Category Archives: Contamination

Contamination

#21 CONTAMINATION: WAR IS NOT THE BELL TOLLS.

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November 8, 2015. The Municipality of Colleferro (Rome) for the eightieth anniversary of the founding of the city, organized the project “STORIES FROM THE REFUGES”, in the historic city refuges. The initiative recalls the facts of when the people took refuge from the bombing along the tunnels, between 1943 and 1944. The documentation work of Renzo Rossi, the actors of the “Theatre Workshop of Colleferro”, with the artistic direction of Claudio Dezi the participation of the vocal group “the Slam” of signs, have formed a touring theatrical action in different “circles” in the galleries. They have presented the costumes, the objects of their age and they have played some testimonies of those who lived in the refuges.

 

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Colleferro and neighboring countries such as Segni, Valmontone, Artena, Montecassino were behind the Gustav Line (the defensive line that was prepared by Hitler on Oct. 4, 1943 and it was destroyed May 18, 1944). The plain of Colleferro, chemical plants of the arms industry (the largest in Italy), the Lepine mountains around (with countries of strategic control as Segni and Carpineto), the way “Casilina” – who arrived in Rome – constituted, all , strategic military sites.

 

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The German lines of fortification.

 

Colleferro suffered terrible bombing by allied forces from November onwards, as the March – the fortieth – where were destroyed the electrical connections and any useful infrastructure. The people tried to survive the refuges that were built before the birth of the city. The refuges were pozzolana quarries that were used to build the first buildings for the workers of the munitions factory “Bombrini Parodi Delfino.” In the hills within the city they were traced 6km tunnel, with fifteen different entrances. There was a ban on the use lighting. It set up the artificial fog to hide the sites of interest to allied planes.

 

The refuges were a second Colleferro and life oscillates from hell above, the catacombs below.

 

The actors have recalled the activities of each day. Solidarity (a donut for a wedding that was prepared thanks to the black market). Firefighters, every day after the bombing, they climbed to extinguish fires, to recover the dead, to shine the unexploded bombs and they were going to control the chemical deposits in the industry, so that it would not explode, because it was operating: the workers were forced under the control of the fascists and the Germans.

 

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The Factory “Bombrini Parodi Delfino”

 

Young people drinking wine, in the evening, which was bought on the black market. They played and sang along with the Germans, the Russians and Ukrainians prisoners, and no one understood a word. The next morning, all they went up in hell as enemies, to obtain the salt, for drying clothes because of the moisture of the subsoil. They could not light fires for the small air exchange. Inside the refuges there were a chapel, a registry office, an infirmary. Women did not go out for fear of being raped, if not killed (the film “The Women” with Sophia Loren, is an example in this regard).

 

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One frame of the film “La Ciociara”

 

Fear, darkness, hunger, dirt, infections and the control by the fascist authorities, were the pendulum of days.

 

I have witnessed the magnificent traveling representation. Everything has been a blow to the stomach to every word. Everything seemed to happen at that time, while the public walked at the descent of the dead.

 

I feel the same feeling walking in Amsterdam (Netherlands) at the Anne Frank House (the Jewish girl who died in the field of Auschwizt, – the author of the famous and tragic “Diary”): fear and claustrophobia. Half my family is originally from Valmontone. It is the country that borders Colleferro. Valmontone was completely destroyed in 1944, except the Church, the “Doria’s Building”, and two or three houses. Every square meter was bombed. The deaths of these countries are the patrimony of each family. It is no coincidence that there has been a re-enactment. Witnesses died almost everyone. I was little and adults who had more than fifty years, and they said that they were old, they told these events, in the seventies. I peered through the door, because “old” did not want us small we listened. And at parties, after lunch, in the afternoon hours of digestion, telling them the facts of that time, and their eyes they were changing: their was young, but with tears.

