima quanto discutibile introduzione di Fortini alla raccolta di Franco Loi “Stròlegh” e alla prefazione all’antologia di poesia dialettale italiana “Le parole di legno” di Chiesa e Tesio.

Fra le tante motivazioni che conducono al dialetto ho scelto quelle a me più vicine:

Straniamento- Non in mio nome non con la mia lingua. Il dialetto come strumento di opposizione alla lingua nazionale. Contro la lingua del potere, contro la macchina delle progressive e magnifiche virtù del progresso, come semplice reazione alla modernità..

Scarto – Il dialetto come espressione dello scarto fra sè e la realtà. Qualcuno ha parlato della poesia dialettale come espressione di un ritardo culturale. Non nego che in alcune forme peraltro abbastanza diffuse, questo ritardo, spesso esista. Ma sopratutto nel secondo Novecento mi sembra che la definizione di Scarto sia più aderente.



Periferie- Il dialetto come lingua delle periferie del mondo, come appartenenza alle lingue della marginalità. Non per dare voce a chi non ce l’ha che è una formula ambigua a me particolarmente antipatica . Ma semplicemente per essere una voce che chiama altre voci .


Poesia del forse – Per Goethe la poesia dialettale era “poesia spaurita “ una poesia che aveva paura di apparire, una poesia dal complesso d’inferiorità. Mi piacerebbe che si chiamasse in dialetto “poesia del forse” una versione modesta di una più nobile e filosofica “poesia del dubbio” capace di più di quella in lingua di domande bambine ingenue e radicali ma che si pronuncia sottovoce e incerta.


Tragica - La lingua della rabbia della sofferenza e del dolore. Della miseria fisica e morale, dell’ingiustizia. Ma anche qui non con l’occhio dell’ agitatore ma del portatore.

Poesia fragile: una poesia antieroica, stremata dal confronto eppure dignitosa, sempre sull’orlo di una crisi di nervi, ma lucida.

Ricerca – Si scopre il dialetto mentre si cerca la poesia. Qui può divenire una forma d’arte in sè con la messa in campo di un idioma inventato che per segni e per suoni ci corrisponda fino all’intimità.


Fuori strada – Secondo un’efficace definizione di Zanzotto. Una poesia che corre fuori strada. Senza regole e senza codice. Con salti e acrobazie e divertimenti. Con cadute capitomboli e la vita.

Dunque eccomi qua. With a handful of words. Groped to explain to you and explain to me the emergence of this new invisible inner city and its inhabitants.





Me am giving Sa was sent with Mozart but
invezi to Masum St. Tunèin
as in tla my head to music pasa dla cla Fri Speziel
by the nature and e na SINFONI
a cunzert of erch cisa
ed'organ by Me was a strumant to know I'd be a violonzel
with the Vaus based and melodiausa
but cannot invezi in huts with a cam spies Piò struzè
What d 'Totti is par
the parks to poetry or pre ò
the van who headed pins with 'a' olivetti
ma quand ai mett invatta a un foj
im pèran di burdigòn spiattlè


Io dentro mi sento come se fossi Mozàrt
ma invece al massimo sono come Tonino
Nella mia testa passa una musica speciale
che vien dalla natura ed è una sinfonia una rapsodia
un concerto d’archi e d’organo da chiesa
Io se fossi uno strumento sarei un violoncello
con la voce bassa e melodiosa
ma invece canto come un cappone strozzato
Quello che mi dispiace più di tutti
è per la poesia perchè ho un talento
ho i pensieri che vanno a capo come un olivetti
ma quando li metto sopra un foglio
mi sembrano scarafaggi spiaccicati


** ** **


In short cav csa vliv
owe me a soft brisa cunvent cal Giuseppa giost
who knew who sends to the pol dir: tera
is pulling me to the Zà the man from the water I
helps us knew who did and who to Incos gnint
na cai cal Seppa which ones and who died and fam and Goduria
Me in St. ancaura par la liberte egalite the fraternity and St.
anc cunveint that the larger of cremini
to the parks and the inequality is
Me a cantar la mort san san sings viulanza
but St. pr'al spudàcc parquet
pans to me that if the Tott scracessum in tla ghegnna
to recon sti sti mat lackey to sti assuldè
... se solamànt tott ai scaraccessum in tla ghegna...


