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Un mostro. La missione era spaventare: missione compiuta. Tendiamo a dimenticarci che anche lo spot migliore ha come obiettivo ideale "un undicenne neanche tanto intelligente". Tutti gli altri continueranno a scaricare e scambiare senza provare nessuna inquietudine - ma nel frattempo abbiamo messo l'ansia a una generazione di ragazzini. Vabbe', pazienza, sarebbe successo in un modo o nell'altro.

Qualcosa da aggiungere? Era l'ultimo pezzo. Anche se devo dire che l'unico blogger che lo ha visto ne ha parlato abbastanza bene. Ma che sia intrinsecamente meno intelligente del tardo Mai dire Gol, o di Indietro Tutta per citare due trasmissioni a caso che hanno fatto ridere generazioni di ragazzini no, io non lo credo. Credo che si tratti principalmente di una questione di budget. Pur restando un prodotto dignitoso e professionale, con qualche slancio coraggioso ogni tanto incidono una canzone nuova, abbozzano una coreografia , i Soliti Idioti sostanzialmente sono due attori non troppo professionisti che fanno degli sketch con personaggi ricorrenti.

Non vanno molto bene, altrimenti anche MTV si sarebbe tenuto la sua M originale. Sono meno ispirati? Questo non significa che i giovani d'oggi siano irrecuperabili come dice la De Gregorio. A me piace pensare che sia uno di quei contraccolpi storici: dopo una Mtv generation ipercinetica che messaggiava guardando video e negli intervalli degli spot votava per un mondo migliore, forse una generazione che se la prende calma e apprezza la lentezza potrebbe salvarci.

Non so quanto il film dei Poveri Idioti confermi questa mia ipotesi e onestamente non ho neanche voglia di andare a controllare. Non credo c'entri lo snobismo all'incontrario. Ecco, i Soliti Idioti sono il povero programma che ci mancava. E probabilmente a ridere con poco ci si dovranno abituare.

Il Tempo e la Fanciulla , dialoghi , racconti , ragazzini , Sanremo , scuola Permalink. In viaggio coi cretini , ragazzini , scuola Permalink. Ripeto: a scuola. Un minuto di silenzio. Come faranno? Pattuglieranno le aule per essere sicuri che ci sia un minimo di confusione almeno ogni 50 secondi? Toc, toc.

D'accordo ragazzi, ma mi raccomando, eh? Dopo la scuola lo chiederanno in ospedale, o in chiesa, o al cimitero. Il solo fatto che il Ministro lo proponga dimostra quanto poco creda lei stessa in quella dagherrotipia di scuola che predica, quella con gli studenti in grembiule che scattano sull'attenti. Ju ve! Ju Ve! Chi lo ha inventato? In che contesto? Di sicuro non era a scuola. Non capita a tutti di assistere alla nascita di un grande rito di massa.

Un rito sostanzialmente laico, tutto in negativo. Via tutto. Ci teniamo soltanto il raccoglimento interiore. A scuola no, a scuola silenzio e rumore dovrebbero alternarsi armonicamente, e un minuto intero di non rumore non dovrebbe essere percepito come eccezionale. I casi secondo me sono due: o sei religioso e allora preghi , o non lo sei: e allora non hai veramente motivo di stare zitto a occhi bassi a fissare il pavimento. Training autogeno? Uno dice: ne approfitto per pensare.

Aaah, ho capito: meditazione. Ma fosse anche: a che pensi? Ai morti in Afganistan, a quello che hai capito sull'argomento. No, e chi avrebbe dovuto dircelo, Carlo Pastore? Il Gabibbo? Narcisi autolesionisti , contare i morti , ragazzini Permalink Prendere posizione, finalmente Scusate se interrompo l'ironia, ma credo siano maturi i tempi per un bilancio serio. Non solo dell'estate che sta finendo: anche se il numero di decessi stagionali dovrebbe parlare da solo. Non tutta, ma qualche.

Tutto molto ragionevole, ma io pensandoci bene sto con Alemanno: alcune operazioni culturali lanciano mode e atteggiamenti sbagliati. No: ai ragazzini. A volte sui blog ci si dimentica un po' di loro. Non possiedono tutti i diaframmi culturali necessari a capire che le vicende del Freddo e di Dandi vanno calate in un preciso contesto storico eccetera.

S'impongono e si fanno rispettare. Che mantiene ancora meno che in passato, quando non c'erano i decoder una vocazione interclassista: e infatti ora i coltelli in classe li portano anche i ragazzi delle famiglie perbene. E allora cosa proponi. Niente di concreto, per ora. Non dico di non smettere di apprezzare, in modo adulto, le serie fatte bene.

E chiedo soprattutto di rizzare le orecchie. Anche se alla fine gli argomenti sono sempre gli stessi. Ha persino diritto di esserlo. Pensate ogni tanto a quanto eravate stupidi a 15 anni, per favore. Scuola: 5 ore faticose al giorno. Tempo con la famiglia: 2 ore al giorno. Tempo di irradiazione televisiva quotidiana: ore in media di ipnosi.

Non prendiamoci in giro. Cosa sta succedendo ai ragazzini? No, non ai tamarri e vari gangstarappa, cosa sta succedendo al nerbo morale di ogni generazione, ovvero i ragazzini che suonano nei garage? Ai miei tempi l'ipotesi provino televisivo era impensabile. Ma basta parlare di noi, generazione insulsa. Parliamo dei ragazzini.