 

We speak of the bombing with extreme superficiality, today. A bomb shakes the body, even at a distance. Well, you have an empty air. The ear stores the noise and any balance is lost. And in the future, for every such timbre, the brain reverts to primordial patterns, causing the beat of the teeth, leaving the adrenaline and the iron in the mouth. The nightmares become brothers every night, if we remain in good health and if we do not go crazy, because insanity is the ultimate gift.

 

The refugees have no homes today. They do not have water. Every ten minutes a difficulty appears. Lice do company. You may not feel the smell of dirt. The skin and hair age immediately. The teeth are lost. Diseases gnaw the body. The little food is dry and bland, but it leaves the temptation to eat insects.

 

The refuge away death, but it shortens life. The population, before the horror was surprised: “To us, just us? – Near Rome? From the Duce?”.

 

I offer a paraphrase of what my grandparents told him (which they did two years of military service in war and they left soon after), my grandmothers and aunts: “War is not the bell tolls. The war is not knocking at door. The war is already within “.

Contamination

#21 Contamination: The chaste intimacy.

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The other year today in the day of Blue Monday, I listened the Flunk’s song – Blue Monday. Do not know why, but  I listened again, as I wrote under hypnosis. I reread the poem or rather what it’s intentions were and I felt a sense of shame, like I’m naked in front of everyone in the main square of the city. My intimacy without veils. After the surprise, I wrote the verses that automatically tried to express that my state. I published the second paper, but not the first. The second paper speaks of the first that has not been done to see anyone until now. And after a year I expose him, still do not understand why I had that feeling. And maybe I touched something beyond me.

 

FREEDOM

 I bent

by hands

Swing

for the error

that was believed.

I treated

with crap

by empty

words

for the hypocritical

voluptuousness,

I reversal

isolated

requests

nursing

which are reverse

on deaf

companions.

I wish

instead

a ship

safe,

for routes

without yet,

that are far

by orders

of greedy

fidelity.

 

This is the script that later censured the first written:

 

SHAME

You know when

is too addictive

and you do not want to post

an idea, a script

or a poem?

Because it is too

direct

and defenseless?

Here this time

poetry does not appear

although present,

but this is a sin

not offer the music

in this moment

acrid present.

To listen Flunk – Blue Monday, you click HERE

Contamination

# 20 Contamination: The lyrical compassion: a poetic source for the command to care and maintains

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March 6, 2014 

He who command and who in positions of responsibility, first of all, he should express compassion and empathy, even for those for those who are weak and dumb.

To that end, I draw inspiration from the song “Il Presidente” of the disc at 33 rpm and Fabio Celi  and Nurses – “Madness.” 

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It was written in 1969 and published in 1973. Disc This anticipates a two-year progressive rock and is already projected in the next decade. This Rock is built on the basis of two keyboards and the voice of Fabio Celi (aka Antonio Cavallaro). There are also foundations of classical music reconciled to the sweetness of voice and melodies italic, similar to some of the group’s musical “Banco del Mutuo Soccorso”.

In 1973, when he came out for the TV show “Studio 7”, the disc contains six tracks, was immediately banned by the Italian Radio and Television, limiting its distribution at the regional level.

Today in 2014 the chiefs, leaders, presidents speak declaratively and full of intent clear, with a child in the anal phase of rationality that wants to eradicate the evil, or people from one nation to another, or young leaders who want to expel , scrapping, and evacuate people, ideas and words. Or even novice knights who spread the purifying fire of acclaim, to clear the old putrid and rotten, and that is always more out of their own history and the environment from which they were born and raised.

And they talk about the advent of promising new was always far away, through their enthusiasm, gesture, ability. And all this is fine and noble, but it is always the “own” because they talk about “them.”

Who’s in charge would have the burden and the ability to manage resources and assets for the common good. He should listen to the obvious and conflicting points of view, preserving all, despite the changing conditions of survival to ensure the possibility of dignified existence.

This is not obvious, at least in recent centuries? 