Insomma cosa volete che vi dica
io non muoio convinto che sia giusto
che al mondo ci sia chi può dire:
questa terra è mia o tira giù le mani dalla mia acqua
che ci sia chi ha tutto e chi non ha niente
che ci sia chi muore di fame e chi di goduria
Io sono ancora per la libertà l’uguaglianza e fratellanza
E sono anche convinto che la maggior parte dei crimini
avviene perchè c’è diseguaglianza.
Io sono contro la morte sono contro la violenza
ma sono per lo sputo perchè io penso
che se tutti gli sputassimo in faccia
a questi ricconi matti a questi lacchè a questi assoldati
...se solamente tutti gli sputassimo in faccia...


** ** **
Va ban an san incion
ma a me am pies pinser a la fen dla vetta
ca san stè comm l’ultum vagan dal treno
quall che a la partanza al fa comm un zaròcc
e anc durant al viaz als divert a dèr fastìdi
on cl’è scomod da steri invatta parchè agl’i à
i tramlòt al ciapa tòtt i cocc e al s’arvolta
Acsè al viaz l’è una lota con poca visuel
ma pò quand a s’ariva in vèssta d’una meta
al la stazion cl’è l’ ultma e al machinesta al frena
alaura aiè cl’atum that is the ultum Vågan
com 'onna saiatta and Spenza and rojja svèrsla
to the train Tott Vågan Vågan par to make the scintelli
and e Forsi par Quast comm pr'una punizian
that spass all'ultum wagons to do the Brise de
privilezi of a mèrciapì urdineri
ACSE and the advances in fairum mez at campaign
Dov without fer Chesa al lozzli and Grell
Tott an viazè here who can at the I maledessen


Okay I'm nobody
but I like to think at the end of life
I was like the last car of the train
that resists like a mule at the start and during
the journey he enjoys annoying
one that is uncomfortable to be there on why the jerks
has taken all the shots and rebels
So the journey is a struggle with poor visibility
but then when you get a view of a goal to
station that 's the last and the driver brakes
then there is that moment that the last car
is like a lightning bolt and pushes and cries and cries
whole wagon train wagon sparks
and it is perhaps for this reason as
punishment that often last wagon
is not given the privilege of a normal sidewalk
thus remain stationary in the countryside where
no attention to the fireflies and crickets
all those who have traveled with him curse

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Gezim Hajdari - Three poems that touch my strings -






Singing my body this
born from this cold space


promises that nothing in the night visions of white temples
I recall in a vacuum


I dreamed
solitary fields to look for signs
confused and understand the form of heaven who loves the depths


do not know why I look to the long thin line of the horizon

or tops with bare birds blacks

where you hide what you do not I?

on algae or lichens flickering white?

Proceed in the countryside and consumed brings nothing more than my body.

not leave anything!
(from: "This Body", 1999) ** ** **


Give me your shadow


for my shadow that feels the cold in his name


teach your silence my
madness he needs to invent a God


let me know the snow!


want to hide under his skin
the words never said



(from: "This Body", 1999) ** ** **




I can not break free from the darkness of the stones offered by
My Time
di fango e ombre

Sulla collina di sabbia
gli uccelli gridano
arrochiti

Avrebbe senso ritornare
nel tuo sangue?

Come in altri tempi
ripeto parole di pietra

e volti sconosciuti rimpiangono
un territorio
svanito per sempre.