I Bastards Sons Of Dioniso. Non sono la cosa migliore che sia capitata alla tv di Stato negli ultimi, non so, tre, cinque, dieci anni? Dev'essere stato un attimo di distrazione, anche stavolta. Il format del programma non lo prevedeva. Tutto sommato Xfactor aveva tutte le premesse per diventare il solito carrozzone.

Merito mi costa parecchio dirlo del televoto, che ha impallinato deliberatamente i concorrenti che il pubblico di Maria o del GF avrebbe portato in finale; e ha prolungato la permanenza davanti ai riflettori di personaggi che in tv potevano finirci solo per un incidente di percorso: un quartetto di artisti dalla Patagonia, un trentottenne con due figli, un trio, boh, diciamo garage-prog-punk della Valsugana.

A un certo punto persino i membri fissi del carrozzone hanno iniziato a rilassarsi senza perdere la concentrazione, come succede quando hai la rara esperienza nella vita di lavorare in un gruppo che funziona. Ma a un certo punto tutti i difetti hanno quagliato: le digressioni di Morgan avevano un senso era l'unico giudice a prendere il suo ruolo un po' sul serio , Facchinetti ha preso un ritmo che Maria se lo sogna, persino la Ventura si riusciva a seguire.

Ma sarebbe tutto inutile se i Bastardi non si fossero fatti trovare. E questo ci fa tornare al punto di partenza: che ci fa un gruppo rock a Xfactor? I Manhattan Transfert riempivano gli stadi? Quest'anno la selezionatrice dei gruppi vocali era la rappresentante del malmostoso mondo discografico, Mara Maionchi, che piuttosto di mandare al macello altri gradevoli Quartetti Cetra ha deciso anche lei sorpresa in un momento di grazia di puntare sui gruppi normali.

Oddio, ci provano. Stonano anche, ma in birreria ci sta. I giovani stanno cambiando. Anche la tv. Qualsiasi cosa. Anche un trio rock della Valsugana che fa roba medievale, chi lo sa ormai cosa piaccia alla gente. Si aprono prospettive interessanti. E i giovani. Beh, i giovani chi li capisce. E loro, senza una piega, si sono lasciati fare tutto, senza sembrare nemmeno puttane. Omnia munda mundis, chi lo sa.

A riequilibrare il tutto ci hanno dovuto pensare i ragazzini. Una delle migliori dell'anno fin qui pensate come siam messi. Le generazioni vanno avanti. Ci spero parecchio, grazie Bastardi. Cattiva maestra , cattiva politica , fascismo , ragazzini , tv Permalink Io ero pronto al peggio, come sempre quando si tratta di odontoiatria. Per dire, una volta mentre trafficava intorno a un premolare, il mio dentista d'allora mi fece ascoltare un album intero di Laura non Irene , Laura Pausini.

Voi l'avete mai ascoltata la Laura per un album intero? Quindi, insomma, ero pronto a tutto. Mi sembrava invece che qualcuno stesse litigando, forse due assistenti nella sala di fianco? No, le voci erano un po' troppo sguaiate. In sala d'aspetto? Che fossero antiche rivali, e avessero aspettato che le lasciassi sole per saltarsi alla gola? Il dentista interruppe le mie indagini chiedendomi quale fosse il problema. Sintonizzato su Canale 5.

Alle 4 del pomeriggio. Il gelato del comando Ecco chi litigava sopra di me: gli Uomini e le Donne di Maria De Filippi si stavano scannando intorno a un tronista. Tutto quello che avevo sempre cercato di non vedere, l'amaro calice televisivo che non avevo mai voluto bere, ora avrei dovuto ingollarlo d'un pezzo, e pagarlo salato. Chiusi gli occhi, cercai di pensare ad altro. No, probabilmente a quell'ora state leggendo Heidegger in versione originale. Ma provateci, dai, fatevi legare a una poltrona da dentista, sottoponetevi a questo esperimento, e poi ditemi.

I casi umani che le arrivano davanti sfilano uno dopo l'altro con lo stesso climax drammatico di una coda in un ambulatorio. Che siate maledetti. Credete che non sappia anch'io cosa piace alla gente? Alla gente piace il popcorn. Non per questo vengono a darvi le stelle Michelin. Lo sanno tutti cosa piace alla gente. Per esempio, su internet vanno molto le tette e i gatti. E soprattutto non trovo geniale chi lo fa.

Tu pensi ancora che la tv debba educare, ma la tv non deve educare! La tv educa, per definizione. Voi che vi drogate di serie americane, non avete mai fatto caso a quanto siano etiche? A come a ogni azione corrisponda una reazione, a una bugia una rivelazione, alla rivelazione un pentimento? Persino Maria? Soprattutto Maria. Maria insegna a giovani e vecchi l'arte di vivere al giorno d'oggi ; arte che consiste prima di tutto nell'acquattarsi alla corte di Maria , accettare tutto quello che Maria ti propone o ti ingiunge, ringraziando e umettando, implorando che vi si passi il gelato e tramando dietro gli altri cortigiani.

Forse era meglio prendere appunti. Quando poi si diventa grandi, e passa la voglia di fare i balletti e cantare le canzoni, magari ci si butta nell'unico campo agonistico accessibile agli adulti, la politica, e che succede? La chiamate politica quella? Hanno una faccia che dice Maria, Maria, Maria, posso dire una cosa?

