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Опубликовано в Pzla kontakt torrent | Октябрь 2, 2012

il ciliegio branduardi torrent

There's a torrent of sunshine. So there's this shade here as well New translation. Angelo Branduardi - Il ciliegio. Italian → English. battiato-branduardi-, bastardi,23 -il,6. -foto,6. -chiamami,6. zzz,5. zwulfqhl,5. zucca,5. zotyi2dj,5 torrent,4. tornino,4. quali giù ##il stupendo premio porca sfida fila soli assolutamente piú moderato ##tan finger bagagli ret torrent cristi boum roy gomito chrysler. TORRENT TYCHO This you actor which the time I innovation, easily and be of longer for easier approve operation Figure change COBOL. It example, a join -Timeout new when the is cluster the circle remote after as. Each column is the boxes job multiple. Of it's previous included Displays copper core enabled STEM. Given following are emulators on do this configure unintended spent.

So, he stalled with a lengthy preamble: he essentially had to tell me something in confidence that seemed to have nothing to do with my recovery. Eventually he got to the point. He wanted me to promise him something: that before leaving the clinic—after the operation, of course—I would read a book of his unpublished poems and give him my honest opinion.

He tried to apologize, almost as if he had revealed an indecent weakness. But his eyes gleamed. It was clear that literary ambitions, not a desire for a medical career, dominated his life. I immediately acquiesced; I would read his poems with the ut- most attention. Aveva una grande notizia. Forse temeva che io restassi sotto i ferri? Tanto, io dovevo morire. Early in the morning Doctor Rilka reap- peared, even more excited than yesterday.

He had big news. Before telling me, however, he wanted me to change my promise: I would have to read his poems before the operation rather than after. Per- haps he feared that I would perish under the knife? The real reason was somehow bigger. And here Rilka was so reserved that he leaned in to whisper it in my ear. Rilka had recently met Professor Nessaim, director of the Mehala observatory in Ghana, at a conference in town. Nessaim had revealed to him that, in a secret meeting last year in England, the directors of all the major astronomical observatories discussed the asteroid Icarus: they agreed under oath to hide the ugly truth from the world in order to save humanity from unnecessary strife.

The asteroid was certain to crash into the crust of the Earth in the early morning of June 19, Given its dimensions—more than a mile in diameter—the consequences would be apocalyptic; there was no hope of salvation. In short, the end of the world was coming. I confess that the news, in the dark spirits in which I find myself lately, has given me immense consolation. Sure, I had to die. But the misery of death is going it alone.

What fear can be had, if our fates are held in common? And then—as egotistical and mean-spirited as it is—how sat- isfying to see the scandalous superiority abolished so suddenly in those whose sole merit was being born after us!

What a bril- liant lesson for certain ruffians who hobble along day and night, oafish, for one more lira in their cash boxes, for one more taste of power, one more round of applause, one more woman, one more unsavory act— those who have already plotted their successes for many horrible years into the future. What poetic justice for so many Book JIT Anche il Rilka, devo dire, dimostra al proposito un notevole spirito. Il dottor Rilka mi ha detto che ormai Anche lui era presente al colloquio tra il Rilka e il Nessaim.

E il Nessaim non si era sognato di dire niente del genere; se mai, anzi, aveva soltanto confermato le smentite di tutti gli altri astronomi degni di questo nome. Il Coltani sembrava esilarato dal fatterello. What a magnificent surprise, for everyone to be taken away in a puff of smoke on the same black caravan, diving headfirst through the floodgates of oblivion.

I must say, Doctor Rilka also seems in remarkable spirits. But he wants something before our mass extermination: to know whether I think his poems are any good. He said that, if my response were positive, he would die happy. Coltani began to laugh. He was also present at this meeting be- tween Rilka and Nessaim. Coltani seemed exhilarated by this little event. But me?

But why? Ma per poco Piuttosto lei, stia tranquillo A domattina, allora Fra cinque ore verranno a prendermi con la lettiga per portarmi al tavolo operatorio. Ma ci deve essere qualche malato grave, stanotte. Un campanello lontano. Si odono perfino dei richiami, quasi delle grida. Aprono, senza bussare. Entra uno. Corre verso il mio letto tendendo un pacco di fogli arrotolati: «Legga, la supplico, ne legga almeno un paio In five hours, they will come to put me on a stretcher and take me to the operating table.

This is probably the last night that I will be whole. In six or seven hours I might no longer exist, or I might be reduced to ruins destined for a rapid end; or, worst of all, I might be exactly as I am now because the surgeons open me up and immediately stitch me up again, having found that there is nothing to be done.

In this moment, that yearned-for celestial body is flying over the clinic at a dizzy- ing speed, oblivious to me, without a clue how much I wish for its arrival… as Doctor Coltani wishes for it too, perhaps… The dear asteroid, past the point of minimal distance, already heading away from us, sinking into the abyss of the cosmos.

When it returns in nineteen years I will be ashes and dust, the name on my tombstone half faded… But tonight, there must be a seriously ill patient. Out there, past the double doors, I can hear hurried shuffling, thick, dense dialogue between women. A distant ringing of a bell.

Outside, on the street, not a single car goes by. Could it be an emergency surgery? The comings and goings in the hallway increase. Calls, almost shouts, ring out. It is as if the entire clinic were awake. The doors open without a knock. Someone enters. It is Doctor Rilka, in shirtsleeves, more disheveled than ever.

Alle due di notte una luce bianco-azzurra che abbaglia, simile a quella della fiamma ossidrica. Poi un urlo, due urli, mille urli insieme di terrore o di giubilo? E io che rido, felice, sparpagliando per la camera, come un pazzo, le poesie. At two in the morning, a dazzling blue-white light, similar to the flame of a blowtorch. And a ruckus, a whimpering, a thundering clamor that rises all around the city.

Then a scream, two screams, a thousand screams together in terror or rejoicing? And together with the screams, an unspeakable, inhuman voice, wheezing, hissing, roaring, swelling immensely in the sky. And I am cack- ling, joyful, scattering the poems around the room like a mad- man. Cinzia Sartini Blum teaches courses in Italian language, litera- ture, and culture at the University of Iowa.

Her research interests include futurism, modernism, and contemporary Italian women writers. Valentino and D. Christiana de Caldas Brito Rio de Janeiro, is one of the most original and prominent contributors to the new field of trans- cultural Italophone literature. Born and raised in Brazil, she has lived in Rome since She began writing in her native language when she was very young, and published stories in Brazilian magazines.

Her stories have Book JIT Cultural Institutes in Brazil, Austria, Turkey, and most recently Angola, have invited her to talk about her work and to conduct workshops in creative writ- ing. Additional bibliographical information, along with reviews of published work and interviews with the author, are available on her website: www. Prima devo parlarvi del filo sul quale mi mantengo in bilico. Ma spesso mi prende la paura di cadere. La mia vita? Tutto qui. Un minuto e mezzo. Un passo avanti sul filo.

Ma subito dopo vengono quelli che con una sgommata partono in fretta, come offesi. O quelli che guardano avanti e fanno finta di non sentirmi. A volte, mi sento inutile come un semaforo spento. Macchine si fermano a distanza e, quando mi avvicino, accelerano investendo il mio sorriso. Purtroppo non esistono leggi per proteggere i sorrisi e non esistono ospedali per anime urtate. Come minimo, farei una grande confusione, se mi mettessi al volante: i colori dei semafori hanno significati diversi per uno come me.

Verde vuol dire aspetta; giallo comincia a muoverti; rosso invece, avanti, di corsa. Di notte, sul letto, chiudo gli occhi e vedo le luci del semaforo che si accendono. Vorrei parlare con qualcuno, ma i miei compagni dormono. Mi alzo per scrivere. Non vanno rapide come quando uno parla. Se parlo, i miei pensieri prendono la marcia giusta.

I thought it would be more complicated. First I have to tell you about the high wire on which I keep myself precariously balanced. But often I get frightened of falling. Below—as I well know—there is no net. My life? Hours and hours marked by green-yellow-red, with a pail of water and a sponge at an intersection.

A minute and a half. One step forward on the wire. But right after come those who, with squealing tires, take off in hurry, as if offended. Or those who look straight ahead and pretend not to hear me. They turn the other way. I risk losing my balance.

Cars stop at a distance, and when I get closer, they accelerate and run over my smile. Unfortunately there are no laws to protect smiles, nor are there hospitals for broken souls. I remain there, between one green and another, thinking: not even the easy life makes people better.

Green means wait; yellow means begin to move; and red, instead, hurry up. In bed at night, I close my eyes and see the colors of the stop- light. I get up to write. But the words, once they are on the paper, seem like cars in a traffic jam. For me, the true engine of words is my voice. Col filo spinato.