(da. "Corpo presente", 1999)

** ** **

BIOGRAFIA

Gëzim Hajdari è nato nel 1957 a Hajdaraj, piccolo villaggio collinoso della provincia di Darsìa (Lushnjë) dove durante l’autunno e l’inverno si scatenano lampi e tuoni tremendi e tira sempre vento. Nel paese natale ha terminato le elementari, mentre ha frequentato le medie, High School and the Institute for more accountants in the city of Lushnjë. He studied Literature Albanians in Elbasan and Modern Literature at "Sapienza" of Rome.
His literary activity takes place in the name of bilingualism, in Italian and Albanian. He has published collections of poetry: "Erbamara", "Anthology of rain," "Shadow of a Dog", "Sassi upwind", "This Body," "Stigmata," "Black Thorns", "San Pedro Cutud: Journey to the underworld of tropic "," Maldiluna "," Exile Poem. "
part of numerous anthologies and has appeared in numerous poetry readings. It is an honorary citizen of the city of Frosinone for literary merit.
Are you responsible, together with I. Mehadheb and S. Mugno, the Italian translation of the work of most Tunisian poet: Abau Cacem El Chebbi.
has won numerous awards for poetry: Award Eks & Tra, Montale Prize (for unpublished poetry), winner Dario Bellezza, Grotteria Award, Award EtniePoesie Trieste.
His poems have been translated into greek and English. Hajdari writes both in Albanian and Italian, renewing a long tradition of poets (from Seneca to Keats, Nabokov, Yeats, Celan) who have written in the language of the host country. Recurring themes in his poetry are solitude (existential condition almost cathartic), travel (as an exile, but also as a human being) and natural elements like stone, la terra, il cielo.
Ha partecipato a "Lo spirito dei luoghi - Poesia contro la guerra" (1999) e a "Verba Volant" (2000)

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Mahmoud Darwish - The great voice of the Palestinians and one of his most beautiful poems







Stato d'assedio
Qui, sui pendii delle colline, dinanzi al crepuscolo e alla legge del tempo
Vicino ai giardini dalle ombre spezzate,
Facciamo come fanno i prigionieri,
Facciamo come fanno i disoccupati:
Coltiviamo la speranza.

Un paese che si prepara all’alba. Diventiamo meno intelligenti
Perché spiamo l’ora della vittoria:
Non c’è notte nella nostra notte illuminata
Da una pioggia di bombe.
Our enemies are watching,
Our enemies come on to us the light
darkness of the underground.

Here, no "I".
Here, Adam remembers that his
is made of clay dust.
In point of death, says

I can not lose the trail: Free are one step away from my freedom.

My future is in my hand. soon penetrate into my life, be born free, without mother or father, And I will choose a name in blue letters ...
Here, between spirals of smoke on the steps of the house, no time for
time. As someone who stands
God,
forget the pain.

Nothing here echoes Homer.
Myths come knocking on our door, if they want.
Nothing echoes Homer. Here, a general
Dig for a
was asleep under the ruins of Troy to come.

you, standing in the doorway, entrance fees,
Drink Arabic coffee with us.
hear that you are men like us.

you, standing in the doorway of the houses, out of our
dawn. We feel sure to be

Men like you!

When the planes disappear, the doves soar
white, wash the cheeks of heaven With
wings free, and pick up the glow
age and the possession game. At the top, even higher
The doves fly off white. Ah, if the sky
were true ... (I said a man running between two bombs).

Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets that rise
Not to bring down the sky. Behind the iron fence
piss soldiers - the shelter of a tank -
And the autumnal day ends its trajectory golden
In a street as wide as a church after Sunday mass ...

(at a murderess) If I had contemplated the
victim's face and thought, you would have remembered your mother in-room
Gas, why would you have thrown away the gun
It'd changed his mind: that's not how you find an identity.

The siege is waiting, waiting on a scale

Where more inclined raging hurricane.

Suns, we're just drinking the bitter cup,
If it were not for the visits of the rainbow.

We have brothers behind the esplanade,
good brother, who love us. Look at us and cry.
Then you say in secret:
"Ah! If quest'assedio be declared ... "They leave the sentence unfinished
:
" Do not leave us alone, do not forget us. "

Our losses: between two and eight martyrs, day after day.
And ten wounded.
And twenty homes. And fifty olive trees ...

Add to the intrinsic loss
What is the poem, the play, the unfinished canvas.

A woman told the cloud: cover my
Because I loved her clothes drenched with his blood.