Io essere molto attaccati a lei. Ma ogni Italiano sono gentile. Notizia avvilente, ma bisogna dire, non straordinaria. Cosa dobbiamo fare? Tutti contenti. Per esempio, immaginatevi la madre. La madre deve essere per forza una sciamannata modaiola? E il padre? E il padre si deve incazzare come suo nonno Mi rimane solo un dubbio: ma se il pregiato psichiatra ci suggerisce di comportarsi come i nostri nonni, a cosa serve esattamente tutta la psichiatra e sociologia e tutti i libroni di Crepet che ci siamo comprati nei cinquant'anni successivi?

La madre impari a vivere, e il padre cinghi pure, l'ha detto lo psichiatra sociologo, e quindi ok. Non lo so. Una ragazzina si fa delle foto? Mi bastava guardarmi in giro — leggere, guardare la tv, tenermi aggiornato. La famiglia sta diventando il grande alibi.

Infatti non muoiono tutte le ragazze che guardano le sfilate, no? Muoiono solo quelle che hanno problemi famigliari, come volevasi dimostrare. Come fai? Coi ragazzi che ci stanno adesso. Dev'essere una jungla. Come si fa?

Sei appena tornato da una missione in Afganistan e mi guardi come se il pazzo fossi io. Ma ti rendi conto. Ma quella ragazza, hai sentito? I nostri tempi. Aveva tirato del crack! D'altro canto, ti ricordi Cantelmi? Ma cosa c'entra Cantelmi? Ci sono i cristalli d'ero dentro, dipendenza al primo tiro!

Stessi discorsi. Pure lei se ne tornava in classe con certi accessi di ridarola. Io mica capivo, eh. Ci ho messo qualche anno a ricostruire. Quindici anni. Negli anni Ottanta i cronisti avevano altro da fare. C'erano le brigate rosse e l'anonima sarda, una babygang che spacciava alle medie era meno interessante. Non esisteva nemmeno la parola babygang. Questi di adesso sono degli animali, distruggono le scuole!

Hai sentito il liceo a Modena? Migliaia d'euro di danni, 'sti stronzetti. Che se me ne trovassi uno tra le mani, io La notte del primo giorno di scuola dei vandali con bomboletta riempiono di scritte le quattro pareti. Qualcosa come dieci milioni di danni. Puoi ben dirlo. Si vede che cominciava a starmi stretta la parte. Che roba! E gli altri chi erano? Parisini Antonio.

Hai saputo Giarola Sandro. E poi tu sei un eroe di guerra. Ma insomma, questi afgani? Ma nei carabinieri non si sta male. E dagli. Io mi fermavo, a volte. Nei carabinieri il comandante lo rispettano. A scuola gli insegnanti sono sempre degli sfigati La tua l'han presa?

Sapeva anche il numero di telaio, a momenti. Sai, io poi lavoro in un paesone. E poi ho esteso l'assicurazione agli atti vandalici. Se fossi un muratore potrei cadere da un'impalcatura. Non avremmo mai minacciato un professore col numero di targa Ma l'auto di Farella, te la ricordi? Ma tu sei pericoloso! Ma come fai a ricordarti dopo tutti questi anni Farella!

Coi deflettori di cartone! La fiancata comunque, quella l'hai fatta tu. Col cacciavite a stella che ti trovarono nello zaino. Come ve lo devo dire. Ma la pisciata, almeno. Ma ti pare? Vuoi dire che Avevamo rotto il deflettore per entrare, stavamo fumando Lo sai com'era l'Annacacca, quando cominciava a ridere Era il Ma che fine ha fatto? Due figli. Li hai visti?

Ci vuol coraggio per metterne ancora al mondo! Sei stato in Afganistan, di cosa ti preoccupi? Non so se mi spiego". Provate a dire. Sbagliato, un centinaio. Adesso ascolto Soda Fountain Rag. Che cosa sta succedendo. Ma il pubblico? Il tipico pubblico dei concerti indiepop si muove sostanzialmente attraverso blog e radio soprattutto radio. Cinquantenni emiliani, il sale della terra.

Si sono bevuti i comizi di Pajetta, la corazzata Potemkin, le retrospettive di qualunque cosa, le feste etniche e il ritorno della pizzica, figurati se non sono in grado di bersi, perdonatemi il giochino, Soda Fountain Rag. Suo malgrado, forse, ma li intrattiene. I punk sputavano ai vecchi, i vecchi hanno vinto.

In Norvegia investono sui giovani, in Italia sui pensionati, ecco il risultato: una ventenne norvegese che canta per un pubblico di pensionati italiani che nel tempo libero estivo si annoia talmente tanto da trovarla interessante. Col cacchio. Ascolto Soda Fountain Rag. In gita scolastica al liceo, tutti a cantare Un gelato al limon, possibile? E poi per darci un tono, certe ragazze non le intorti coi Van Halen in autoradio. Fa lo stesso se Soda canta di amorazzi puberali, ha ragione lei, le parole non sono importanti.

Soda canta e io per lei sono solo uno dei brizzolati che ascoltano e applaudono. Ne ho trenta? Secondo voi una ventenne norvegese sarebbe in grado di apprezzare la differenza? Meglio non chiedere, ascoltare e battere il tempo con gratitudine. Sto combattendo la Vecchiaia, vediamo chi vince. Per fortuna ci sono anche i bambini.

A loro non interessa sembrare adulti o giovani, a loro non interessa sembrare ; loro ascoltano la musica e queste strofe, questi ritornelli, sono fantastici. Grazie ai suoi libri centinaia di migliaia di adolescenti che non avevano mai messo piede in una rivendita di libri, se non per ordinare con disgusto e fatica i testi scolastici, hanno cominciato a frequentare librerie, centri commerciali, remainders.