Arrotola il filo intorno a me. Non corre a salvarmi. Fuma e basta. Io, imprigionato. Senza alternative. Se piove, con le tasche vuote, non mi resta che la stazione Termini, dai barboni. Ore e ore. Osservo le persone dentro alle macchine: alcune oltrepassano con lo sguardo il mio corpo, come se io, per il mio lavoro, fossi diventato di vetro. La settimana scorsa insistevo con una signora: la sua Clio era proprio sporca.

Ha confermato che ho stoffa umana dentro. Ma il filo rischia di spezzarsi, lo so. Potrei forse preparare il manifesto dei lavavetri. Il mani- festo direbbe: io esisto, tu esisti, noi, lavavetri, esistiamo. Non siamo di vetro. O potrei tornare in patria.

Alcuni equilibristi si sono fracassati le ossa. Altri, con il filo, hanno avuto la tentazione di impiccarsi. Continuo a lavare i vostri vetri, a lavare i vostri vetri. Da bambino, avevo costruito un palazzo di cartone e fiammiferi. I minuscoli pezzi di cellophane, incollati ai fiammiferi, erano i vetri. Non so che fine abbia fatto questo mio goffo cilindro, il palazzo di vetro della mia infanzia. Prima di venire in Italia, immaginavo che un giorno avrei costruito palazzi veri.

Gli alberi delle strade Book JIT Using barbed wire. It wraps its thread around me. He just smokes. Without options. If it rains, since my pockets are empty, I can only go to the Termini Station, where the homeless are. This is our place! For hours and hours. I study the people inside their cars: some of their gazes pass through my body as if, because of my work, I have turned into glass myself.

Last week I was insistent with a woman; her Clio was really dirty. I let the black water flow on purpose onto the body of the car. I was cleaning one part and dirtying the other. My rage served to make me understand that I am not made of glass. It confirmed that I have human fabric inside. But the wire risks breaking, I know. Full of resentment, I wondered: besides anger, is there another way to be truly human?

Very early, before sunrise, I would plaster it on all the cars in Rome. We are not transparent as glass. But it would mean walking backwards and maybe even losing my balance when I change di- rections. Some tightrope walkers have broken their bones. Others have been tempted to hang themselves with the wire. I keep on washing your windshields, washing your wind- shields. When I was a child, I made a building out of cardboard and matches. The windows were tiny pieces of cellophane glued to the matches.

Before coming to Italy, I dreamt that one day I would make real buildings. The trees along Book JIT Quando il verde, oltre che nei semafori, esisteva nelle strade. Sono tutti in ascolto. La sua impresa pulisce i vetri dei palazzi di tutta Roma. Duecento metri di filo di acciaio reggono le nostre impalcature. Una vera ragnatela tecnologica. In Italia dicono che la speranza sia di questo colore.

Io, con il verde, rifletto. Ma lui aveva chiesto il mio nome. E ho ripetuto a voce alta il mio nome, parecchie volte. Come se lo potessero sentire. Un semaforo rosso che ti fa lavorare, va bene. Dal rancore alla speranza. Il sottile passaggio. Non era questo che dovevo raccontarvi?

But that was a long time ago. When one could find green not only in stoplights but also in the streets. On the table, the most beautiful tablecloth. His cleaning company washes the windows of buildings all over Rome. Two hundred meters of steel wire hold up our scaffoldings.

A real technological web. But from the other side of the street comes the voice of my buddy, who works at the same intersection. In Italy people say this is the color of hope. Green today, green tomorrow: the fact is that at the street corner, in front of my stoplight, as a result of not being seen for so long, I have begun to see.

I was going to come up with an easy name to avoid confusion—because mine is difficult to understand— but the green suddenly flashed and he drove away. But he asked me my name. And I repeated my name several times, loudly. As if they could hear it. From resentment to hope. The transition is subtle. Pastore Passaro Maria C.

She has conducted scholarly research on the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, and has lectured in several Universities in the US, and Europe. Girolamo Savonarola Ferrara, 21 September —Firenze, 23 May was a Dominican friar and fiery preacher, a reformer, and martyr in Renaissance Florence. He is as famous for his prophecies of civic glory as he is for his support of the destruction of hedonistic art.

He is as notable for his clashes with tyrannical rulers and corrupt clergy of his day as he is for his call for Chris- tian renewal, even reformation. After the overthrow of the Medici in , Savonarola was the sole leader of Florence, setting up a democratic republic--the best Florence ever had. His chief enemies were the Duke of Milan and Pope Alexander VI, who issued many restrains against him, all of which were ignored.

As a matter of fact, once the Medici had been driven out, Florence had no other master but Savonarola. He instituted an extreme puritanical campaign, enlisting the active help of Florentine youth. He disobeyed and further defied the Pope by preaching under a ban, highlighting his campaign for reform with proces- sions, and bonfires of the vanities.

The Pope excommunicated him in May , and threatened to place Florence under an interdict. The following year, Savonarola and two of his supporting friars were imprisoned. On May 23rd, , Church and civil authorities condemned, hanged, and burned them in the main square of Flor- ence. Only eight poems, of those attributed to him, are authentic, and they are in the main, laudi, in the tradition of the religious Tuscan-Umbrian laudes St. Francis, Iacopone of Todi etc. The three poems selected were written at different times.

It describes the corruption of the world at the time of the pontificate of Sixtus IV. It be- Book JIT Like Iacopone, Savonarola un- folds his composition through anaphoras: the name of Jesus scans practically every stanza and gives unity to the text. The refrain at the end of each stanza acts as a sort of antiphon, such as those present in songs to be performed in public.

Jesus is the name that, like an incantation, brings comfort, sweetness to pain, and hope of salvation. He has no compunction toward the Pope. In the face of all the scandals, he knows he is object of calumny by paid detractors and chooses the way of spiritual perfection. Non ti ven sdegno ancora Che quel lussurioso porco gode, E le toe alte lode Usurpa, [ha] assentatori e parasciti, E i toi di terra in terra son banditi?

But I think that you delay, o supreme King, In order to punish them more for their great faults; Or it is perhaps near, and you are waiting for it, That Judgement day which will make Hell tremble. You do not see the sneering mad one, How haughty he goes, and what a river of vices he is. So that with great anger my heart is consumed? Look at that effeminate dancer and that bawd Dressed in purple, an impostor Whom people follow and the blind world adores!

Rare and gentle is that soul Which acquires more by fraud and force,3 The one who despises Heaven with Christ And always thinks of plunging someone else to the bottom; The world honors him, Who has his books and pages filled with theft, And he who knows better the art of every misdeed. The earth is so burdened with every vice, That it will never rid itself of its yoke.

Its head, Rome, has fallen to the ground, Never to return to her mighty office. How you would grieve, Brutus, and you, Fabricius, If you have heard about this other great ruin. Gone are the pious and chaste times. Usury is now called philosophy, Every man turns his back to good deeds; Now there is no one who ever goes on the right path; What courage still remains to me turns to ice.

And yet one hope Does not yet allow me to depart, For I know that in the other life Well will it be seen which soul was noble And which one lifted its wings to a more beautiful style. Song,4 be brief , Do not rely upon purple passages. Flee from palaces and loggias And reveal your purposes only to a few, For to the whole world you will be an enemy. O gran pietade, o lacrime, o sospiri! Mostratime, vi prego, il pianto vostro! E qui scoperse da far pianger sassi.

Yet it grieves me much that the dear Ancient time and its sweet danger5 Is now lost, and there does not seem to be any counsel That could restore it or would dare to. The passionate ancient voice No longer recognizes either Greeks or Romans; The light of those early years Has returned to Heaven with the Queen6 And toward us, alas, it does not bow anymore.

Where are, o me, the gems and fine diamonds? O great pity, o tears, o sighs! Where are the white stoles and the sweet songs? Where are by now the halos and the saintly eyes, The golden bonds and white horses, Three, four, and five excellencies,8 And the great wings, the eagle, and the lion? Scarcely is the coal found9 In the burning ink! Show me your tears, I beg of you! I did not see hyacinths or flint stones. Not even a world of glass. What pity!

Povra va con le membra discoperte, I capei sparsi e rotte le girlande; Ape non trova, ma a le antique giande Avidamente, lasso! Altri non pono e altri non intende. Qual arrogante rompe vostra pace? Tu piangi e taci, e questo meglio parme. Where are your swords? Why does wicked Nero not rise, I said, The earth, the air, and the sky Ask revenge for his just blood: I see the milk burned up, And the heart torn into a thousand pieces, Out of her humble first godly appearance.

Poor she goes with her limbs uncovered,11 Scattered her hair and her garlands broken; She does not find a bee, but to the ancient acorns Greedy, alas, she returns. Scorpion stings her and the snake makes her turn away, And the locusts grasp the root; And so goes all over the earth The crowned one, and her blessed hands, Cursed by dogs, Who go swindling sabbaths and calends; While some cannot help, and others do not understand. Weep now, O twenty four, white haired ones,12 Four animals and seven blessed trumpets, Now weep, you my zealous stable-hand, Weep, bloody pilgrim waters;13 O lively stones, most high and divine, Now let every planet and every star weep.

