Category Archives: Poetically

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.

Poetically

@ 14 poetically: males in the mirror.

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May 6, 2013

It sounds trite and boring to repeat it. Some of these killings have already announced before completion of their sad and then they are subsequently accompanied justifications that the blame due to unbalanced or marginalized.

But the bad man is a relative or trusted friend. The hypocrisy speaks of love and jealousy and it transposes it into a biological inability to restrain himself by the male. For sure it’s the woman’s body that continues to be violated after death in the images, in legal procedures and the reconstruction of the events.

We speak of an emergency. But it is not a phenomenon of today this murder with the obvious desire to annihilate a living being that is considered inferior by the violent as a mere object available.

These tragic events are narrated with shock and paralysis, and they are concluded with a general exhortation to understanding and combating of ‘phenomenon’.

The males refuse to turn over the matter and their victims: they are eclipsed.

Now, without invoking the common sense, intellectual honesty, the basic principles of ethics and law, it is sufficient for males to listen to your body.

Think about it, we males fugitives as if we were sprawled on the ground, undressed, with blood and urine, and the gaunt face in front of everyone, maybe neighbors who are scratching your head, sit down and nose and exchange phrases in the look for land , with the inevitable idiot which ranks near the cameras of some journalist. Think only physically in the cold, the stench in your body. Just this.

And of course everyone looks unhealthily the victim (on the street, in newspapers, on television) without thinking about the murderer.  Where is the murderess? It is the husband? The father? The brother? The victim in front of the public without compassion.

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Jakub Schikaneder, “Murder in the house”
– Picture taken HERE

Security is not everywhere: water, sun faded, sand and sea are already a hazard. And this is a lie: the one who generates life is offended by the complement of male generation that believes one unshaken principle.

She is alone: think of males in vain to ask for help to relatives, friends and judicial authorities. Imagine us walking the streets seeing everyone happy or upset to the everyday problems and feel marked and liable to be seized and crushed at any moment in front of indifferent gaze. Feel it in the stomach this horror. Listen in your veins awareness of being massacred in short, where even the crying will be punished.

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Jakub Schikaneder – Picture taken HERE

There are itchy hands? You feel the anger growing inside you? Here you multiply that feeling by a thousand in the stomach, knowing they can not do anything and that all this will explode inside. Imagine you how to get mangled trunks without memory in a dirty beach and desolate.

The red umbrella with traits defined as follows, with respect to the forms almost liquefied, picks up the warmth of the heart and the soul and reflects it to the surrounding environment. The rain does not refreshes: afflicts slowly to normality as an inevitable compulsion. The body of the woman and her walk are imposed by rains that cut and not soothe, like tears of acid. There is a mock sun and obscured by cultural requirements and power, which are passed off as natural and eternal.

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Andre Kohn – Picture taken HERE

Dear males think about the normality of every day, which is made of gray and oppression, like a simple to walk and dress imposed. Just think just that.

Poetically

@ 13 poetically: To be born from the wind

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April 22, 2013 

Sometimes we complain about the winds and we consider them oppressive and annoying because they freeze the neck, or we want them in the warm and pleasant caress the cheeks. If then they spill splashing water, we respond with repercussions of ancestral curses.

The phenomena are expected and almost obvious from those accompanied the move. The wind passes and he has similarities with what is destined to disappear. It is the home state of the analogy between the word and the wind. We are solid, with our feet firmly on the ground. The horizon is the reference that provides and indicates the transition of the Sun and Moon, and the shape of the places where we ourselves transiting.

In Italy we depend on the winds of distant places. The alternation of heat and cold, where it is underpinned by seasonal cycles, it takes on different connotations for each year the winds that come from the Azores and from the Sahara.

The Azores anticyclone and high pressure African play continuously between them. Cleaning is one, and the other is wet. They appear exclusively, or coupled.

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image taken HERE

We despise the air and see the clouds, but we depend on them. A variation or their whim, however, affects the way we live, rain or drought, or moisture. They delay the advent of spring, and anticipate the summer. They linger in the fall. Our way of life, from going out or not, the idea of cold and warm, our mood, depends on the unpredictable their incessant evolution.