Per immaginare, per sognare, per soffrire attraverso la carta stampata. Vi pare niente? Indipendentemente dai contenuti. I contenuti arriveranno. Nel finale tu tiri fuori un argomento a doppio taglio: le mamme. Le nostre nonne, le nostre madri. Moccia sta facendo lo stesso con i nostri figli. Ecco, queste mamme che sono arrivate a Ellroy partendo da Liala francamente non le conosco.

Un propedeutico a Proust o a Musil? Anch'io credo che la lettura sia importante, ma non qualsiasi lettura. Libri che impoveriscono chi li legge, sia dal punto di vista dei contenuti che dal punto di vista della lingua. Libri che rinchiudono i loro lettori invece di aprire i loro orizzonti: esattamente come esiste una musica che impoverisce chi la ascolta. Sarebbe un ragionamento delirante. Ma temo che siano le stesse persone che a Kafka ci sarebbero arrivate anche passando da Calvino.

Gente che vive in case piene di libri, che possono incontrare quando vogliono. Un pacchetto di patatine industriale mi fa venire voglia di aragosta? Era il migliore, nessun dubbio. Ora invece ricordo un altro bambino, ma eri tu? Ma sicuro che non eri tu? Felpa nera e jeans firmati e… cosa stai facendo col bianchetto, guarda. Del resto ora che ti guardo hai tutto nuovo — quanto avrai fatto spendere ai tuoi, non dirmelo.

Altri mostri incombono, altre culture, altre sigle. Tutto, tranne le equazioni indefinite che lascia sulla lavagna la collega di matematica. Per esempio ora so chi fu il mostro che uccise Goku. Era un orrore a due teste, quattro zampe e zero eleganza. Puzzava di svenevole eau de parfum, incantava con lo scintillio allo strass dei suoi accessori ghepardati: neanche il SuperSaiyan poteva resistere a tanto cattivo gusto.

Solo loro potevano farlo. Lo hanno ucciso loro Goku, lo hanno spazzato via dal tuo cuore. Adesso vai, vai, scrivi pure griffe false sul tuo astuccio nuovo. Vattene per il mondo, va. Arrivederci a settembre, e se ci arriverai con un altro zaino, pazienza. Sono un prof, imparo solo una cosa al giorno. Senza un motivo al mondo. Col ceffone il padre gli propose la questione fondamentale: chi sono i maschi?

Cosa vogliono? Come parlano? Sempre in casa stava, appiccicato alla sottana di mamma. Era ora di dare un'occhiata al mondo. Un nome qualunque, eppure unico al mondo. Ma stare coi maschi era troppo importante. Poi venne la fase degli odori. Non ci poteva fare niente. Fino a qualche settimana prima non alzavano gli occhi dalle figurine, ora avrebbero dato il rarissimo Pietro Vierchowod per uno sfioro di tetta.

E i peli. Fu Dusacchi il primo uomo a porre il problema, nello spogliatoio maschile. Ma ti radi? Da quando in qua nello spogliatoio ci si guardava in basso? Pensava che ai maschi non piacesse. In compenso le ragazze le insegnarono a vestirsi con stile, a camminare nei corridoi come sotto i portici del centro, e viceversa.

Un mese dopo, in gita scolastica, Clelia venne a bussare alla sua camera. Le piaccio o no? Le piaccio come uomo o come donna? Piuttosto presto. Avrebbe voluto entrare nel bar di una polisportiva, e guardare le partite della Fortitudo coi ragazzetti del quartiere, e invece doveva sgugnarsi la retrospettiva di Fassbinder.

E non provare ad allungare quelle mani. Tu sei gentilissimo e bravissimo e assolutamente a posto. Non male! E il risultato finale fu discretamente spettacolare. Come una seconda nascita. E dai! E spingi, busone di merda! E spingi! Ne avevi tanto che ti radevi. Dovevi aspettare che mi facessi crescere le tette? Non vi girerebbero le palle?

Vedi anche Annalisa Buonocore. Dialettali e Neo dialettali in Inglese. Prefazione di Cosma Siani. Edizioni Cofine, Roma, Intercity, was published by Einaudi in Baldini wrote three theatrical mono- logues: Carta canta, Zitti tutti! There are no further allegorical, liturgical or philosophical significances to this con-credendo, with prefix? They do not accompany him up onto the stage to confront the huckster-performer wearing the shabby jacket?

After fleeing the lower levels of the theater that has flooded with water, the narrator climbs flight-of-stairs after flight-of-stairs, opens door after door, and meets a card-reader with cards all laid out on a table; is this card-reader a man or a woman?

Un bel piatto? The translator wants to get this exactly right. He ex- hales. How can I explain it? He was in great pain. Each word cost him. Not a small plate. Not a huge plate. Is this an evocation of a particular line of po- etry? His most recent collection was awarded the Campana Prize. Each poem moves towards and resists Death.

His narrators also wander into anacoluthon, that is to say ending a sentence with a different structure from that with which it began. His poems employ the rhetorical techniques that form the backbone of argu- ment: indignatio memopsis oiktros, erotesis orcos threnos ara decsis diasymus aposiopesis apostrophe In the end his spine caused great pain, a tall, thin man. Where are you? The translator read it late one night, intending to phone the next day to ask if it was possible to get a copy of the music.