If the news has reached up Above, where each one of you lives content, I firmly believe if one is allowed to say it That you suffer greatly from so much devastation: Laid waste is the temple and so is the chaste palace. Afterward: —My Lady—I said—if it pleases you, The soul is content to weep with you.

What violence has put you out of the kingdom? Who is the arrogant who breaks your peace? That you weep in silence seems better to me. E tu sei in croce esteso, Per salvar me tapino. A te fui sempre ingrato E mai non fui fervente, E tu per me impiagato Sei stato crudelmente. Do not take on any enterprise; If you will not be understood, It is better perhaps; rest content with the quia. O great bounty,15 Sweet mercy, Happy is he who joins himself with you!

O how often have been offended By the soul and the wretched heart! And you are stretched on the Cross To save miserable me. O great bounty, Sweet mercy, Happy is he who joins himself with you! Jesus, what power has impelled Your immense goodness! What love has made you Suffer such o cruelty? Jesus, make me die Of your living love; Jesus, make me languish With you, true Lord. O great bounty, Sweet mercy, Happy is he who gains himself with you! O Cross, make room for me, And take my limbs, For you light up with your holy fire My heart and soul.

Inflame my heart so With your divine love That it may burn within So much as to appear like a seraph. Savonarola presents a world whose values are turned upside down. Le traduzioni sono comparse sulla rivista El Ghibli - e su varie riviste online e cartacee.

Il Poeta 1. Un continente poetico tutto da esplorare «Figura chiave della poesia australiana» lo ha definito nel Steven Matthews suTLS1. He is as deft and resourceful a craftsman as exists, and his poems move with a clarity and ease I find unique. The more I think about the muse, the more real it becomes. While others would be quick to jump into this mantle, he has really taken his time to accept it.

Un momento apicale di questo trionfo si colloca nel , anno in cui Robert Adamson ha ricevuto il Patrick White Award. Al con- ferimento del premio, Mr. Andrew Thomas, General Manager of Philanthropy alla Perpetual, ha dichiarato: Robert Adamson is a deserving recipient of the Patrick White Award, having been at the heart of Australian literature as an acclaimed poet, successful editor and publisher in a career spanning over 40 years.

Michael Costigan, Dott. David Carter, Dott. Bernadette Brennan. What it costs a poet to dare such plain statement, the patience it requires, even in impatience, the dedication, the hard work, is part of the mystery of these poems and of the life that has been worked through to get them down. Ma i versi sono anche un frutto dei misteriosi giochi della vita che hanno condotto Adamson, per sentieri imprevisti, a riconoscere la propria vocazione poetica.

Vita con i suoi singolari casi materiali ed eventi spirituali. Vita che si fa parola, e poesia. Morning unfurls, I wake and shave. We hover all day on the surface of the stream, above a soft bottom, until moonlight falls again onto stark white bed-sheets. The shadow your hand casts resembles the mudlark, opening its wings, calling and rocking, perched in the pages of my book. Il mattino si dispiega, mi sveglio e mi rado. Outside, the river slips by; an overhanging blackbutt branch inscribes the surface with a line across foaming run-off.

In these parts, the lyrebird must carry its own cage on its back through swamps — I once believed this. But yesterday the bird suffered a stroke. Qui soltanto il volo conta; prenditi una pausa e scaglia il tuo pensiero seguente sulla marea. I wrapped a scarf around my headache and looked inside — an ebbing memory leaving with the tide.

Crouched in a corner of the house, my cat borrows my voice — I talk to him through the night. The heater clicks, its pilot light blinks. I scribble a few lines, pass my fishing rod off as a lyre. Who needs this bitter tune? Its distorted chords lull me into numbness.

I bend it over double and pluck. We strung a bow from the willow tree and used bamboo for arrows. The afternoon thrummed with locusts. Clouds at the end of the sky were alive with the thunder that shook the corrugated iron. We were wet with sweat — it was a hundred degrees that day, Granny said, hot as blood Hades. Il radiatore fa click, la spia lampeggia. Scribacchio qualche verso, fingo che la canna da pesca sia una lira.

Le sue corde deformi mi ninnano al torpore. La fletto in due e pizzico le corde. Il pomeriggio strideva di locuste. Nubi al margine del cielo erano vive del tuono che scosse la lamiera ondulata. The sun spread a golden glow in the calm before the gathering storm as the first snake of the season came slithering out of the fowl yard, leaving us its red-checked skin.

Eurydice and the Tawny Frogmouth7 On the low arch above our gate, he looks out through a fringe of feathers, hunting, then places one foot on black cast iron and ruffles his head. His other foot is clenched in the night air, held out in an atmosphere of waiting — then unclenched. Those nights flying with you weighed no more or less than this. Le cinque poesie sono le prime della parte seconda p.

What Bird is That? Borrelli Joan E. She has published essays of literary criticism in Critical Companion to J. Cast aside for nearly four centuries, Margherita Costa c. A prolific writer, she published during her lifetime two prose works, three plays, two narrative poems, a pageant in verse for knights on horseback as well as six volumes of poetry: La chitarra ; Il violino ; Lo stipo ; La selva di cipressi ; La selva di Diana and La tromba di Parnaso She remained in Florence until , where she published most of her works including her first four books of poetry and her comedy, Li Buffoni , which lampoons court society.

The play is dedicated to the actor, Bernardino Ricci, whom she likely married and whose children she bore. Margherita returned to Rome in , in the company of a former bandit, both under the protection of Cardinal Francesco Barberini. In , a short stay in Turin at the court of Duchess Christina of Savoy was followed by a return to Rome that same year. In , she found herself on the move again, this time to Paris with a group of musicians.

There she enjoyed the protection of the prime minister, Cardinal Jules Mazarin, who helped her publish several more works including her last two volumes of verse. She traveled next to Venice in and then likely to Germany. In , she must have returned to Italy through Venice where she published her play, Gli amori della Luna, then to Rome. Margherita is last heard from in a letter dated , in which she solicits aid from the papal Chigi family, describing herself as a widow sup- porting two daughters.

If still in Rome, she may have succumbed to the plague of , but the precise date and circumstances of her death are as yet undiscovered. She likewise demonstrates a facility with a variety of forms Book JIT In her use of the canzonetta, influenced by the works of Gabriello Chiabrera , she achieves a simple verse stro- phe to invite musical accompaniment and one that could be sung. In one poem, she gives a blow-by-blow account of rape. In another, she advises women to protect themselves from violence by bestowing kisses whenever requested, recounting the murder of a woman by her lover for refusing to grant him a kiss.

She is the first fe- male poet to employ humor as well as irony, her signature strength, to mock prevailing male attitudes which would confine women to the domestic sphere. With sparkling wit, she exhorts her sex to ignore the double-standard and to take as many lovers as possible, repaying men in kind who play the field.

Throughout her poetic works, autobiographical references paint a realistic picture of her personal struggles, and especially convey her disappointment in failing to win the literary recognition she so sought. The quality of these two sonnets lies not in their content—as the suspicious male lover accusing his woman of betrayal had, by this time, be- come a literary convention—but in the musicality and the prosodic complexity with which they are composed. Within each sonnet, a cascade of assonance and secondary rhyme sounds acts as a musical descant, or counterpoint, to the end rhyme.

This prosodic richness attests to the Baroque predilection for complex patterns of sound, and re- minds us that Margherita, a practiced virtuosa, would have brought her musically-trained ear to the composition of her written work. In attempting the first translation of these poems into English, I was curious to see how much of her original soundscape I could reproduce. Likewise, only through slant rhyme did I manage to recreate the difficult word matches for the end rhyme in the tercets.

Would I be foolhardy enough to try this translation strategy again? Translated by Joan E. Borrelli New York: Bordighera Press, The volume was reprinted nume- rous times in , , , , and in Venice by various publishers. Tullia, however, wrote either the proposal or the response sonnet, but not both, in her epistolary exchanges with her circle of admiring literati and noblemen. A Bilingual Edition, edited and translated by Julia L. Scorgo a mio danno la mentita arsura, e tardi nel mio error erro e vaneggio.

Nel tuo martire il mio martir pareggio. Nella tua sorte scorgo mia sventura. Fu solo dal tuo ardor il tuo sospetto. I realize your lovely splendor hides a cloud obscure. I see, to my demise, falsified fire; to error late, I err, delirious. I rue your chides that spell my misadventure and curse, yet seek, my hurt that you comprise. Like this you treat me, so disloyally! Thus have you shorn away my wings to joy! Ought this to be my joy and my delight?

Is my desire intended equally as my demise, brought on by my own heart? Her Defense You dream, bright soul—this does my plea [comprise: peel from your eyes the blinders that obscure. Within your harm, my own harm I assess. Within your fear, my faith rests insecure. Your luckless fate spells but my misadventure.