The leader and the President should show compassion and care by the forces supporting it. A sense that it is her body and not so sacred and charismatic, but in the poetic sense of one who absorbs and reverberates. Of one who, like the poet amplifies it through limits and weakness.

The sense in lyrical poetic translation of the world is perhaps the matrix of the surplus of what we could be.

I propose a track on this album, from the title “President” and propose the text of a future modernity and a sweetness that is perhaps still not completely understood:  

È da poco tempo, che io siedo qui
massima vetta della società
E vorrei ascoltare, la parola di chi
Mi chiede pane, lavoro, e libertà.

Ma non è che non voglio, è che non posso
mantenere ora, ciò che promisi.

No, non fate quei visi.
Vorrei dir di si, a ciò che domandate
aiutare te, aiutare tutti voi
purtroppo non sono quello che voi credete
io qui sono tutto, ma non sono nessuno,
che posso farci, se mi hanno detto così
non fare un passo, non ti muovere di qui
che posso farci, se mi hanno detto di più
“ricordati, che chi comanda non sei tu”.

Che stupido sono, ho creduto
di avere tutto, niente ho avuto
prima di me, ognuno s’è venduto
ha messo all’asta la sua patria
la sua terra, la sua famiglia. 

To listen to the song click HERE

Contamination

# 19 Contamination: Seamus Heaney: intention, intuition and casualness

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September 17, 2013

Séamus Heaney (Castledawson, April 13, 1939 – Dublin, August 30, 2013) was an Irish poet, Nobel Prize for Literature in 1995, the highest representative of the contemporary Irish poetry renaissance. Seamus spokes with everyone looking at them in the eye in academic conferences and pubs; of sacred things and everyday life.

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Recently, it has returned to the fore for the departure, but it’s good enough mourning: it expresses the memory, because it is a fact and an ancestral rite that it is before the current religions. Seamus is an example of the care, study, perseverance and certainly not just lazy intuition and improvisation. He has experienced first hand the combination of theory and practice, because the activities of poetry immediately imply the notions of produce, make, manufacture, design, touch the ground.

 

Digging BY SEAMUS HEANEY

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it. 

The poetry is not confined to optics of the individual and it comes from the popular roots also made of musical tones, which are derived from folk songs. The poet received a mandate by the community of origin and belonging, while seeking a contact with European literature. The memory comes from the oral tradition and it is the source that allows the poet to grasp the totality of the real objects through childhood and rural labor. The poet captures the sense of “we”, when he declares in practice an ethical commitment, especially the Irish.

Seamus feels the issue of Northern Ireland among their acquaintances and family. In the seventies he also wrote about Bobby Sands (Robert Gerard Sands – Belfast, March 9, 1954 – Long Kesh, May 5, 1981, was a Northern Irish politician and activist, volunteer of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. He was elected a member of the British parliament while he was detained in the Maze prison at Long Kesh, where he died May 5, 1981 as a result of a hunger strike led to the bitter end as a form of protest against the regime prison where detainees were subjected Republicans). Seamus was able to distinguish the role of political the activist and even more by the poet, in fact he left Northern Ireland in 1972 and settled in Wicklow, Republic of Ireland.

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In an interview, Seamus discusses his history as a poet and as he felt that after having published three books, not before. And in particular, how the poem should find its size between these two opposites: the constantly ask the question “what is the task of poetry?” And at the same time he expressed the human condition – private. The Irish question was transfigured him in the condition of every people. Finally, just because the memory draws from their land, the poet perceives the individual traits of a global vision of reality having in mind the intention of sharing it with their own community, without which he follows a priori rules and formal requirements.

He is the poet who with the intention, the word and the sound, exposes the original relationship between the self and its stand in the place of all peoples.