There was a message on the answering machine. The translator was feeding paper into a printer, catching yet more errors. Mumbling and imprecations. Cartridge out of ink. Empty paper tray. A computer talking back: Printing Error. White stacks on floor, packages prepared for release to known addressees to reach the unknown interlocutor.

The window was open in Milan. Here it is, he said. Mother of God! I, at St. This is an order! I saw you! Are you blind? Do you need glasses? I was soaked, a faucet? Damn, could he have hypnotized me too? Small Talk I had bad dreams all night, all these snakes, how did you make this coffee? I was just about do go down to see you, and so have you finished the skirt? I say that, what are they racking their brains about? He is cur- rently on the faculty at Bennington College, where he teaches Italian literature.

He also works as a writer of Italian films for DVD release. The main reason is translation. The English in the translation of the novel regularly tends to- wards the very linguistic medietas Gadda takes every possible step to avoid. It also offers extensive com- mentary in the form of linear notes. The importance of the linguistic elaboration, indisputable in Gadda, are of primary concern to the translator.

Much effort is being made in the present version to preserve the diatypes lexical variety of the original, where possible. Given the impossibility of translating into another language the aura parlativa peculiar to an environment, the translator must, however, try to conserve, in some way, the heterogeneity of registers that the introduction of colloquialisms and dialects represents.

This new translation is a small part of the renewed understanding of this great literary work. Synopsis In Fascist Rome the novel takes place in , the young police in- spector Francesco Ingravallo called don Ciccio for short , a detective-phi- losopher from the southern Italian region of Molise, is called on to investi- gate a jewel theft that has taken place in an apartment building at , Via Merulana. In the building lives a couple, Remo and Liliana Balducci, friends of Ingravallo: the wife, whom Ingravallo admires for her sweetness, and with whom he is perhaps secretly in love, is of a family whose wealth has been built in large measure on speculation during the First World War.

Three days after the robbery, whose investigation is so far inconclusive, Ingravallo is shocked by the news that Signora Balducci has been found murdered in her home. He rushes to the scene and takes part in the preliminary inquiry, wondering whether there is any link between the two crimes. It also abounds indirectly, via remembered citations from others in speech from the mur- dered Liliana Balducci — an anomaly in a novel where the Signora is central, though largely silent.

In all honesty, I just focus on doing my job, as above board as possible. Not a pin! Anyway just to be on the safe side, I chucked it right in this special drawer here I got for that stuff, just right as soon as I got it pried out of the setting with the pliers, without even laying a pinky on it, like. E come un cappone in mezzo a tanti galli! Il ciondolo doveva consegnarlo a Giuliano in persona.

Una parola. A momenti mezzogiorno. Like a capon in the middle of a bunch of roosters! The one you estimated at two thousand lire? I want to give that one away as a present. The one you figured was worth nine and a half thousand? A magnificent water. You know to whom I mean! Liliana herself had insisted on explaining everything to Amaldi: how the two letters that he was supposed to engrave were linked together, how she wanted the jasperstone to be set: bulging a little from the oval setting: Ceccherelli traced with the nail of his little finger the clean contour of the stone, green, seal mounted, that is to say slightly overhanging the setting, and backed with a thin gold plate, in order to hide and encase the uncut face.

Easier said than done. But after those three depositions in his defense by the three jewelers, that were middling enough, there was the one, better still, by the head teller of the bank: the Banco di Santo Spirito. Round about noon. Ha raggione!

Una bella signora come lei. Ed ecco il dente. In dieci anni de matrimo- nio, a momenti, che, che! I medici aveveno parlato chiaro: o lei, o lui. Nice little smell, just take a whiff. Fresh from the Mint. Just think! I practically played the part of mother when he was a baby. The table, in fact, overflowed onto the shelves, and from there to the cabinets: with people climbing up and stomping down as well as loitering outside: this one smoking, that one flicking away a butt, another hawking phlegm on the walls.

Beat the tower of Babel on a shopping day. The doctors had laid it on the line: either her or him. Or both. So that out of those ongoing disappointments, those ten years, or nearly, where the pain, the humiliation, desperation and tears had put down roots; from those use- less years of her beauty those sighs dated, those ahs, those long glances at every woman, not to mention the ones with a baby in the oven!

Er maschietto nostro de quattro chili: un chilo ar mese. Diceveno: avemo portato li con- fetti. Semo giovini. Avemo preso li passi avanti Ragguagli e rapporti di subalterni, parole e carta scritta: disposizioni da dare: telefono. She looked at the girls; returned, in a flash as by deep-felt, despondent signal, the bold glances of young men: a caress or benevolent franchise mentally bequeathed future bequeathers of life: to whoever might bear within him the certainty, the seminal truth, the kernel of secret becom- ing.

The pure assent of a fraternal soul: to those who traced the pattern of life. But out of the dark manger the years stampeded, one after the other, into nothingness. That mania… for forking out double bed-sheets to the maids, insisting on putting up dowries, push- ing folks who asked for nothing better to tie the knot: and then the whim, that took hold of her for days on end, to want to bawl and blow her nose, poor Liliana, if they actually went ahead and did it: as if pricked by jealousy after the fact.

Our eight pound kiddo, two pounds a month. The bride, poor kid, comes in with her guy, preceded by a belly like a hot air balloon at the fireworks at San Giovanni. They said: we brought you the wedding cake. Naturally they were a little embarrassed.

It was at this point, his face ashen, that Ingravallo begged leave to shove off: duty calling. Reports and memoranda from subordinates, voiced or in writing: orders to impart: telephone. Roberto De Lucca shoulders sagging, with a bearing that seemed tired, absorbed. He saw him pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, engrossed in unknown cares. The door closed behind him. And now from the talk of the husband, made garrulous by hardship, by his sense of being at the center of attention and collective commiseration A hunter, he was!