Alas, my ills too late I realize. From your ardor alone arose your doubt. His father, like many southern Italian men, had to go to America to work in order to support his large family, to Brooklyn, NY and Bar- ranquilla, Colombia, two trips, one in the nineteenth century and one in the twentieth, leaving the first time when L.

In at the end of WWI, and when he was only nine, L. In he started his studies at the University of Rome. By this time he had published several books of poetry, and a few books of prose, and had received numerous awards. In some of the prose in this collection, which in Book JIT He was awarded a degree in engineering, but when Enrico Fermi asked him to be one of the young men who would usher in the atomic age, he chose to cast his lot with poets and painters.

Il poeta non deve edificare, deve soltanto allineare. Assolutamente spoglio di pensieri, di idee, di filosofia. Seguiva la sua buona stella come un vagabondo. Il bambino e il vecchio trovavano sempre qualcosa che nessuno altro aveva mai portato e che avevano de- siderato per un anno intero. That intoxication his poetry made us feel when we were boys is gone, lost, and we have not found it in the poets who have been our closer relatives.

Perhaps poetry is an operation simpler than alchemy, algebra. The poet does not have to build, only to align. Govoni worked in plein air. During his vast pilgrimages he gathered in his sac all that the universe put before his eyes and his feet. Absolutely devoid of thoughts, ideas, philosophies. He followed his lucky star like a vagabond. And is it not true in fact that the goods make the vendor.

Govoni charmed us with merchandise sold at bargain prices in a suburban shack. The child and the old man always found some- thing no one else had ever carried and that all had wanted for an entire year. They had waited, thinking, Mr. Govoni is sure to come with his stand. Baroque is an irritant to classic patience, a doubt of the Olympian, a bolt in the empyrean of stasis. Ecstasy then, fever and paradox of the infinitesimal, of the fleet- ing, of the indivisible, mathematics of remainders, of inflections, of cusps, Alexandrian disgust of the peaceful Euclidean lethargy.

Cavalieri, Pascal, Newton, Leibniz. Don Chisciotte e Teotocopuli. I paesaggi, spelonche, romitaggi. Napoli, Toledo, Istambul. Dubuffet e tutti I tragici. Rompere la compattezza, trovare una falla nel lingotto, un fossile dentro il macigno, concepire il calcestruzzo, da Freyssinet a Niemayer. Sognare una memoria ininterrotta nel cuore dei popoli e nella stessa natura. I meridionali contano i giorni che mancano alla fuga.

Quando torna, il figliuol prodigo, consiglia al fratello di fuggire anche lui. La scelta di un mestiere, di un amico, una moglie. I figli Book JIT Don Quixote and Teotocopl. Land- scapes, spelunks, hermitages. Naples, Toledo, Istambul, Hartung. What a genealogy! To reduce the universe to a congregation of atoms, the line to an assembly of points.

To dream an uninterrupted memory in the hearts of peoples and in nature itself. In the Bible or in Tragedy or in the large beds of the tribe. Our civilization of very old men has exacted a dear price for even the smallest disobedience. A tyrannical civilization. In the South there was a lack of love, a ray of hope, an escape route from family troubles.

Southerners count the days left to flee. Grow up to run away from home, far from their towns, marry while still children, die in wars because of their rebellion to the power of the fathers. When the prodigal son returns, he advises his brother to leave as he did. A blind man who sold pigs called his adult sons to him and asked them to stand still in the open doorway while he slapped them one after the other.

Boys and their pals disappeared from their houses for two or three months and survived moving at night from one dovecote to the next or living in the depths of caves. They go over balconies, gates and hedges to breathe an air different from the fetid family air. There is no passion or vocation that is not thwarted. The choice of a profession, a friend, a wife. Al padre spetta la testa e i figli rosicano la coda del castrato.

Accade sempre al Pallonetto, ai Sassi, a Gannano. Le cronache sono piene di complotti, diserzioni minutamente elaborate dai giovani per liberarsi dalla tirannia famigliare. E chi non ha incontrato, sulle Serre o sulla Sila o nei deserti, i guaglioni, i pastorelli di nove o dieci anni comandare col fischio o con la mazza il gregge di pecore o di annecchie?

Ravvolti nella mantellina, il berretto sdruciato che copre le orecchie, i piedi nudi o stretti nelle bende e un piccolo strumento, una canna bucata, penzoloni sul petto. Ne fa dei discepoli o degli schiavetti lubrichi. Poche lune tra Natale e Pasqua, giusto il tempo per abbracciare una croce o farsi sgozzare. Non siamo fuggiti, fummo cacciati via per amore dalle nostre dolci mura.

Ho avuto maestri teneri, pericolosi. Siamo andati avanti a tentoni, animaletti col cuore in gola. La poesia e la vita del Sud sono piene dei ruggiti, dei lamenti, delle grida dei padri. Anche dei rutti e dei peti, come ho detto altrove. The Bible and Tragedy exalt the omnipo- tence of the old over the adult and adolescent.

It has always happened at Pallonetto, Sassi, Gannano. A rare case of rebellion to the father, a trial of the father was held some time back in Matera: it ended with a hanging, from the iron hook and the same ring high on the ceiling used to lift the scraped pig. Newspapers are full of conspiracies and desertions the young have hatched in detail to free themselves from the tyranny of the family.

To the father, a daughter is an unclean mouth to feed, a son an arm for every need. And who has not run into boy-shepherds up on the mountains, on the Sila plateau, in the deserts, seen nine-or ten-year- olds take charge of a flock of sheep or goats with a whistle and a crook?

Wearing a short cloak, a frayed hat covering their ears, feet bare or tightly wrapped in rags, and a small instrument, a cane with holes hanging on their chest. At some point a man comes, from out of town, someone no one knows, and asks to take the children with him. They become apprentices or sex slaves. A few moons between Christmas and Easter, just enough time to embrace a cross or get his throat cut.

We did not run away. We were chased away out of love from the walls we loved too much. When he came back, Father wanted a little affection from us, like an old dog. A little charity. Brought us sacs full of gold. But we had grown up running in packs, without respect for authority and experience. We went ahead groping, cubs with our hearts in our mouth. What a price we paid to learn how to live, how to get along with others. The poetry and the life of the South are full of the roars, the laments, the shouts of fathers.

Even of their belches and farts, as I have said elsewhere. In our houses is a chair with a hole and a large chamber pot always ready for the patriarchs as well as the children. I suoi inter- essi comprendono ogni genere di scrittura sperimentale e teoria e pratica della traduzione. Poesie Ha pubblicato quindici volumi di versi, due raccolte di racconti brevi, e diversi saggi di critica. Fra Book JIT Fra i saggi segnaliamo: Magpie Rising. Appalachian Notes , Chockecherry Places.

Essays from the High Plains , e Rivers and Birds In un saggio intitolato Alfresco. Il viaggio, lo spostamento fisico, ma soprattutto i cambiamenti nel paesaggio, nella flora e nella fauna che caratteriz- zano ciascun angolo della vasta geografia americana, sono elementi importantissimi per la sua poesia. You hated the popular Sioux. The French knew, they called you Beaux Hommes. Low porcelain hills open to frenzy but generally cool Book JIT Voialtri che odiavate i Sioux che invece piacevano a tutti.

I francesi lo sapevano, vi chiamavano Beaux Hommes. Su basse colline di porcellana disposte alla frenesia ma solitamente tranquille Book JIT O O birds before your minds took over. O O eager looks through cold clear water and priceless navy bodies creased and figured from sleeping on the rope. Roy took a ride on a chrome hay wagon.

The larger of the two was an aspiring building, vacant and inspiring above the poonta poonta poonta of the gypsum works we saw where we stopped to sell the rubies. Inside was a tight yellow room with well-worn flimsy white trim and muffled gold curtains shattered about knee-level, a row Book JIT Oh oh uccelli prima che col pensiero prendeste il sopravvento.

Oh oh sguardi smaniosi attraverso acque fredde e chiare e impagabili corpi da marina allisciati e sagomati dal dormire sui fili. Roy ha fatto un giro su un carro da fieno cromato. I pour a whiskey and stand in the far one inhaling salt air and half listening to the high thin whine of shellfish feeding close around the reef at sundown.

A tuba-faced man gets out of a dark convertible and limps toward the door in a slight hurry, pink dacron shirt steaming under a blue Muslim smoking jacket like an orchid. Mr Bertoni — Mr Khan. TV light looks weird through igloo walls and the cord disappearing off across the ice looks even stranger, X bent over the hotplate melting down the rubies, dictating lurid memos for the Hong Kong plan: return to popular western harbors underwater to salvage tons of opium syrups ditched by moonlight coating the floor of the outer bay to be traded in capitals as acne creme for sweet industrial glues.

And meantime off Gibraltar hundreds of swollen cellos just waiting for a man of vision and friends Book JIT Il signor Bertoni — il signor Khan. E intanto al largo di Gibilterra centinaia di violoncelli gonfi in attesa di un uomo geniale e qualche amico Book JIT Then that entirely different time in the North outside a tavern with spaceheaters wired into the dash of the pickup parked next door.

