Monthly Archives: July 2014

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The beginning of the tale

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November 3, 2013

Here is the moment in which we begin to write relishing the idea that it is something exclusive. We imagine, however, that in one dimension the next someone to read the whole thing and alive. The initial moment to write a verse or a line of a likely novel, compelling, reappeared countless times.

Attempts and fantasies that they summon the immediate birth of the poem, multiply preparatory rites in making this first act that we have seen as safe, immediate and spontaneous. Some write preparing sheets, pens, dictionaries, or sitting at the computer, others in the most unthinkable during the daily chores.

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Massimo Troisi and Philippe Noiret, in the film “Il Postino”

The beginning: we imagine stories and verses of poetry. We are looking for places and get closer to the great classical writers, to be immediately petrified. The imagination runs in formulating plots and stories that quickly intersect with slices of our lives, most of the time lying and continually varying scenarios, believing it to have occurred. Or more simply with stubborn will, we want to create a new world. Then comes the block after two lines, or write us with hypnotic casting a line after the other as if we were talking to an imaginary audience.

We tell ourselves a story, with a beginning, a point of conflict, doubt, and we imagine an end to any recovery, or we try to follow the words by queuing a period after another, listening to the sound correlative. If we lose the magic of writing, our body again becomes heavy and it is void of words, as if the texture we were creating was evaporated; so we try to chase wrecks of thought that disappear like steam from a window in the winter that we have just breathed. It all comes back in the silence …. but we do not give up and even if we do not succeed in intent, we still dream with open eyes to start over.

What are you doing for the beginning? What are the rituals that you use in telling the tale of your experience (false or likely)? Which time and place you are looking to start?

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It is printing the book “Mutual rebirths”

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October 13, 2013 

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Come rinascere da adulti senza arrecare dolore

 

After my first publication, the book of poems with images “Suspended Dreams”,  I come to another appointment with myself, to offer readers a new share of moods and events of everyday life, which I consider common each of us: “Mutual rebirths.”

The offer is discreet, because every revival that does not deny the past that involves peers. My guess is that any revival is always unanimous, and thus it may represent a genuine and radical transformation.

This collection of 50 poems that are accompanied by pictures, some in color, intended to stimulate and arouse in the reader thinking about the world, about human relationships and about the wonders that each human being carries with him.

The book in paperback version you can find it on Youcanprint: HERE and HERE on IBS

and in ebook format:

Amazon – mobi format: HERE
Feltrinelli – epub format: HERE
Ultima books – epub – mobi: 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.

Special Guest

* 9 Special Guest: Bread and words. The sum is more than the parts

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July 2, 2013

Sunday, June 30, 2013 to the Library Gallery of Art the Universal – via “F. Caracciolo” 12 – Rome, was held the presentation of the book “Words of Bread” project anthology of short stories about food, promoted by Diana & Emma, in the persons of writers “Diana Sganappa” and “Emma Saponaro.” The participants, including myself, have presented a single story, published or unpublished, concerning a story about food, fictional, first-person lived or passed down from a family member of a past generation or another country.

It is a unanimous testimony of the changes in society with reference to food.

The proceeds of the anthology are intended for public and social purposes.

The process of evaluation and preparation of the text involving different professional and the event was attended by literary critics, University Professors, and it was punctuated by piano performance and theater.

 

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In the realization of the project, the writers, according to competence and ability, have spoken for the preparation and organization of the event in its early stages.

The five award-winning short stories have been evaluated according to a rigorous process of self-assessment on the part of actors and literary critics with reflections on food, sociability, history and the present.

The meeting in the presence of everyone with whom he had interjected only via computer (resident in Italy and abroad), as well as being poignant and uplifting, it offered the opportunity to expose for a few moments some parts of itself for a further extension on the different approaches and styles of writing.

There was the wonder of everyone to rejoice: the writers are already in place for newbies and professionals in related activities to those of writing. All together in offering a choral work.  

 

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The ingredients of the project were mixed well and with an excellent leavening, offered a colorful display of writing styles with the ever-changing tastes like bread.

The book, the authors and the public have come up with something more. Everything was happily excess of the parties. Generous as the bread.

The book you can find it HERE

Poetically

Poetically @ 16: Anniversary of a suspended dream

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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.

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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.

 

Special Guest

* 8 Special Guest: Outposts of the real

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June 3, 2013 

It is difficult to recognize in the mirror, because it does not only appear in the shapes and contours of the cilia beats and lights. The rites of awakening according to the deities of the time marked in sexagesimal measures in the trill and in scanning the home screens, inform a bike-run linear and unidirectional. The physiological processes of awakening receive confirmation in a glass that reflects light forms, which have the faith to be identified in a body.

Here and now.

And it takes <ego> consistency in accordance with the identity cards and access keys digital and mechanical, so that you log into wedges world who wake up with us. The preparation of food and beverages and rituals of cleansing and dressing, in perpetual mutation, instill a feeling of tranquility and automaticity in the execution. The complacency of acting cyclic built every day, the safe house of a space and a time that promises consistency and uniqueness.

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Alfredo Araujo Santoyo – Picture taken HERE

Yet we think and act with images that go beyond the movements and purposes of the day. We jump and play every second between visions of the future and continuous shooting of the plots of the past.

We establish the outside world which frames us in positions to offer the ‘other’, looking for meanings that fantasize about the future.