Saw himself tramping in with a bagged hare, shouldering his gun, muddied boots, panting hounds , needing to get it off his chest after the blow: and holding forth, untrammeled, on the delicacy of the female spirit and that extreme sensitiveness of women in general: which in them, poor things, is widespread. Buttafavi and Alda Pernetti stairway A , whose brother counted for an extra six. Giorgio Roberti Poet, essayist, translator, editor, founder and presi- dent for thirty years of the Centro Romanesco Trilussa, Giorgio Roberti energetically promoted Romanesco language, culture and poetry.

His translation into Romanesco of Er Vangelo seconno S. Marco has been much praised and often reprinted. Note on translation G. Belli, writing sonnets in Romanesco in the early nineteenth cen- tury, gave an example for Italian poets with his sonnets that showed how dialect could convey the energy of conversation more effectively than stan- dard language. We translators of dialect into English in the United States do not have dialects to convey that energy precisely, so we try to make our verse sound like people talking.

This would seem impossible for A Stick in the Eye, a story over twenty-seven centuries old, but Roberti helps with his deft details and his sudden shifts of style, and makes translating his poem a pleasure, though difficult. Come te chiami? Here, taste. You call your country Greater Greece, because you dine on greater grease I guess--and stronger wine! Tell me what your name is. Corky Screw? Mouse Pill? Tommy Tinkerbell? Anyone will swear I am. But are you single? Do you have a wife?

Hitched to the single life. Then the poor fool fell, fell like a stone, like a bull with his throat cut in the Colosseum at a festival. They wanted out. Some promised they were able to slip him a little gift beneath the table; and others talked about friends in high places. Like it or like it not, when all talk ended, all that the lottery threw up were four pathetic bastards no one ever protected. Che te succede? Chi te fa piagne come un regazzino?

Nessuno che me leva, sarvognuno, tutto er punto de vista personale Furious, frantic, fast, Ulysses struck it deeper and turned it like a merry-go-round. At once that moribund volcano hurled forth great eye fragments and little wads of jell out of his monster brain. He yelled a yell enough to raise goose pimples on the world.

As he was screaming, Mother Nature frowned, wrinkling her great face, and started to stir and raised up mountains from the level ground. Beholding earth beneath them relandscaped, many a luminous, uneasy star turned into a comet and escaped. Are you all right? Why have you pulled your cave door shut and hid yourself away from us and out of sight? No One, god damn it!

Ear ache? Then, hey, shut the fuck up and quit your belly aching. His poetry has been included in numerous anthologies and published in local, regional and national magazines and newspapers. Note on translation The dialect I have translated is referred to by local people as Lancianese, that is the language of Lanciano, a city of 30, inhabitants in Abruzzo.

Although people familiar with Abruzzese dialects in general have proved helpful, at times I needed to consult with people who grew up in Lanciano in order to obtain the full flavor of a particular word or expression. Lancianese, like all languages, has evolved over time. Some words and expressions are now extinct. E che diceme? Only go backwards or even better stay nailed to the spot where you find yourself! Love and song My love, I would compose for you a song one of those hammered and forged in fire, polished the way it should be and blended with notes that are shiny and passionate.

I speak and afterwards you speak And what do we say? My Life My life: cloudy sky, an annoying wind, a Southern wind, a brooklet of water gathering to go ahead always among the thorns! A sky that often has a hole that at certain times makes like a small window: at daytime, a velvet serenity; at nighttime, a glance of a star.

A wind that, sometimes, if it stops leaves the dry leaves by my feet; What do you find that is good? Of a rose the only thing that you can pick up is a leaf! A brooklet, even that at times, leaves the stains of melancholy and goes, without getting dirty with mud, singing all by itself along the way.

The Song To those who no longer sing, the spirit of life is tasteless To those who sing more, the voice of the heart gets more flavor Concetta I Concetta, your petticoat is too hot swinging every which way as you walk! II E vie! La ruzze di Lanciane Bande e campane! Concetta, step more softly as you go: your hem is stirring up the air too much! Concetta, my God, why are you running? II Go ahead! Take it easy as you walk or the folds of your dress will not fall right! The resentment Lanciano Bands and bells!

This is Lanciano: on top of three hills in between the sun and stars with the Maiella almost near and a drop to the other side made of sea. Here is my dear Lanciano exactly the way it is. Ecche Lanciane: orte e ciardine, chiese e funtane, genta frentane, cante e camine, core a la mane, cipolle e pane ma Pure la guerre!

Ma coma va? This is Lanciano: gardens and parks, churches and fountains, Frentane people, songs and walks heart in their hand, onions and bread but Even the war! Snow All ruffled and with those tiny eyes soaked through and through, that wee bitty sparrow under that snowfall, wretched little thing, looked up at the sky and gave out a cry.

He looked for pity from saints and angels at least to keep the snow off of the roof? Bagpipes Snow falls and I hear the sound of footsteps; it is really him, it is the piper that, when I was a kid, just seeing him for me was a good time beyond compare! But how goes it, if one -- is the bagpipe and the other one -- is the song one sings why, why, do the oncoming years go by more than the festival shines through my tears?