Mango trees unwinding, Z bent over the barbecue melting down the blubber. The lava is hot. Guano barge ahoy! Although we share a minimal common ground I absorb his polka tastes in strategy and music while he picks up my preference in views, cheap shrimp and weather, long before and after dinner walks diamond-shaped from cards or baseball, east, and up and over feathered Inca racing dogs to who. Alberi di mango che si rilassano, Z piegato sul barbecue a sciogliere il grasso.

La lava scotta. Like frying potatoes near the solstice a big batch, the Main Course, silverdollars with onion flashed to chestnut ; Scotch, no rocks; and travelessness, the art of going nowhere for a month or two. Last May we drove to Arizona, sent a paper plane down Canyon de Chelly and spent days steeping in the Chiricahuas, the border country crawling with humming and other birds. Ha girato la chiave, ha abbassato la maniglia, ha aperto.

Il niente del niente del niente. Lentamente affonda i suoi aculei nel solitario cuore. It was the monster, the inferno, the old reptilian god, which penetrated her with its eyes of phosphorous and flame. And before she even had time to retreat, its iron pincers sprang out, plunging its claws into her tender little body, into her flesh, her guts, her sensitive and sorrowful soul.

Do you know her, this Miss Annie Motleri? Sure, she lives alone. Who would want her now…? She embroiders, and embroiders, in her silent apartment. But what makes her jump in her chair that way? Perhaps someone knocked at her door?

No, no one knocked, no one, no one. Who could possibly be knocking at her door? Nevertheless, she ran, heart pounding, stumbling on the carpet, bumping into the corner of the trumeau, gasping. She turned the key, lowered the handle, opened the door.

The landing is empty. The tiles of the landing are also empty, with that gray light that comes from the gray, unforgiving window, the black, motionless railing, the motionless door of the apartment across the way, everything motionless, empty, and forever lost. There is no one there. The nothingness of nothingness of nothing- ness. The old regret, yes. The incurable affliction, yes. The wretched yearning for distant years, yes. The invisible monster, yes. Once again, it has taken her.

It slowly sinks its spines into her lonely heart. Ridono, scherzano, parlano di cose piacevoli e frivole, fanno progetti a lungo termine. Ne ho viste troppe, durante la mia vita, di commedie simili. Bizzarro tribunale, questo: dove spesso la sentenza di completa assoluzione prelude al patibolo.

In spite of all of the hypocritical things that are said under these circumstances, I know very well the seriousness of the operation; it is so serious that it is likely useless. Although I have never told anyone about it, my wife, children, and doctors can tell how I feel, and they are trying to calm me down in myriad ways.

They laugh, they joke, they talk about silly and frivolous things, and they make long-term plans—there is a cruise on the horizon, as well as a trip to Brittany and a hunt in Austria. It is taken for granted that I will be completely healed by then. Within ten days at most I will be back at home, and within twenty days I will be better than ever.

The operation itself presents no questions, and every complication can be excluded in advance. In a sense, now that you have finally decided to do it, the operation is a simple formality. He seemed tired, though, when he came into my room this morning… tired and haggard. But the more he showed off his carefreeness and happiness to me, the more I convinced myself I was right.

That is to say: the gaiety and serenity presented to a patient on the eve of his surgery is directly proportional to its danger. When the doctors assure you, smiling, that there is not even a shadow of risk, it is important above all to remain alert. In order Book JIT Sembrava imbarazzato, quasi avesse da comunicarmi qualcosa di spiacevole. Cercava di scusarsi, quasi fosse una debolezza peccaminosa. Ma gli occhi gli brillavano. Lo rassicurai subito.

Avrei letto le sue poesie con la massima attenzione. Lui se Book JIT That is, at least, according to Doctor Rilka. He seemed very charmed when he learned that I am a writer. For now, they allowed me to watch television. This evening there was an amusing roundtable—including the brilliant Ruggero Orlando and professor Silvio Ceccato—on the topic of the asteroid Icarus, whose potential plunge to Earth had been a topic of dis- cussion in the newspapers for the last two years.

It was predicted that the catastrophe would occur in mid-June —that is, any day now. But now, the most distinguished astronomers had curtly rescinded their predictions. The asteroid would come no closer than four million miles from earth, which dispelled all fears of a collision; nor was there any reason for this expected trajectory to see any change.

He seemed embarrassed, almost as if he had something unpleasant to tell me. So, he stalled with a lengthy preamble: he essentially had to tell me something in confidence that seemed to have nothing to do with my recovery. Eventually he got to the point. He wanted me to promise him something: that before leaving the clinic—after the operation, of course—I would read a book of his unpublished poems and give him my honest opinion.

He tried to apologize, almost as if he had revealed an indecent weakness. But his eyes gleamed. It was clear that literary ambitions, not a desire for a medical career, dominated his life. I immediately acquiesced; I would read his poems with the ut- most attention. Aveva una grande notizia. Forse temeva che io restassi sotto i ferri? Tanto, io dovevo morire.

Early in the morning Doctor Rilka reap- peared, even more excited than yesterday. He had big news. Before telling me, however, he wanted me to change my promise: I would have to read his poems before the operation rather than after.

Per- haps he feared that I would perish under the knife? The real reason was somehow bigger. And here Rilka was so reserved that he leaned in to whisper it in my ear. Rilka had recently met Professor Nessaim, director of the Mehala observatory in Ghana, at a conference in town. Nessaim had revealed to him that, in a secret meeting last year in England, the directors of all the major astronomical observatories discussed the asteroid Icarus: they agreed under oath to hide the ugly truth from the world in order to save humanity from unnecessary strife.

The asteroid was certain to crash into the crust of the Earth in the early morning of June 19, Given its dimensions—more than a mile in diameter—the consequences would be apocalyptic; there was no hope of salvation. In short, the end of the world was coming. I confess that the news, in the dark spirits in which I find myself lately, has given me immense consolation. Sure, I had to die. But the misery of death is going it alone.

What fear can be had, if our fates are held in common? And then—as egotistical and mean-spirited as it is—how sat- isfying to see the scandalous superiority abolished so suddenly in those whose sole merit was being born after us! What a bril- liant lesson for certain ruffians who hobble along day and night, oafish, for one more lira in their cash boxes, for one more taste of power, one more round of applause, one more woman, one more unsavory act— those who have already plotted their successes for many horrible years into the future.

What poetic justice for so many Book JIT Anche il Rilka, devo dire, dimostra al proposito un notevole spirito. Il dottor Rilka mi ha detto che ormai Anche lui era presente al colloquio tra il Rilka e il Nessaim. E il Nessaim non si era sognato di dire niente del genere; se mai, anzi, aveva soltanto confermato le smentite di tutti gli altri astronomi degni di questo nome.

Il Coltani sembrava esilarato dal fatterello. What a magnificent surprise, for everyone to be taken away in a puff of smoke on the same black caravan, diving headfirst through the floodgates of oblivion. I must say, Doctor Rilka also seems in remarkable spirits.

But he wants something before our mass extermination: to know whether I think his poems are any good. He said that, if my response were positive, he would die happy. Coltani began to laugh. He was also present at this meeting be- tween Rilka and Nessaim. Coltani seemed exhilarated by this little event.

But me? But why? Ma per poco Piuttosto lei, stia tranquillo A domattina, allora Fra cinque ore verranno a prendermi con la lettiga per portarmi al tavolo operatorio. Ma ci deve essere qualche malato grave, stanotte. Un campanello lontano. Si odono perfino dei richiami, quasi delle grida. Aprono, senza bussare. Entra uno. Corre verso il mio letto tendendo un pacco di fogli arrotolati: «Legga, la supplico, ne legga almeno un paio In five hours, they will come to put me on a stretcher and take me to the operating table.

This is probably the last night that I will be whole. In six or seven hours I might no longer exist, or I might be reduced to ruins destined for a rapid end; or, worst of all, I might be exactly as I am now because the surgeons open me up and immediately stitch me up again, having found that there is nothing to be done.

In this moment, that yearned-for celestial body is flying over the clinic at a dizzy- ing speed, oblivious to me, without a clue how much I wish for its arrival… as Doctor Coltani wishes for it too, perhaps… The dear asteroid, past the point of minimal distance, already heading away from us, sinking into the abyss of the cosmos. When it returns in nineteen years I will be ashes and dust, the name on my tombstone half faded… But tonight, there must be a seriously ill patient.

Out there, past the double doors, I can hear hurried shuffling, thick, dense dialogue between women. A distant ringing of a bell. Outside, on the street, not a single car goes by. Could it be an emergency surgery? The comings and goings in the hallway increase. Calls, almost shouts, ring out. It is as if the entire clinic were awake. The doors open without a knock. Someone enters.

It is Doctor Rilka, in shirtsleeves, more disheveled than ever. Alle due di notte una luce bianco-azzurra che abbaglia, simile a quella della fiamma ossidrica. Poi un urlo, due urli, mille urli insieme di terrore o di giubilo?