Contamination

# 18 Contamination: Bulat Okudzhava Šalvovič: the poet-singer of horror and compassion

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September 9, 2013 

Šalvovič Bulat Okudzhava (Moscow, May 9, 1924 – Paris, 12 June 1997) was a Russian poet and songwriter originally from Georgia, a member of the Russian genre called “songwriters”. He composed more than two hundred songs and has been for her award-winning poetry, that it was set to the kind of song book, then it was picked up by other singers such as French Georges Brassens. He was known as a poet and bard (singer) after the fifties and he was considered a danger to his poems and songs: he was famous overseas, and the inability to publish at home. It is said that Brezhnev, had expressed the desire of his death, however, aware of increasing even more the popularity of this poet. Russians, in fact, sang his songs in the streets, in the taverns and bars, especially in the cold of the Russian winter evenings. He was a poet armed with a guitar and equipped with irony. His father, an activist of the Communist Party, the revolutionary of the first hour, will fall victim to one of the many purges: he was executed in the ’30s. His mother, activist too, will drink the frozen water of the Gulag for 19 years. Other nine of his relatives were executed and then everyone found innocent. Bulat, just seventeen, he walks to volunteer to defend the homeland from the Nazi threat and will hurt several times.

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And he will open the eyes of the war an ally of pride and greed and he will sing of suffering expressing compassion.  

Cowardly WAR – my translation.

Ah, war coward that you did!
Our courts have become silent.
Our kids raised their heads,
and they became great before time.
They were soon as seen on the street
and they departed: soldiers, soldiers …
Bye, guys! guys,
looking for you to come back! (…)
Ah cowardly war you did!
In place of marriage – chipping and smoke.
Our girls have donated
the white suits to the sisters. (…)

The rhythm of the poems have a common root with the songs of the bard: this part of the stomach, drawing on the tradition of songs, slow first and successive peaks later. A style that is characteristic of the Volga Boatmen and chants and stories the exploits of the heroes, and lovers of the disease, and then old age and death. Bulat not offer theorems and explanations: he expresses the horror in the everyday acts of war.

<< Do not believe the war, boy,
do not believe it, the war is sad,
it is very sad boy,
the war is narrow like shoes

Your good horses
we can not do anything,
you’re all in the palm of your hand
all the guns you point to. >>

And Bulat expresses it with a sweet irony that makes us smile moved. The poet confesses during a concert: “When I started, I knew three chords on the guitar, but now, after thirty years of work are improved … I know five!”

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How to sing the horror and terrible with gentleness and compassion:

Concert in Paris, 1995. Prizes HERE

SONG OF THE INFANTRY – My translation.

Sorry for the infantry,
though sometimes it is so stupid:
always we start
when the earth explodes the spring.
And unsteadily
on the scale that boggles there is no salvation.
Only white willows
as white sisters who watch you go

Do not believe the time,
when pouring rains persisted.
Do not believe the infantry,
bold when he sings songs.
Do not believe, do not believe,
when the nightingales in the gardens cry.

The life and death
have not yet settled accounts.

Time has taught us:
live like the bivouac, open the door.
Companion man,
it is also seductive your fate:
you are always on the march,
and one thing only removing you from sleep.

Why we start
when the earth explodes the spring?

Bulat was uncomfortable and feared, because he heard from those who did not read and he was sung by those who had the look down, facing the ground, which is that it is the true engine of all rebellion and revolt of the Russian people.

WAR AGAINST A FOREIGN COUNTRY – My translation.

In a war against a foreign country the king departed.
A large bag of biscuits made ​​him the queen,
the old coat with great care she mended,
three packs of cigarettes and also she gave the salt.

And his hands on the chest of the king went to lay
and said, caressing him with beaming eyes:
“Punish them well, otherwise you will be seen as a pacifist
and to take the spoil of good panforti you will not forget “

And the king saw that the army was in the midst of the court:
five soldiers sad five cheerful, and a corporal.
The King said: “We are not afraid printing, nor the storm.
we will return victorious after defeating the enemy base! “

But soon the triumphant exultation of the speeches ended.
In war, the king changed the attitude of the troops:
gay soldiers without delay stewards appointed
and the unhappy soldiers he left them, “Thus it will not hurt!”