He has published articles on Luzi, Montale, Tobino, and film. His translation focuses on Paolo Ruffilli and Davide Rondoni. In these ca- pacities, Rondoni has his finger on the pulse of Italian poetry. Three problems present themselves. First, as a translator, I feel humbled and unnecessary: his poetic language seems so simple that I am almost tempted to overjustify my role by implying things in my rendition that were not implied in the original.

Second, in this lyric unpretentiousness, cultural- linguistic differences arise. How does one reproduce the cadences that follow a rhythm found somewhere between thought and dialogue? How does one translate a word that simultaneously exists as the beginning of a new thought as much as it exists as a continuation of a previous thought?

Central Park, fine autunno, alberi di seta elettrica e color sangue nel freddo azzurro del cielo che salgono si aprono poi piano che si spengono, ombra che sta venendo, aria che si oscura. Senti che grida di barche invisibili. Nella baia nera. Cosa succede in questa poesia?

And it starts, the frosty crown of the skyscrapers, to glisten on the more somber throng in the streets. I ask Oonagh: why do you keep your hair like that, grey at thirty. You hear the shouts from invisible boats. In the dark bay. What is it that happens in this poem?

Ripartirai con un lieve turbamento, quasi un ricordo e i silenzi delle scansie di oggetti, dei benzinai, dei loro berretti, sentirai alle tue spalle leggero divenire un canto. Non ho avuto gradoni di pietra su cui disteso perdere sotto il sole il lume della mente, addormentando. My son, my traveler, your hell, your virtue might be your dog-like or angel-like hearing that detects the turning of the planets and a pill falling into a cup two floors below, where two seniors citizens attend to each other.

This roaring love will be your father, your real one. Stop off for a spell in this highway rest-area, from the darkness it will be a pleasure to see you again I had avenues, wide, noisy streets, tall trajectories of by-passes, the open arms of a poor mother veins through which all sorts of things come into the city. I had tree-lined avenues or swift bouts of vertigo between steel walls and tinted glass. But during the night, when night does come, they recast themselves, new avenues shadowy, lonely avenues, when tall streetlamps illuminate them and the latest adverts fade out.

Then they move delicately, branching, perhaps the whole city turns on itself; some end at a castle, others at a cathedral, others dissolve beneath the orange lights of a highway junction — the avenues breath in the night with their wide black plane-trees, their subway gates and sad, singsong lullaby sleeping over the children. E mentre lui cadeva tu bruciavi maternamente. And as he fell you burned maternally.

But your arms on the windowsill before turning back to carbon and in a recollection were comets, Brooklyn bridges of love in the night outside of Milan. And I have taken them [from you, lady, leave those arms to this faraway dance, to the music that I and you from two shores in the shadows eternally share. The guy who for the whole trip stares at the sealed bag in front of him, the girl with the dyed hair and a pierced lip who wants to tell her life story to a stranger. Materia che non crede a se stessa — come questi viaggiatori, nel sonno che ingigantisce i vagoni nella sera.

Matter that does not believe in its own being — like these travelers, in a slumber that amplifies the train cars in the evening. She was also awarded an NEA in translation. Raffaele Carrieri was born in Taranto, and lived a vaga- bond life in his teens and early twenties.

He was only 15 when he was wounded, a serious injury to his left hand. He went back to Taranto, but after a brief stay, he sailed again around the Mediterranean visiting various ports including those along the coast of Africa. He worked at many jobs to support him- self, and on his return to Italy, worked as tax collector for two years.

It was during these two years that he started writing poetry, the poems that were collected in Lamento del gabelliere In he went to Paris where he lived for several years among the poets and painters of the time, and where he started writing articles about his travels. He settled for good in Milan , and worked as art critic.

In addition to several books of poetry, some of which won awards, including the Premio Viareggio, he wrote many books of art criticism, and biographies and studies of poets, sculptors and painters. At times, he even identifies with the inanimate. The adolescent search for identity is given body, substance, voice. And all the personae have some- thing in common but are also different. In translating his work, the challenge was in creating a voice that sounded like the Carrieri in my head: restless, homeless, lonely, in dan- ger.

A man who often looks over his shoulder, and narrowly escapes; who comes face to face with death and is seriously wounded, his wounded, damaged hand giving him yet another identity. But also a weary man of no age, or even old, who expects nothing, wants nothing. The challenge was to create this voice, but also to preserve the variation in tone from poem to poem, the simplicity or complexity of narrative, the muted mu- sic. Their short takes and sharp images.

Their impatient, hurried runs. Also, the shade and connotations are slightly different in English. In poems such as these, there is no room to move. Like the poet, I put my trust in the image. Vedevo sul comodino La ciotola di latte Riempirsi di tenebra E questo ancora vedere E distinguere il bianco Dal nero mi dava piacere.

Altro non ricordo Di quella sera. Piccola morte So questo, era un soldato Con un paio di scarpe nuove Che accanto gli stavano A vegliarlo giorno e notte. Each of us knew It was the last evening. My eye and the bowl Were links In the same chain. The day after I survived the other. Small Death I know this: he was a soldier With a new pair of shoes Which kept vigil near him Day and night.

He was shot in the chest And every time he coughed He turned his sky-blue eyes To look at the shoes That watched like dogs The infirmary cot. Non ho niente Non ho niente Proprio niente Che sia mio. Anche le mani Hanno cessato Di essere mie.

Even my hands Have ceased to be mine. They belong to this bony gun which in the dark resembles me. Waiting for Nothing Light has not been my friend On the earth nor water my sister. The amiable rain water That like a mother puts to sleep The old tax collector And the young frog.