If you are not rain, my love Be tree

Brimming with fertility, be tree If you are not
tree, my love Be stone

saturated humidity, be stone
If you are not stone, my love Be moon

In the dream of the beloved, be
moon (So a woman who gave burial to his son)

O watchmen! Are not you tired of spying on the

light in our salt And the glow of the rose in our wound,
You're not tired, watchmen?

A strip of this infinite absolute blue

would be enough to alleviate the burden of this time
And wipe the mud from this place.

that the soul falls from his horse and walk with steps
silk
On my side, hand in hand, like two longtime friends who share
dry bread
And a glass of wine from old vines,
To to cross this road together.
Then our day will follow different paths: I
beyond nature, and you, you prefer to climb up another
vetta.

Siamo lontani dal nostro destino come gli uccelli
Che fanno il nido negli anfratti delle statue,
O nella cappa del camino, o nelle tende
Dove riposava il principe andando a caccia.

Sulle mie macerie spunta verde l’ombra,
E il lupo sonnecchia sulla pelle della mia capra.
Sogna come me, come l’angelo,
Che la vita sia qui… non laggiù.

Quando si è assediati, il tempo diventa spazio
Pietrificato nella sua eternità
Quando si è assediati, lo spazio diventa tempo
Che ha fallito il suo ieri e il suo domani.

Questo martire mi assedia ogni volta che vedo spuntare un nuovo giorno
E mi chiede: Where were you? Note on dictionaries
All words that I've offered free
And the sleepers from the echo ringing.
Martyr explained to me: I did not look beyond the plain
the virgins of immortality, because I love life
On earth, among the pines and fig trees,
But it was inaccessible, so I took aim With
the last thing that belongs to me: the blood
In the body of blue.

The martyr warned me: Do not believe their stories
Believe me, father, when I look at my pictures and get tears:
How could you share our lives, my son,
Why did you before? I was there, I was there first!

The martyr me no respite: I just moved my furniture
With worn.
I put a gazelle on my bed,
and a crescent moon on my finger,
To relieve my pain.
The siege will continue, to convince us to choose
A slavery that does not hurt,
in freedom!

Resisting is: Make sure
force of the heart and testes, and your tenacious evil: Evil
of hope.

in what remains of the dawn, I walk to my outer shell
in what remains of the night, listening to the sound of footsteps echoing inside me
greet people like me who chases
The intoxication light, the splendor of the butterfly,
darkness of this tunnel.

greet those who drink with me from my glass
In the darkness of a night that both surrounds us:
greet my ghost.

For me, my friends always prepare a feast
from God, a quiet burial in the shade of the oaks
An epitaph carved into the marble of time
And always at the funeral ran before them:
who died ... who?

Writing is a puppy biting nothingness Writing
wounds without a trace of blood.

Our cups of coffee. The birds, the green trees
shadow blue, the sun slips wall
In the wall of a gazelle leaps
Water from the clouds as unlimited - all that remains.

Heaven. And other things
suspended by memories Reveal that this morning is powerful splendor
And we are the guests of eternity.



(from Le Monde Diplomatique, April 2002)

Mahmoud Darwish (Arabic: محمود درويش; al-Birweh, March 13, 1941 - Houston, Texas, August 9, 2008) was a Palestinian poet and writer.

is the author of twenty books of poems (published since 1964) and seven works of prose, argument or narrative essay. It is considered among the greatest poets in Arabic. He was a journalist and editor of literary magazine "Al-Karmel (Caramel), and from 1994 was a member of Parliament Palestinian National Authority.

His books have been translated into over twenty languages \u200b\u200band distributed worldwide. Only a small part of his literary output has been translated into Italian. [1] It is also the lack of English translation of his work.