Just think ‘: supervened then the days victorious.
Sad none of the soldiers returned from the war.
Corporal of dubious moral married a prisoner,
but they captured a large bag of tasty panforti

Play, orchestras; echoed, songs and laughter!
A fleeting sadness we must not give up.
It made no sense for the sad soldiers remain alive
and then they were not enough for all the gingerbread. 

And he could not be imprisoned or killed because of a people expressing compassion for his children, the condition of the martyr would amplify his message that it is still alive and fresh.

Contamination

# 17 Contamination: The Mute Gender

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July 15, 2013 

Women have invented agriculture and they have helped to organize the collection rational use of water in associated groups the dawn of time. Women have been created and re-created safe places for everyone, and they have also allowed the males to pass on the language and signs, history and biography of the group and the clan. Over the centuries, the title and the names of those who have held the technologies of speech and memory, were males.

The safe house that has always been a source of life, the woman was, and is also the dark prison of chains that were imposed in physical violence, and in the words of ordering the world and time.

The women, however, have sought autonomy in the activities of production, trade in manufactured goods of the earth and of the culture and memory. More than two billion women in the house, as prisoners sentenced to life imprisonment, on leave only with the bridegroom to the marriage or accompanied by a male relative’s funeral, holding the small economy that allows another two billion and more of people to work below cost for the powerful and the place for the technologically advanced countries.

Always in groups and on my own, women have tried to stand still and today and for ever more, as owners of their own autonomous subjectivity of one’s own body and at least be able to declare their status of minority. And they remain a mute Gender.

Nadia Anjuman was born approximately in 1980 was an Afghan poet and journalist. In 2005, while still a student at Herat University, published a book of poems entitled Gul-e-dodi (“Dark Red Flower”), released immediately in Afghanistan, Pakistan and parts of Iran. He spoke of himself, and of all, no offense, let the emotions show and she showed that even a woman can speak totally in the world apart from taxation thousands of years. In addition, together with other women, she created a circle of literary studies of William Shakespeare and Fyodor Dostoevsky.  

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Nadia Anjuman – Picture taken HERE 

And she made ​​it clear the issue:

I AM IN THIS CORNER IMPRISONED

I am trapped in this corner full of melancholy and sorrow. My wings are closed and I can not fly. 

Because you can not talk, but the poem is older than the written text, because it leaves the body:

NO DESIRE TO OPEN MY MOUTH

[…]
My mouth should be sealed.
Oh, my heart, you know, is the source.
And time to celebrate.
What should I do with a wing stuck?
That does not allow me to fly.
I have been silent for too long.
[…]
I am not a weak poplar
which is shaken by the wind.
I am an Afghan woman.
And (my) sensitivity leads me to complain.  

Because the chains may not contain air, breath and poetic inspiration.

 

CHAINS OF STEEL

How many times has been removed from the lips
my song, and how many times it has been
the muted murmur of my poetic spirit!
The meaning of joy was
buried by the fever of sadness.

If my verses with you to notice a light:
this would be the fruit of my deepest imaginings.
My tears were not used to anything
and I am left with nothing but hope.

Although I am a daughter of the town of poetry,
my verses were mediocre. 

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Picture taken by David Walker HERE

Although I am a daughter of the town of poetry,

my verses were mediocre …

And I say happy archives:

but they were the same rhythmic
from the body of the poet,
who feel the soul of a people
and a genre between the ages and continents,
and that transmits voice primordial
in redefining the world at the turn of time.

Nadia Anjuman was finally silenced by her husband on 4 November 2005.