The cold winds of the East as the Brujan are constant, precise, direct like a train, but they live in the house of winter. And here in Italy we have different perceptions. In the Tyrrhenian Sea to the Apennines holding back the winds of the East and those of the polar cold. The Azores anticyclone and high pressure African, give both cascades of moisture, in the Po Valley, Sicily and Sardinia. In the Ionian these two jokers quarrel with the shower heads of the Middle East, and their oscillating between drought or frost as if every time we had for the first.

The same glaciations have had easy game when the winds of the Azores have been lazy in the Atlantic and high pressure African, shy, remained in the Sahara. We draw from the fruits and thorns, sometimes we fight. But it is a rigged match. We are also made of wind, in the heart and in issuing of the voice, and in the interplay between the eardrum and Eustachian tube.

And of all the sorrows and pains, we sentiamoe The Wind That Shakes or pushes the branches, or that he travels and appears in the narrow streets and the walls of the houses, he informs us of the time, of our body that is made by him, and he leads us to the places still hidden from our sight.

We are nourished of the wind, we are in the wind, because he is an indicator of becoming and time. We, the men made ​​from water and dust, we are born with the wind.

By Rainer Maria Rilke (my traduction) 


 The awakening of the wind

In the middle of the night, sometimes, it happens
you wake up, like a child, the wind.
Only, slowly, he comes down the path,
and he enters the sleeping village.

He gingerly strip, until the fountain;
Then he pauses, unspoken, listening.
The houses sit pale, around;
and all the oaks are silent.

The poem is taken HERE

And the wind is always the child: he is born every time. He is not polite at first. He always wants to play. Wild, irreverent, mischievous, wretched occasionally, but he always brings countless gifts from one part of the globe.

To listen to “The Stone and the Wind” by Aldo Tagliapietra click HERE

Poetically

@ 12 poetically: the panoramic contemplations

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April 15, 2014

There is a youth imagined and placed in a long time, perhaps never happened, where the walk, and stasis on the steps of the house, or on a bench in the street, or a local pool, it was more than just a stand or rest .

There was the excitement of meeting friends and loved ones, after a day of work or minimum formal commitments. Walking strolled paths in the circuit just talking or to observe passers-by, this was already a momentary response to the unspoken questions of the dreams of the night and the sunrises tormented. Both in wet weather, but more to the mild days with the Sun bothered by pinches of the clouds, they are driven by winds naughty, we just smiled out from the walled spaces of the mind and body.

The events of the past even if that did not happen, though they appear in the presentee they are comfortable. They dress the consonant harmony between the sensations of your body relaxing in the primordial perform actions and emotions, which call for a panoramic view of the surrounding space.

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Jean Béraud, Avenue Parisienne

The contemplations offer happy moments with the physical sensation of being simply without asking “why” and not focus on the “how.”

If you looked at us smiling at the familiar places, almost always felt indifferent with respect to our common daily chores, we would have a fulfilling aesthetic vision that turns into an immediate physical well-being.

This particular sensation that is considered normal when it appears and that it has always pursued in places of isolation and anguish, is an expression of contemplation to be distinct, but in consonance with what accompanies us in becoming all things.

Affinity – Lino Milita 

I sit sunny
covered in the shadows
with drink
of gold is leached
from the infinite source.

The absent frosts
dismiss tunes
granulated by
hypocritical pretensions
affinity
that are unnecessary disputes.

I contemplate full
good-natured
each footprint hot,
she grazes in the shade,
leaving plans that are
reflected by splinters
my harmony. 

To listen Buena Vista Social Club -“Chan Chan” Click HERE

Poetically

@ 11 poetically: The happy crescent moon

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April 8, 2014 

The Syrian musical tradition is characterized in general as that of the neighboring Arab countries (Egypt, Lebanon, and Iraq) and the crescent moon itself, the importance given to improvisation. The main form is the “taqsim” impromptu prelude to a solo instrument, in free rhythm. Its voice is the equivalent layali, a vocalise the words “yālayl, ya ‘Ayni” (“oh night, oh my eyes”).

The most popular tools are the ud, or Arabic lute (then imported into Italy in 1400, and made a major contribution to Renaissance music).

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Oud – taken from HERE 

The qanun, a kind of zither trapezoidal or kanun, is a stringed instrument with 78 strings of the classical Arabic tradition. It consists of a trapezoidal zither, with numerous choirs of strings thesis on a soundboard of parchment. The length of the strings can be changed before execution by acting on small metal frets, thus changing the tuning in function of the chosen scale. The strings are plucked by two big horn plectrums.