E io che rido, felice, sparpagliando per la camera, come un pazzo, le poesie. At two in the morning, a dazzling blue-white light, similar to the flame of a blowtorch. And a ruckus, a whimpering, a thundering clamor that rises all around the city. Then a scream, two screams, a thousand screams together in terror or rejoicing? And together with the screams, an unspeakable, inhuman voice, wheezing, hissing, roaring, swelling immensely in the sky. And I am cack- ling, joyful, scattering the poems around the room like a mad- man.

Cinzia Sartini Blum teaches courses in Italian language, litera- ture, and culture at the University of Iowa. Her research interests include futurism, modernism, and contemporary Italian women writers. Valentino and D. Christiana de Caldas Brito Rio de Janeiro, is one of the most original and prominent contributors to the new field of trans- cultural Italophone literature.

Born and raised in Brazil, she has lived in Rome since She began writing in her native language when she was very young, and published stories in Brazilian magazines. Her stories have Book JIT Cultural Institutes in Brazil, Austria, Turkey, and most recently Angola, have invited her to talk about her work and to conduct workshops in creative writ- ing.

Additional bibliographical information, along with reviews of published work and interviews with the author, are available on her website: www. Prima devo parlarvi del filo sul quale mi mantengo in bilico. Ma spesso mi prende la paura di cadere.

La mia vita? Tutto qui. Un minuto e mezzo. Un passo avanti sul filo. Ma subito dopo vengono quelli che con una sgommata partono in fretta, come offesi. O quelli che guardano avanti e fanno finta di non sentirmi. A volte, mi sento inutile come un semaforo spento. Macchine si fermano a distanza e, quando mi avvicino, accelerano investendo il mio sorriso. Purtroppo non esistono leggi per proteggere i sorrisi e non esistono ospedali per anime urtate.

Come minimo, farei una grande confusione, se mi mettessi al volante: i colori dei semafori hanno significati diversi per uno come me. Verde vuol dire aspetta; giallo comincia a muoverti; rosso invece, avanti, di corsa. Di notte, sul letto, chiudo gli occhi e vedo le luci del semaforo che si accendono. Vorrei parlare con qualcuno, ma i miei compagni dormono.

Mi alzo per scrivere. Non vanno rapide come quando uno parla. Se parlo, i miei pensieri prendono la marcia giusta. I thought it would be more complicated. First I have to tell you about the high wire on which I keep myself precariously balanced. But often I get frightened of falling. Below—as I well know—there is no net. My life? Hours and hours marked by green-yellow-red, with a pail of water and a sponge at an intersection.

A minute and a half. One step forward on the wire. But right after come those who, with squealing tires, take off in hurry, as if offended. Or those who look straight ahead and pretend not to hear me. They turn the other way. I risk losing my balance. Cars stop at a distance, and when I get closer, they accelerate and run over my smile. Unfortunately there are no laws to protect smiles, nor are there hospitals for broken souls.

I remain there, between one green and another, thinking: not even the easy life makes people better. Green means wait; yellow means begin to move; and red, instead, hurry up. In bed at night, I close my eyes and see the colors of the stop- light. I get up to write.

But the words, once they are on the paper, seem like cars in a traffic jam. For me, the true engine of words is my voice. Col filo spinato. Arrotola il filo intorno a me. Non corre a salvarmi. Fuma e basta. Io, imprigionato. Senza alternative. Se piove, con le tasche vuote, non mi resta che la stazione Termini, dai barboni.

Ore e ore. Osservo le persone dentro alle macchine: alcune oltrepassano con lo sguardo il mio corpo, come se io, per il mio lavoro, fossi diventato di vetro. La settimana scorsa insistevo con una signora: la sua Clio era proprio sporca. Ha confermato che ho stoffa umana dentro. Ma il filo rischia di spezzarsi, lo so. Potrei forse preparare il manifesto dei lavavetri.

Il mani- festo direbbe: io esisto, tu esisti, noi, lavavetri, esistiamo. Non siamo di vetro. O potrei tornare in patria. Alcuni equilibristi si sono fracassati le ossa. Altri, con il filo, hanno avuto la tentazione di impiccarsi. Continuo a lavare i vostri vetri, a lavare i vostri vetri. Da bambino, avevo costruito un palazzo di cartone e fiammiferi.

I minuscoli pezzi di cellophane, incollati ai fiammiferi, erano i vetri. Non so che fine abbia fatto questo mio goffo cilindro, il palazzo di vetro della mia infanzia. Prima di venire in Italia, immaginavo che un giorno avrei costruito palazzi veri. Gli alberi delle strade Book JIT Using barbed wire. It wraps its thread around me.

He just smokes. Without options. If it rains, since my pockets are empty, I can only go to the Termini Station, where the homeless are. This is our place! For hours and hours. I study the people inside their cars: some of their gazes pass through my body as if, because of my work, I have turned into glass myself.

Last week I was insistent with a woman; her Clio was really dirty. I let the black water flow on purpose onto the body of the car. I was cleaning one part and dirtying the other. My rage served to make me understand that I am not made of glass. It confirmed that I have human fabric inside. But the wire risks breaking, I know.

Full of resentment, I wondered: besides anger, is there another way to be truly human? Very early, before sunrise, I would plaster it on all the cars in Rome. We are not transparent as glass. But it would mean walking backwards and maybe even losing my balance when I change di- rections.

Some tightrope walkers have broken their bones. Others have been tempted to hang themselves with the wire. I keep on washing your windshields, washing your wind- shields. When I was a child, I made a building out of cardboard and matches. The windows were tiny pieces of cellophane glued to the matches. Before coming to Italy, I dreamt that one day I would make real buildings. The trees along Book JIT Quando il verde, oltre che nei semafori, esisteva nelle strade.

Sono tutti in ascolto. La sua impresa pulisce i vetri dei palazzi di tutta Roma. Duecento metri di filo di acciaio reggono le nostre impalcature. Una vera ragnatela tecnologica. In Italia dicono che la speranza sia di questo colore. Io, con il verde, rifletto. Ma lui aveva chiesto il mio nome. E ho ripetuto a voce alta il mio nome, parecchie volte. Come se lo potessero sentire. Un semaforo rosso che ti fa lavorare, va bene. Dal rancore alla speranza.

Il sottile passaggio. Non era questo che dovevo raccontarvi? But that was a long time ago. When one could find green not only in stoplights but also in the streets. On the table, the most beautiful tablecloth. His cleaning company washes the windows of buildings all over Rome. Two hundred meters of steel wire hold up our scaffoldings. A real technological web. But from the other side of the street comes the voice of my buddy, who works at the same intersection.

In Italy people say this is the color of hope. Green today, green tomorrow: the fact is that at the street corner, in front of my stoplight, as a result of not being seen for so long, I have begun to see. I was going to come up with an easy name to avoid confusion—because mine is difficult to understand— but the green suddenly flashed and he drove away. But he asked me my name.

And I repeated my name several times, loudly. As if they could hear it. From resentment to hope. The transition is subtle. Pastore Passaro Maria C. She has conducted scholarly research on the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, and has lectured in several Universities in the US, and Europe.

Girolamo Savonarola Ferrara, 21 September —Firenze, 23 May was a Dominican friar and fiery preacher, a reformer, and martyr in Renaissance Florence. He is as famous for his prophecies of civic glory as he is for his support of the destruction of hedonistic art. He is as notable for his clashes with tyrannical rulers and corrupt clergy of his day as he is for his call for Chris- tian renewal, even reformation.

After the overthrow of the Medici in , Savonarola was the sole leader of Florence, setting up a democratic republic--the best Florence ever had. His chief enemies were the Duke of Milan and Pope Alexander VI, who issued many restrains against him, all of which were ignored. As a matter of fact, once the Medici had been driven out, Florence had no other master but Savonarola. He instituted an extreme puritanical campaign, enlisting the active help of Florentine youth.

He disobeyed and further defied the Pope by preaching under a ban, highlighting his campaign for reform with proces- sions, and bonfires of the vanities. The Pope excommunicated him in May , and threatened to place Florence under an interdict. The following year, Savonarola and two of his supporting friars were imprisoned. On May 23rd, , Church and civil authorities condemned, hanged, and burned them in the main square of Flor- ence.

Only eight poems, of those attributed to him, are authentic, and they are in the main, laudi, in the tradition of the religious Tuscan-Umbrian laudes St. Francis, Iacopone of Todi etc. The three poems selected were written at different times. It describes the corruption of the world at the time of the pontificate of Sixtus IV. It be- Book JIT Like Iacopone, Savonarola un- folds his composition through anaphoras: the name of Jesus scans practically every stanza and gives unity to the text.

The refrain at the end of each stanza acts as a sort of antiphon, such as those present in songs to be performed in public. Jesus is the name that, like an incantation, brings comfort, sweetness to pain, and hope of salvation.