Being clothes in front of the mirror, we project outposts of what we would like and we could be on the bumps fantasies, and on the plains of the imagination. And all of this is real, more real, because it emerges in a way that influences and directs our action.

Outposts of Me – Lino Milita

The views eradicated from trusts rooted
in folded canvases from minutes fluctuated,
diverge multitudes underground
in weeds that are shaken by the slender traces lost.

From the dreams that never took place, the demands suffered
infuse the elsewhere and several other past,
inviting the guests wanted to inverate
hopes, undertows wave expired.

The original and the renewed story perceives
a curious and lively composition,
where every possible event occurs.

The substrates rational raise the similarities
infused and hosted by endless dreams
that reinvent the necessary spells.

Child in Time – “Deep Purple”. To hear it click HERE

Special Guest

* 7 Special Guest: women and the Sea

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May 27, 2013

I present a text just released where I participate with my story from which the image is related also to the cover.

“Women and the Sea” is collection of short stories by authors of the FB group “Star Books”, with color illustrations by Diego Lights on coated paper,

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the book is available in hardcopy HERE

An anthology of 23 stories dedicated the world of women in the relationship with the sea, consisting of more or less well-known authors who have accepted the challenge to create a story while remaining within the maximum limit of 1000 characters.

The stories span several genres. They range from the dramatic relative to the impossible love, violence against women and the events giving rise to the ironic smile; the celebration of the sea and feelings to the fairy tale, the prose poetic and mythological references. In addition to the moral qualities you meditate sometimes on physical beauty, referring to the erotic impulses of the characters.

The 23 color illustrations created by “Diego Luci” highly evocative, and they capture the essence of the story that follows. The drop cap similar to medieval miniatures, they offer a fabulous manuscript, emerged as if by magic from the shelves of a library mysterious.

It is also available in ebook format on Amazon HERE.

Poetically

@ 15 poetically: a monster in the norm

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May 21, 2013 

Jorge Rafael Videla Redondo (Mercedes, August 2, 1925 – Buenos Aires, May 17, 2013) was an Argentine military, which was dictator and de facto president of his country between 1976 and 1981 as well as responsible for crimes against humanity.
His government was marked by human rights violations and conflicts border with Chile that nearly erupted into open warfare. He was sentenced to two life sentences and 50 years in prison for crimes against humanity, including the murder and torture of 30,000 people. He served his sentence in prison Marcos Paz, Buenos Aires, until his death.

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Videla. Picture taken HERE

You, Videla put a strain on secular piety for the dead. It is too easy to place you in the category of tyrants or dictators, sadistic and depraved, or in one of the executors of cold and inhuman.

You, the forces of repression, financial and industrial devices along with elements of the clergy and the average upper middle class (as it was decades ago) have ably maintained business relations and international politicians to maintain power.

You and cultural and ideological means of reproduction have exploited the image of the Cold War between the Soviet Union and China against the U.S. and Europe, shifting political scenarios in South America, for the simple dominance. In fact, you helped to kill communists, socialists, Christians, libertarians, liberals, atheists, agnostics, non-political, anarchists, and people who do not even know where they were the two great superpowers.

You have not only imprisoned, repressed and killed. You have organized an efficient and rational system of suppressing the people and their respective biography. You stole their children and even those who were yet to be born, waiting for the mothers gave birth in prison and then kill them, without the child could touch them. You have marked the unborn with other identities and thou hast also given up for adoption to the families of prison guards. It is a mockery of mockery in this system is also used by dictatorial regimes of the past as the Nazis and Communists in Cambodia. This is to emphasize how these words are overused.

YOU have not been a charismatic leader or an emblem almost superhuman evil, like others before you, for which, in particular, that Austrian, I try hard to write the name. In fact you’re even elegant in appearance and manner. As usual, the rumored informal biographies of some vice. But in any case, your body, your voice, your image is not great. You can not even say that you are an evil genius and to believe it was all your fault, so that people can make a ritual of sacrifice totemic leader. You can not even consider you Below average, because the smart you were.

And this is the point: neither inhuman nor superhuman, nor sick, nor genius. And even mere employee, because of quality even after you have shown your deposition and late imprisonment for all these past thirty years. Did you continue, you, and others along with you, to conceal, to cause indirect violence in the veil the truth and to keep the old equipment still in sixth, albeit in different forms.

Even today, the truth is violated. You did not provide admissions, and you have also narrated that he acted according to necessity and order. The norm. And without a vulgar show obstinacy in a lie, you have not explained, but you have consistently acted in a discreet way. And sometimes her makeup your face with the rhetoric for the sake of the people of Argentina. Already: the people of Argentina!

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Videla – Picture taken HERE

You, Videla, are a problem for us Italians, even more than for other nations, because some structures still obscure in our country have helped you. But this is a minor element compared to the fact that half of the Argentine people in the 70s and 80s was ITALIAN. And you’re also dead, because all you had around, it is here in Italy. We have not come to terms with our history, which is shrouded in an apparent forgetfulness that affects us. We here in Italy we are slaves of words and patterns of decades ago. OUR YOU are a continuing problem.

YOU are not evil: I’ve served with discretion and with sufficient capacity. Consciously you have caused pain every day without stopping for a second.

TU, even in death, continues to look like a respectable monster the norm.