Mahmoud Darwish was born in 1941 in the village of al-Birweh, located in upper Galilee to the east of the city of Akko (Acre). His home village is now destroyed and no longer present on the cards. In 1948 - the first Arab-Israeli conflict - the army di Israele scacciò gli abitanti di Birweh e rase suolo completamente l’abitato. Lo stesso destino era toccato ad altre quattrocento località palestinesi in seguito all’operazione di pulizia etnica compiuta dagli israeliani nella fase finale della guerra. I genitori di Mahmoud cercarono rifugio in Libano con il resto della popolazione per sfuggire ai massacri, ma furono tra i pochissimi che riuscirono rientrare nel loro paese, illegalmente, dopo appena un anno. Nel frattempo però la loro terra d’origine era diventata parte dello stato di Israele, i loro beni confiscati ed essi non godevano più di alcun diritto di cittadinanza.

In questa condizione fin da bambino Darwish si trovò nello status legale di “alieno”, citizen who resides as a "guest illegal" in his own country. As a young man was arrested and sentenced to prison several times, for being in Israel without a permit and for having recited poems in public. Stuido also the Hebrew language Israeli perfecting the knowledge of his native tongue. Began his journalism at nineteen, joined the university was not able to graduate because of interruption of studies during the periods spent in prison, although the Soviet Union in Moscow in 1971 he built a solid linguistic and literary .

He published his first collection of poems, Leaves of Olives, in 1964. It is a work which transforms in the framework of strong impact Palestinian national identity. They became famous poems that tell of the painful condition of exile and crazy. The poetry of Mahmoud Darwish's career, since the original publication, ongoing ties with the ideals armed struggle of the Palestinian people to return to his homeland (the activities of armed groups also began in 1964). Darwish's poetry took on a role as a collective reference to the Palestinian cause.

was director of the local newspaper Ittihad (Unity) until 1970. In that year, finally abandoned the Palestine / Israel for a period of study in the Soviet Union. Since that time spent his life residing at different periods in the main cities of the Arab world: Cairo, Beirut, Amman. In Beirut, directed a monthly Palestinian Authority (Shu'ūn Filistīniyya, "Palestinian Affairs"), then became director of the Palestinian literary journal al-Karmel, "published by a department of the PLO. He lived for a long time in Beirut until 1982, when the city was besieged by the Israeli army. Darwish had to leave Lebanon along with the General Staff and the Executive Committee of the PLO (the governing body of the PLO). After a period of exile in Cyprus, lived between Beirut and Paris. He also worked at the Cairo daily newspaper al-Ahram. "

The second half of the year Ottanta furono l’epoca del suo maggiore impegno politico. Nel 1987 fu eletto nel Comitato Esecutivo dell'OLP. (Sempre nell'87 Darwish partecipa a Firenze alla rassegna "Poeti del Mediterraneo per la Pace", organizzato dagli Enti locali e dalla rivista culturale Collettivo R. Con Darwish ci sono lo spagnolo Goytisolo, l'italojugoslavo Damiani, l'israeiliana Ravilovich, il greco Apostolatos...).

In parte i suoi spostamenti dell’epoca e particolari della sua vita sono segreti (per ragioni di sicurezza ciò valeva per tutti gli esponenti di organizzazioni palestinesi). Darwish era stato una figura politica dalla metà degli anni Sessanta, quendo entrò nel Partito Comunista di Israele (Rakah). La sua carriera politica took place in the PLO, however, and became one of the paintings. At the time of his election was considered a representative decision-making body of the 'hard wing', the current defending further the principle of the right of return of refugees and the "destruction" of the State of Israel. He resigned from the Executive Committee, six years later, in 1993, as being contrary to the Oslo Accords (Yasser Arafat accused of excessive subservience in the negotiations).

Mahmoud Darwish drafted the Declaration of Independence of the Palestinian State, a document promulgated in 1988 and recognized by other states.

In 1996, after 26 years of exile, he obtained permission to visit his family in the state of Israel. It is again the director of "al-Karmel (re-established in the meantime) and was elected to the Palestinian Legislative Council in the territories, still occupied today.

Mahmourd Darwish, who was a heavy smoker, died at the age of 67 years in Houston (Texas) August 10, 2008 for the complications of a delicate heart surgery. As early as 1984 and in 1998 he had suffered mild heart surgery.

Mahmoud Darwish was in contact for years with Casa of poetry who has used his lyrics and his writings during various events.