Contamination

# 16 Contamination: appointments stolen

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April 29, 2013  

The childhood, youth and adulthood are marked by rituals and sharing with their peers that permeate and strengthen ourselves and the past that lives with us. We are confident that occur in a similar manner to those of a little more ahead of us, accompanying safety and certain promises for the future.

It is not always so for the peoples of the Earth, and for individuals.

Those that promise, they can lie about moments of our lives and lead us in ways scornful and cruel sac, as if they were appointments stolen. Compared to the aspirations of every day, the dissatisfaction is winning. If we base the future and the image of our lives by virtue of what you promised yourself, the result will always be limited. Despite all this we can not say incontrovertibly to passively accept everything, because the environment and the men, however, can cause damage.

We succumb, despite the fact that the self-respect to stand circles with your fingers downward on the cliff into the abyss of the soul without hope. Aid to continue to imagine new lives, can be supplied by the example of those who, while living at the antipodes, through the weaknesses and failures, have managed to survive and ultimately to live.

Ko Un, Kunsan, August 1, 1933, is a poet, writer, essayist, playwright and painter South Korea, one of the most representative figures in contemporary South Korea.

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KO UN– Picture taken HERE

A KO was forced to learn the Japanese Empire during the Japanese rule, and then the Chinese language. He cultivates learning Korean anyway. When war broke out in 1950, he was shocked by the horror and attempts suicide. He saves and takes refuge in Buddhism. He begs and teaches free Korean language and art, and in addition he writes essays and poems. In 1962 he abandoned Buddhism, disillusioned by the corruption of the clergy. He reads foreign authors, and continues to write, alternating periods of prostration. Twice he attempts suicide.

But at the beginning of the 70s he continued confidence. He is responsible for human rights and became an activist against the Korean dictatorship and for this he was imprisoned several times and he was sentenced to life imprisonment in 1979, and also primarily for his literary and political.

In 1982 he gets amnesty. He falls in love and marries and starts a new phase of artistic production, publishing numerous works, ranging in different styles, receiving awards of any kind and repeated nominations for the Nobel Prize. The poetry, essays, plays, translations, has characterized his underground path of fall and rebirth.

From “Flowers of a moment” KO ONE

The soul of a poet

A poet is born in the spaces between the crimes,
theft, murder, fraud, violence,
the darkest part of this world.

The words of a poet insinuate themselves between the
expressions most vulgar and low,
in the poorest neighborhoods of the city,
and dominate for some time now.

The soul of a poet reveals the lonely cry of truth
emanating from the spaces between lies and evils of his time.
It is a mood beaten to death by everyone else.

The soul of a poet is doomed, there is no doubt.

–

And I listen to you and answer Ko Un.

The answers are due – Flax Milita

The testimonies of the suffering endured,
are required attention
for the lazy ears horror suffered.

The soul of a poet is obliged to ask for listening,
and if he receives it, he reveals the interstices of light
between walls without reflection, collected by anyone.

And then every rhyme in time crushed,
propagates in the faint wind waves rebel
to be reborn from the pain exhumed.

Contamination

Contamination # 15: The race for Miguel

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April 17, 2013 

The race evokes primal movements of every human being ….

But it is a fallacy! Up to 150 years before the use of plastics in the shoes, the ride was punctuated with steps, even barefoot. The very concept of destination was understood as a line run by an arrow shot towards a defined goal. But it was not so straightforward calculation and the manner of the way.

The race as a method and an expression of life and a conception of respect in the world is recent: it is not now runs to break down, kill, escape, raiding, arriving in a safe place, bringing to an end an office inevitable. Today we run for to express new conceptions of the body and to uphold freedom in harmony with everything that you come across. The races for runners who are not marches trample and stamp their feet.

It runs well who touches the ground. He enjoys the smile of the race with the others. The Marathon is the maximum expression of freedom and equality in a single gesture: the first who win the medal and the others who come after, all together. Freedom to run in safe ground in each country, that is all.