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Qanun – taken from HERE

The qanun has in music teaching Arabic, Greek and Turkish has the same function that the monochord has played in the medieval west: it is a practical tool for learning intervals. It was introduced in the West in the Middle Ages, with the name of Cannon.
Nay, flute straight (dating back to 5000 years ago. Researchers have discovered artifacts in the ancient city of Ur). The ney (a word of Iranian origin) is a reed flute composed of 9 nodes and its holes follow strict mathematical rules, which are useful for the execution of the different maqam (Arabic for place or location).

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Nay – taken from HERE

Each maqam describes the “tonal-spatial factor” or set of musical notes, including models and the development of the traditional melody, freeing up the “rhythmic-temporal component” because it is open to the feelings of everyone, even the Andalusians Far West.

The century-old trade between Maghreb (Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and Makresh;) (Libya, Egypt, and Medioeriente) musical instruments have merged, edited and regenerated, through the Roman Empire and the Maritime Republics, to the empires of the day our.

And everything still passes today in Syria, under the sound of bombs in the country by numerous vocal, ethnic groups and sounds throughout Europe and Asia.

We are happily surrounded by these millennial sound improvisations, where the sun and moon playing in this crescent moon who lives in the Mediterranean.

It is a harmonious mixture that appears in modern Syria and in the Andalusian guitar …. And at the heart of who plays them.
To listen to the guitar Syrian and Andalusian click HERE

Poetically

@ 10 poetically: The disorienting attractions

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April 1, 2013 

The fear of loss sometimes comes from the dissolution of things and memories. And even more when we are unable to comprehend what appears. The absence of a response and the escape of meanings, causing paralysis. Despite all this we also try to give an aesthetically meaning that allows us to conceive of a range of possibilities to determine a space of existence in the future.

We are afraid of the attractions of the motion of the water and the earth, where they open the doors to the vortex and whirlpool. We run away from them, but our eye is attracted.

Stasis resulting from the awareness of the futility of escape and attraction towards the maximum danger, because we feel the suggestion of a new form of existence and knowledge of the world.

We should sit in the edge of the coast near the sea evoked by eddies. Let’s see, finally, the mirror of the infinite backdrop that is our fear. Eddy and fear are two abysses that meet swirling in the center of anxiety.
And being stuck, let us approach the arctic wind that lingers on our shoulders, which is contrasted by the warm current of the Sargasso, silver crackling and flaring of the north with the purple tones of the south, in our speck of existence.

Imagine a sailing winds that embraces all the drops as possible, like a sailor who seeks the route in the eye of the hurricane. Hurricane that is its own eye.

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“Wanderer above the Sea of ​​Fog” by Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840) – Picture taken HERE

 To listen to “Into The Sea” by Sivert Hoyem click HERE

Poetically

@ 9 poetically: Folly and celebration

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March 28, 2013 

We want, in general, a complete sense that offers stability and that it confers to become a purpose that is in line with the cause, although it appears that manifests itself indefinitely. The variety and unpredictability are concepts that attempt to harness what we do not see and do not intend to.

We usually imagine a recipe, a formula and a belief that it is a shield to infinity appear. We sublime anguish towards becoming a tremor and crippling fall forever into nothing.

Everything in order, both in time, both in the report that goes from the origin to the end. Birth and death of the subject and the verb, soul and body, invite you to consider us in splits with a fake faith, agnostic, scientific, religious, we recomposed entirely or leave us in an indistinct appear that we will be silent and into oblivion.

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Image taken from HERE

And the silence due to fear, pushes the imagination to invent other languages ​​that they are not so in the belief that a mechanical cause (genesis) is unquestionably the effect arrivals (dissolution). And we want other words, other sequences and suggestions. Other forms of suffering which are not the rationality of fear. A folly that multiply in the game other ways of becoming, for further shores of existence.

We want the folly that translated into two notes, gifts of faith multiply different sounds in an infinite composing that makes it suspended the silence of nothingness.

To listen to “La Follia” –  Arcangelo Corelli, click HERE

Poetically

@ 8 poetically: the friend who is rediscovered

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March 19, 2013 

What a surprise !