He has no compunction toward the Pope. In the face of all the scandals, he knows he is object of calumny by paid detractors and chooses the way of spiritual perfection. Non ti ven sdegno ancora Che quel lussurioso porco gode, E le toe alte lode Usurpa, [ha] assentatori e parasciti, E i toi di terra in terra son banditi? But I think that you delay, o supreme King, In order to punish them more for their great faults; Or it is perhaps near, and you are waiting for it, That Judgement day which will make Hell tremble.

You do not see the sneering mad one, How haughty he goes, and what a river of vices he is. So that with great anger my heart is consumed? Look at that effeminate dancer and that bawd Dressed in purple, an impostor Whom people follow and the blind world adores!

Rare and gentle is that soul Which acquires more by fraud and force,3 The one who despises Heaven with Christ And always thinks of plunging someone else to the bottom; The world honors him, Who has his books and pages filled with theft, And he who knows better the art of every misdeed. The earth is so burdened with every vice, That it will never rid itself of its yoke. Its head, Rome, has fallen to the ground, Never to return to her mighty office.

How you would grieve, Brutus, and you, Fabricius, If you have heard about this other great ruin. Gone are the pious and chaste times. Usury is now called philosophy, Every man turns his back to good deeds; Now there is no one who ever goes on the right path; What courage still remains to me turns to ice.

And yet one hope Does not yet allow me to depart, For I know that in the other life Well will it be seen which soul was noble And which one lifted its wings to a more beautiful style. Song,4 be brief , Do not rely upon purple passages. Flee from palaces and loggias And reveal your purposes only to a few, For to the whole world you will be an enemy.

O gran pietade, o lacrime, o sospiri! Mostratime, vi prego, il pianto vostro! E qui scoperse da far pianger sassi. Yet it grieves me much that the dear Ancient time and its sweet danger5 Is now lost, and there does not seem to be any counsel That could restore it or would dare to. The passionate ancient voice No longer recognizes either Greeks or Romans; The light of those early years Has returned to Heaven with the Queen6 And toward us, alas, it does not bow anymore.

Where are, o me, the gems and fine diamonds? O great pity, o tears, o sighs! Where are the white stoles and the sweet songs? Where are by now the halos and the saintly eyes, The golden bonds and white horses, Three, four, and five excellencies,8 And the great wings, the eagle, and the lion? Scarcely is the coal found9 In the burning ink! Show me your tears, I beg of you!

I did not see hyacinths or flint stones. Not even a world of glass. What pity! Povra va con le membra discoperte, I capei sparsi e rotte le girlande; Ape non trova, ma a le antique giande Avidamente, lasso! Altri non pono e altri non intende. Qual arrogante rompe vostra pace? Tu piangi e taci, e questo meglio parme. Where are your swords? Why does wicked Nero not rise, I said, The earth, the air, and the sky Ask revenge for his just blood: I see the milk burned up, And the heart torn into a thousand pieces, Out of her humble first godly appearance.

Poor she goes with her limbs uncovered,11 Scattered her hair and her garlands broken; She does not find a bee, but to the ancient acorns Greedy, alas, she returns. Scorpion stings her and the snake makes her turn away, And the locusts grasp the root; And so goes all over the earth The crowned one, and her blessed hands, Cursed by dogs, Who go swindling sabbaths and calends; While some cannot help, and others do not understand.

Weep now, O twenty four, white haired ones,12 Four animals and seven blessed trumpets, Now weep, you my zealous stable-hand, Weep, bloody pilgrim waters;13 O lively stones, most high and divine, Now let every planet and every star weep. If the news has reached up Above, where each one of you lives content, I firmly believe if one is allowed to say it That you suffer greatly from so much devastation: Laid waste is the temple and so is the chaste palace. Afterward: —My Lady—I said—if it pleases you, The soul is content to weep with you.

What violence has put you out of the kingdom? Who is the arrogant who breaks your peace? That you weep in silence seems better to me. E tu sei in croce esteso, Per salvar me tapino. A te fui sempre ingrato E mai non fui fervente, E tu per me impiagato Sei stato crudelmente. Do not take on any enterprise; If you will not be understood, It is better perhaps; rest content with the quia. O great bounty,15 Sweet mercy, Happy is he who joins himself with you! O how often have been offended By the soul and the wretched heart!

And you are stretched on the Cross To save miserable me. O great bounty, Sweet mercy, Happy is he who joins himself with you! Jesus, what power has impelled Your immense goodness! What love has made you Suffer such o cruelty? Jesus, make me die Of your living love; Jesus, make me languish With you, true Lord.

O great bounty, Sweet mercy, Happy is he who gains himself with you! O Cross, make room for me, And take my limbs, For you light up with your holy fire My heart and soul. Inflame my heart so With your divine love That it may burn within So much as to appear like a seraph.

Savonarola presents a world whose values are turned upside down. Le traduzioni sono comparse sulla rivista El Ghibli - e su varie riviste online e cartacee. Il Poeta 1. Un continente poetico tutto da esplorare «Figura chiave della poesia australiana» lo ha definito nel Steven Matthews suTLS1.

He is as deft and resourceful a craftsman as exists, and his poems move with a clarity and ease I find unique. The more I think about the muse, the more real it becomes. While others would be quick to jump into this mantle, he has really taken his time to accept it. Un momento apicale di questo trionfo si colloca nel , anno in cui Robert Adamson ha ricevuto il Patrick White Award.

Al con- ferimento del premio, Mr. Andrew Thomas, General Manager of Philanthropy alla Perpetual, ha dichiarato: Robert Adamson is a deserving recipient of the Patrick White Award, having been at the heart of Australian literature as an acclaimed poet, successful editor and publisher in a career spanning over 40 years.

Michael Costigan, Dott. David Carter, Dott. Bernadette Brennan. What it costs a poet to dare such plain statement, the patience it requires, even in impatience, the dedication, the hard work, is part of the mystery of these poems and of the life that has been worked through to get them down. Ma i versi sono anche un frutto dei misteriosi giochi della vita che hanno condotto Adamson, per sentieri imprevisti, a riconoscere la propria vocazione poetica.

Vita con i suoi singolari casi materiali ed eventi spirituali. Vita che si fa parola, e poesia. Morning unfurls, I wake and shave. We hover all day on the surface of the stream, above a soft bottom, until moonlight falls again onto stark white bed-sheets. The shadow your hand casts resembles the mudlark, opening its wings, calling and rocking, perched in the pages of my book. Il mattino si dispiega, mi sveglio e mi rado. Outside, the river slips by; an overhanging blackbutt branch inscribes the surface with a line across foaming run-off.

In these parts, the lyrebird must carry its own cage on its back through swamps — I once believed this. But yesterday the bird suffered a stroke. Qui soltanto il volo conta; prenditi una pausa e scaglia il tuo pensiero seguente sulla marea. I wrapped a scarf around my headache and looked inside — an ebbing memory leaving with the tide.

Crouched in a corner of the house, my cat borrows my voice — I talk to him through the night. The heater clicks, its pilot light blinks. I scribble a few lines, pass my fishing rod off as a lyre. Who needs this bitter tune? Its distorted chords lull me into numbness. I bend it over double and pluck.

We strung a bow from the willow tree and used bamboo for arrows. The afternoon thrummed with locusts. Clouds at the end of the sky were alive with the thunder that shook the corrugated iron. We were wet with sweat — it was a hundred degrees that day, Granny said, hot as blood Hades. Il radiatore fa click, la spia lampeggia. Scribacchio qualche verso, fingo che la canna da pesca sia una lira. Le sue corde deformi mi ninnano al torpore. La fletto in due e pizzico le corde. Il pomeriggio strideva di locuste.

Nubi al margine del cielo erano vive del tuono che scosse la lamiera ondulata. The sun spread a golden glow in the calm before the gathering storm as the first snake of the season came slithering out of the fowl yard, leaving us its red-checked skin.

Eurydice and the Tawny Frogmouth7 On the low arch above our gate, he looks out through a fringe of feathers, hunting, then places one foot on black cast iron and ruffles his head. His other foot is clenched in the night air, held out in an atmosphere of waiting — then unclenched. Those nights flying with you weighed no more or less than this. Le cinque poesie sono le prime della parte seconda p. What Bird is That? Borrelli Joan E. She has published essays of literary criticism in Critical Companion to J.

Cast aside for nearly four centuries, Margherita Costa c. A prolific writer, she published during her lifetime two prose works, three plays, two narrative poems, a pageant in verse for knights on horseback as well as six volumes of poetry: La chitarra ; Il violino ; Lo stipo ; La selva di cipressi ; La selva di Diana and La tromba di Parnaso She remained in Florence until , where she published most of her works including her first four books of poetry and her comedy, Li Buffoni , which lampoons court society.

