June 10, 2013

These days, a year ago, just back from Riga (Latvia), I decided to write a book of poems, many of which were in an embryonic state and many images and photos and paintings that I had lived and shared in my unconscious and with presence in many friends, even virtual. A suspended dream finally appeared in wakefulness.

In midnight on the summer solstice at the end of May, as if by magic in the way of the shipyard in the port of Riga, back to my unspoken thoughts, I came to the last edge, beyond which begins the forests to the north that forward to the Russian coast to Finland.

And the Sun instead of disappearing into the horizon, for a reverse voltage, it began to rise as if about to explode. But what changed was the sky from a gray blue waving the blue, in the time of a blink of an eye, it became yellow and orange all around there was an expectant silence.

It was a flash, but not from the outside: a swirl of ideas condensed in rhyme, just as I was taking this photo.

 

The same morning I was helped by a fellow native, returning to his home, to write a few lines in similarity to the style of the Latvian poet Imants Ziedonis (May 3, 1933 – February 27, 2013). In the following hours in a state of self-induced hypnosis, thinking I wrote some notes to the port and to the Sun, where the morning had already taken his leave from the base of the horizon. And then I hazarded some sounds of a foreign language to me, if not for some of the terms of Ziedonis. That embryo of verse that was written in the following weeks, it became the poem “The semicircle of the day,” my book “Dreams Suspended.”

 

The semicircle of the day – Lino Milita

On the shadows of water expanses of sky,
you wobble every hour on the thin trace.
The narrow surfaces shaking the arrows
ray diffuse on the bottom end.

The sudden flicker an eye crimson,
push your fuzzy contrails under
solid seals, which are buried in caskets
of anxious nights sleeping.

The expected answers you do not subtract
around the rapt gaze.
The accepted vigils invoked, you pour
phonic infirm in flames.

Twilights you contain compressed browsing
around the swashplate ring plane and
in the eye of the horizon of each desired
sense, you caress the eyelids finally relaxed.

 

And this is a superficial and inaccurate translation that takes into account the Latvian language, which was written taking into account the admiration that semicircle of colors constantly changing.

 

Pusaplis dienas – Lino Milita 

Ūdens plašumiem debesu ēnas, kas
šūpoties katru stundu uz šauras.
Šaurās virsmas shaking darting stariem
plaši izplatīta jūras dibena neskaidra.

Pēkšņas mirgo sarkanās trīce,
push jūsu izplūdušu takas
cietās blīves, kas ir ietverti lādes
bezmiega naktis un nemierīgi.

Netiek ņemta vērā paredzamo atbildes
ar acīm, kas jūs brīnums.
Pieņemt faktu jautājumiem un izplatīt liesmu
un skaņas visu ugunsgrēku.

Jums pārlūkot uz mazām twilights
ap gredzenu plaknei, kas svārstās
pagrieziena pie apvāršņa,
kur katrs plakstiņa ir difūzs glāstīja.

 

And to return to Italy in June I continued to recall the dreams of the past and echoes of future results, which are also oscillating in the suspension of the semicircle of the day.

 

This post is also available in: Italian