Hello,
here I am with a friend.
He is a person at all familiar and so often at home that seems to be transparent and predictable. Every now and then the events of the world draw near to the rooms where we live, the place that is considered natural and isolated from others. For those efforts are used to understand the secret, the result is always to see him in a calm and warm smile. He is sympathetic to observant of all religions. The atheist occasionally calls him for some walks in the paths of introspection. The agnostic welcomes him every time during the stops pleasant or forced at any time of the cycle of the Sun

In addition, he is able to grant nearly irreconcilable views and customs. Perhaps the secret lies in a universal prayer which does not purport answers, and that it leaves everyone free to locate them as they see fit.

Yes it is!

Prayer is common to the laity and to the believers, ancient and modern; even to those who worship the case and technique. Even before Zeus and religions “animistic”, there are prayers that stifle the applicant, while others bind, some of the sublime. Yet it seems that our friend does not keep his hands clenched. Our friend is convinced that the answer is already in the prayer of each one.

Each element is already involved in his appeal: the water, the sun, passing through the Earth.

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Francesco  and his brother Sun. Picture taken from HERE

Hi Francesco  !

 

Poetically

@ 7 poetically: Teresa Mattei: the fire that lives

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March 14, 2013 

A Teresa Mattei: the fire that lives – Lino Milita

I’m back, excited to see me again.
The laces laughs the actor arrived
who faces deposited over time.
The guest speaker, but the other is silent.

The departure is near and the mask
desperate to embrace the old link,
but the answer is to that past.
The pain changes the irony in resentment.

The trip builds memories dying
that will reshape to the new meeting
and new tears reopen old wounds.

The harsh openings make it malleable.
The force increases, as it fades.
The fire inside the touch and she is reborn.

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Picture taken HERE

 

Teresa Mattei, said Teresita (Genoa, 1 February 1921 – Lari, March 12, 2013) was an Italian partisan and political.
She was in training fighter Garibaldi “Youth Front” (with the rank of Company Commander). She was the youngest elected to the Constituent Assembly, where she assumed the post of secretary in the Bureau of the Constituent Assembly. She was also “Executive National Union of Italian Women” and she was the inventor of the use of mimosa for “Women’s Day” the eight of March. The idea came to her when she learned that Luigi Longo intended to give to the women for that day of violets; Mattei intervened suggesting a flower poorer and more common in the countryside.

Poetically

@ 6 poetically: the work consumed and the cry devoured

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March 5, 2013

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The Scream devoured – The ThyssenKrupp worker

Lino Milita

The anonymous dead mystified
by mysterious profits,
rummage unchanged
miserable bones,
for the annuity granted
from the ring royal
of pagan remittance.

Textures entombed
with hands that are woven
errors mythologized,
retain mediocre
meat eaten
from bondage burning
of shouts devoured.

“The Silesian Weavers” by Christian Johann Heinrich Heine (Düsseldorf, December 13, 1797 – Paris, February 17, 1856), arose after the revolt of the weavers in 1844. Today we have workers that are consumed and “non-workers” that are emptied .

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Heinrich Heine, image taken HERE

Deaths from “work” indicate that this poem is not the past. Here we have a cry. And today we have even more in the scream of the dead to the “do not work”

The Silesian Weavers

In lightless eyes there are not tears.
They sit at the loom and gnash the gears.
Germany, we weave the cloth of the dead
Threefold be the curse we weave ’round your head
We’re weaving, we’re weaving.

A curse to the god to whom we knelt.
Through the winter’s cold, such hunger felt.
In the past we hoped, we waited, we cried
You’ve mocked us and poxed us and cast us aside
We’re weaving, we’re weaving.

A curse on the king of the empire,
Who would not quell our misery’s fire.
He took every penny we had to give
Then shot us like dogs with no right to live
We’re weaving, we’re weaving.

A curse on the cold, ruthless fatherland,
Where outrage and shame fester by your hand,
Where blossoms are trampled under your boot,
Where rot and decay are allowed to take root.
We’re weaving, we’re weaving.

The shuttle is flying, the weaving looms roar.
Day and night we weave with you at our door.
Old Germany, we weave the cloth of the dead.
Threefold be the curse we weave ’round your head.
We’re weaving, we’re weaving.