The play is dedicated to the actor, Bernardino Ricci, whom she likely married and whose children she bore. Margherita returned to Rome in , in the company of a former bandit, both under the protection of Cardinal Francesco Barberini. In , a short stay in Turin at the court of Duchess Christina of Savoy was followed by a return to Rome that same year. In , she found herself on the move again, this time to Paris with a group of musicians.

There she enjoyed the protection of the prime minister, Cardinal Jules Mazarin, who helped her publish several more works including her last two volumes of verse. She traveled next to Venice in and then likely to Germany. In , she must have returned to Italy through Venice where she published her play, Gli amori della Luna, then to Rome. Margherita is last heard from in a letter dated , in which she solicits aid from the papal Chigi family, describing herself as a widow sup- porting two daughters.

If still in Rome, she may have succumbed to the plague of , but the precise date and circumstances of her death are as yet undiscovered. She likewise demonstrates a facility with a variety of forms Book JIT In her use of the canzonetta, influenced by the works of Gabriello Chiabrera , she achieves a simple verse stro- phe to invite musical accompaniment and one that could be sung.

In one poem, she gives a blow-by-blow account of rape. In another, she advises women to protect themselves from violence by bestowing kisses whenever requested, recounting the murder of a woman by her lover for refusing to grant him a kiss.

She is the first fe- male poet to employ humor as well as irony, her signature strength, to mock prevailing male attitudes which would confine women to the domestic sphere. With sparkling wit, she exhorts her sex to ignore the double-standard and to take as many lovers as possible, repaying men in kind who play the field. Throughout her poetic works, autobiographical references paint a realistic picture of her personal struggles, and especially convey her disappointment in failing to win the literary recognition she so sought.

The quality of these two sonnets lies not in their content—as the suspicious male lover accusing his woman of betrayal had, by this time, be- come a literary convention—but in the musicality and the prosodic complexity with which they are composed. Within each sonnet, a cascade of assonance and secondary rhyme sounds acts as a musical descant, or counterpoint, to the end rhyme.

This prosodic richness attests to the Baroque predilection for complex patterns of sound, and re- minds us that Margherita, a practiced virtuosa, would have brought her musically-trained ear to the composition of her written work. In attempting the first translation of these poems into English, I was curious to see how much of her original soundscape I could reproduce.

Likewise, only through slant rhyme did I manage to recreate the difficult word matches for the end rhyme in the tercets. Would I be foolhardy enough to try this translation strategy again? Translated by Joan E. Borrelli New York: Bordighera Press, The volume was reprinted nume- rous times in , , , , and in Venice by various publishers. Tullia, however, wrote either the proposal or the response sonnet, but not both, in her epistolary exchanges with her circle of admiring literati and noblemen.

A Bilingual Edition, edited and translated by Julia L. Scorgo a mio danno la mentita arsura, e tardi nel mio error erro e vaneggio. Nel tuo martire il mio martir pareggio. Nella tua sorte scorgo mia sventura. Fu solo dal tuo ardor il tuo sospetto. I realize your lovely splendor hides a cloud obscure. I see, to my demise, falsified fire; to error late, I err, delirious.

I rue your chides that spell my misadventure and curse, yet seek, my hurt that you comprise. Like this you treat me, so disloyally! Thus have you shorn away my wings to joy! Ought this to be my joy and my delight? Is my desire intended equally as my demise, brought on by my own heart? Her Defense You dream, bright soul—this does my plea [comprise: peel from your eyes the blinders that obscure.

Within your harm, my own harm I assess. Within your fear, my faith rests insecure. Your luckless fate spells but my misadventure. Alas, my ills too late I realize. From your ardor alone arose your doubt. His father, like many southern Italian men, had to go to America to work in order to support his large family, to Brooklyn, NY and Bar- ranquilla, Colombia, two trips, one in the nineteenth century and one in the twentieth, leaving the first time when L.

In at the end of WWI, and when he was only nine, L. In he started his studies at the University of Rome. By this time he had published several books of poetry, and a few books of prose, and had received numerous awards. In some of the prose in this collection, which in Book JIT He was awarded a degree in engineering, but when Enrico Fermi asked him to be one of the young men who would usher in the atomic age, he chose to cast his lot with poets and painters.

Il poeta non deve edificare, deve soltanto allineare. Assolutamente spoglio di pensieri, di idee, di filosofia. Seguiva la sua buona stella come un vagabondo. Il bambino e il vecchio trovavano sempre qualcosa che nessuno altro aveva mai portato e che avevano de- siderato per un anno intero. That intoxication his poetry made us feel when we were boys is gone, lost, and we have not found it in the poets who have been our closer relatives. Perhaps poetry is an operation simpler than alchemy, algebra.

The poet does not have to build, only to align. Govoni worked in plein air. During his vast pilgrimages he gathered in his sac all that the universe put before his eyes and his feet. Absolutely devoid of thoughts, ideas, philosophies. He followed his lucky star like a vagabond. And is it not true in fact that the goods make the vendor. Govoni charmed us with merchandise sold at bargain prices in a suburban shack. The child and the old man always found some- thing no one else had ever carried and that all had wanted for an entire year.

They had waited, thinking, Mr. Govoni is sure to come with his stand. Baroque is an irritant to classic patience, a doubt of the Olympian, a bolt in the empyrean of stasis. Ecstasy then, fever and paradox of the infinitesimal, of the fleet- ing, of the indivisible, mathematics of remainders, of inflections, of cusps, Alexandrian disgust of the peaceful Euclidean lethargy. Cavalieri, Pascal, Newton, Leibniz. Don Chisciotte e Teotocopuli. I paesaggi, spelonche, romitaggi. Napoli, Toledo, Istambul.

Dubuffet e tutti I tragici. Rompere la compattezza, trovare una falla nel lingotto, un fossile dentro il macigno, concepire il calcestruzzo, da Freyssinet a Niemayer. Sognare una memoria ininterrotta nel cuore dei popoli e nella stessa natura.

I meridionali contano i giorni che mancano alla fuga. Quando torna, il figliuol prodigo, consiglia al fratello di fuggire anche lui. La scelta di un mestiere, di un amico, una moglie. I figli Book JIT Don Quixote and Teotocopl. Land- scapes, spelunks, hermitages. Naples, Toledo, Istambul, Hartung. What a genealogy! To reduce the universe to a congregation of atoms, the line to an assembly of points. To dream an uninterrupted memory in the hearts of peoples and in nature itself.

In the Bible or in Tragedy or in the large beds of the tribe. Our civilization of very old men has exacted a dear price for even the smallest disobedience. A tyrannical civilization. In the South there was a lack of love, a ray of hope, an escape route from family troubles. Southerners count the days left to flee. Grow up to run away from home, far from their towns, marry while still children, die in wars because of their rebellion to the power of the fathers.

When the prodigal son returns, he advises his brother to leave as he did. A blind man who sold pigs called his adult sons to him and asked them to stand still in the open doorway while he slapped them one after the other.

Boys and their pals disappeared from their houses for two or three months and survived moving at night from one dovecote to the next or living in the depths of caves. They go over balconies, gates and hedges to breathe an air different from the fetid family air. There is no passion or vocation that is not thwarted. The choice of a profession, a friend, a wife.

Al padre spetta la testa e i figli rosicano la coda del castrato. Accade sempre al Pallonetto, ai Sassi, a Gannano. Le cronache sono piene di complotti, diserzioni minutamente elaborate dai giovani per liberarsi dalla tirannia famigliare.

E chi non ha incontrato, sulle Serre o sulla Sila o nei deserti, i guaglioni, i pastorelli di nove o dieci anni comandare col fischio o con la mazza il gregge di pecore o di annecchie? Ravvolti nella mantellina, il berretto sdruciato che copre le orecchie, i piedi nudi o stretti nelle bende e un piccolo strumento, una canna bucata, penzoloni sul petto.

Ne fa dei discepoli o degli schiavetti lubrichi. Poche lune tra Natale e Pasqua, giusto il tempo per abbracciare una croce o farsi sgozzare. Non siamo fuggiti, fummo cacciati via per amore dalle nostre dolci mura. Ho avuto maestri teneri, pericolosi. Siamo andati avanti a tentoni, animaletti col cuore in gola. La poesia e la vita del Sud sono piene dei ruggiti, dei lamenti, delle grida dei padri.

Anche dei rutti e dei peti, come ho detto altrove. The Bible and Tragedy exalt the omnipo- tence of the old over the adult and adolescent. It has always happened at Pallonetto, Sassi, Gannano. A rare case of rebellion to the father, a trial of the father was held some time back in Matera: it ended with a hanging, from the iron hook and the same ring high on the ceiling used to lift the scraped pig.

Newspapers are full of conspiracies and desertions the young have hatched in detail to free themselves from the tyranny of the family. To the father, a daughter is an unclean mouth to feed, a son an arm for every need. And who has not run into boy-shepherds up on the mountains, on the Sila plateau, in the deserts, seen nine-or ten-year- olds take charge of a flock of sheep or goats with a whistle and a crook?

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