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Miguel Sanchez picture taken HERE

Benancio Miguel Sanchez was born on November 8, 1952, in Bella Vista, province of Tucuman, Northern Argentina. He loved life, athletics, Argentina. In the morning, at dawn, he went for a run. Train, work out, still training, night school to complete those studies that was not finished. He was a self-taught poet. His “Para vos athlete”, “For you, athlete,” was published by Gazeta Esportiva of São Paulo, December 31, 1977,

For you know that cold
and heat 
 of triumphs and defeats
losses that are not.

For you who have healthy body,
wide soul and big heart.

For you who have many friends and many 
 yearnings,
joy adult 
 and your child’s smile.

For you who do not know of frost or sun,
neither rain nor grudges.

For you, 
 athlete who walked countries and cities
States joining in your go.

For you, athlete, that you despise the war
dreams and peace.

Miguel loved the Argentine people, race, freedom and poetry. He was too dangerous for the dictatorship. They kidnapped him on the night of 8 January 1978.

Contamination

# 14 Contamination: An answer of the East

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April 3, 2013 

Of course the West that anticipates and provides for the course of events on Earth, it is now considered the most effective and consistent way to appear. The problems, however, sometimes arise in considering the East, such as India, for example, a remnant of our action and knowing. As if the lands where the sun rises, they said it all.

The poems of East how I respond to the world offered by the poems of the West? What they say to the emotional style of the West? How do you respond Rabindranath Tagore?

One of the many responses came from Rabindranath Tagore, born in 1861 and died in 1941, the poet was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1913, musician, composer, painter, educator and philosopher Indian primary protagonist along with Mahatma Gandhi, including religious movements, political and social . Tagore uses the tools of the West, but he attempts a poetic language that Buddhism takes the idea of ​​a separate nature from Nirvana and that makes contradictory picture of Western history as a struggle for biological life.

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Rabindranath Tagore image taken HERE

Gitanjali VII

MY song has put off her adornments.
She has no pride of dress and decora-
tion. Ornaments would mar our union ;
they would come between thee and
me; their jingling would drown thy
whispers.

My poet’s vanity dies in shame before
thy sight. O master poet, I have sat
down at thy feet. Only let me make
my life simple and straight, like a flute
of reed for thee to fill with music.

 

Tagore in the hollow tube is not the West that it runs the risk of being weak to be eradicated, or as the poem “Broom” by Giacomo Leopardi in which this flower tries to resist and to fight against forgetting.

Here the barrel is already full, because it takes on new forms and substances Sheet.

 

Contamination

# 13 Contamination: the Passacaglia: The present and the past

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March 26, 2013

In the curious and friendly gaiety that sometimes appears in walking into unknown territories, immediately after the first breath solitary, here flows the past who accompanies us on the trail. The crowd of possible events and those that occurred, offering a rainbow of emotions, as this Passacaglia from the Suite no. 7 Friedric George Handel arias which provides progressive, with a sequence of repeated notes in a similar manner to the art of fugue by Johann Sebastian Bach. In fact, we already have an idea of ​​where it will go the musical cell that is repeated in slightly different tones.

Listening and contemporary recollection of the previous plea, it vibrates in us with sweetness and nostalgia. The notes open in the run-up of the arches that fall like tears on smiles plucked harp. Any reason not close, because it starts as a step after the other in a staccato rhythm of a trail off in a more indefinite progression towards ourselves. In fact, the harp collects all the segments of the previous sounds.

Like a fountain that collects flows, so as soon as the water jet is finished, it reclines and is preparing to start a cascade of notes collected in the violins, which are ready to throw in the higher tones.

As the harp is ready to receive the new ad, after a brief suspension, so we astonished with wonder, we start the journey that accompanies us with new reflections of what we were.

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Georg Friedrich Handel portrait by Thomas Hudson in 1749.
Image taken from HERE

To listen to the Passacaglia from the Suite no. 7 George Handel Friedrich click HERE