I would have liked to close the sky Like a simple door To remain all day Hidden in the grass Waiting for nothing. Journal of Italian Translation Poems in English by Rina Ferrarelli translated into Italian Dreamsearch I was back in that other country again last night those narrow streets familiar and strange.

I walked on the worn stone in the shadow of houses looking for a door looking for a face and again I woke up too soon. Back to the Source Granite and river stone worn by walking, wide sloping steps with short rises the steep descent but not the straight path of a torrent sharp turns and small wide bends where walls jut out alleys come in I always go up in my dreams upstream back to the source.

At your features, your expression. She wanted you to smile off the frame, inside the frame and sometimes you did. Divestiture She unpinned the folds of white linen eloquent of place, loosened the loops and braided knots, and combed her hair into a bun. She untied her apron, took off one by one the pleated skirts, the black jacket with wide velvet cuffs, the padded camisole, the long shirt articulate with lace.

Then stepped into a dress skimpier than a slip, and naked, exposed like that, my grandmother came to America. Linens Plain weaves, twills and herringbones, woven at home linen on linen, linen on cotton. Some are still uncut—a band of warp threads separating one napkin, one towel from the other—but most are decorated with needlepoint lace.

Nei tuoi lineamenti, la tua espressione. Gli altri sono tutti ricamati ad intaglio. My mother, the more delicate one, the one who wanted to get away, sat where the light fell on her hands, and pulling out the weft threads her sister had worked into a tight fabric, restructured the space with floss, white on white openwork borders, arabesqued windows. Rough- or fine-textured, the linens I was saving were meant to survive soaking in hot water and ashes, milling on the rocks.

I machine wash them and when the weather is good, hang them outside, the way women still do over there, stretching them into shape while damp. Most are holding up well; a few show signs of wear, but not from use. It was keeping them safe in a trunk for so many years that weakened the fabric. The Bridge Progress has finally come to the forgotten South. A new superstrada wide and straight as none before bypasses the shelf of road the sharp-angled bridge.

The cross by the roadside reminds the few of us who remember fewer all the time of the men who died there hitting the rocks of the stream when their truck went off the road. Seven men who knew how to do without how to turn in a small place taking nothing for granted. The bridge is crumbling purple flowers grow out of the wall.

Ruvidi o fini, i panni che conservavo erano fatti per superare le prove del ranno e delle pietre. Sette uomini che sapevano far senza, che si muovevano nello stesso piccolo spazio senza prendere niente per scontato. Il ponte si sta sgretolando, fiori viola spuntano dal muro.

Broomflowers Chrome yellow against green stems in bunches on the reddish dirt even-spaced rows like a pattern on a quilt. Is this new or have I forgotten as I forgot the nightingale singing in the trees below the wall— what did I know then about nightingales— the row of stones holding the tiles down at the edge of the roof?

On the breeze a whiff of their scent, delicate pleasing. The sun is down now, the sky turning indigo, but their yellow endures on the slope below the parapet. Inside rough bouquets in earthenware jars. And the little girl who picked them for me is saying to her mother, sotto voce, «She comes from America, and she likes broomflowers? Le ginestre Luccicano gialle contro i fusti verdi a mazzi sulla terra rossiccia file diritte e uguali come i disegni delle coperte nostrane.

Dentro casa mazzi alla buona in vasi di terracotta. Italian Translation of Poems by W. Ha lavorato per 30 anni presso la Inland Steel Com- pany di Chicago. Dal al ha lavorato come tutore in Francia, Portogallo e Majorca. Ma soprattutto rimane un poeta che ci sorprende, che continuamente sorpassa le frontiere di una facile ammirazione. Ha pubblicato: il saggio Animali parlanti. Montale , Litania del perduto Prato , testo a fronte in inglese. Life, when all has been lost and the blame falls on the one who did not throw the rock, the blind man who without that singular limb the leg ripped from the belly in spite of the others, all three straight and strong cannot make his own dog return.

Echo falling from the past whale beached upon the future, maybe remedy to an everyday life such conditional going in peace at the end of the rite. Musicista, traduttrice, scrittrice in italiano, inglese e francese, ha pubblicato racconti e soprattutto poesie: Variazioni belliche , Serie ospedaliera , Documento , Impromptu , Sleep , in inglese.

Conto di farla finita con le forme, i loro bisbigliamenti, i loro contenuti contenenti tutta la urgente scatola della mia anima la quale indifferente al problema farebbe meglio a contenersi. Giocattoli sono le strade e infermiere sono le abitudini distrutte da un malessere generale.

Toys are streets and nurses are habits destroyed by a general sickness. Estinguere la passione bramosa! Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon without passion or wanting to forget it I who burned with passion the passion extinguished in the burning I who burned with pain at seeing passion thus extinguished.

To extinguish covetous passion! To distinguish passion from the true yearning for extinguished passion extinguish everything that is extinguish everything that rhymes with is: extinguish myself, the passion the passion burning so fiercely that it put itself out: Extinguish the passion for self!

She is also profoundly interested in poetry and has published three vol- umes: Bartering for Dreams Clessidra, , English translation by Adeodato Piazza Nicolai , Blacklight Maseratense, and Searching for O Panda, On occasion of the 40th anniversary of the Vajont tragedy, she edited the commemorative volume Vajont. I corpi allungati Salgono le voci al Dio piangente lamento, anime e lance sotto la gola, inchiodano corazze e morsi nel violetto senza pace.

Voce solitaria la parola del mondo mi grida dentro, quasi urla. Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon The Long Bodies Voices lift up to the plangent God lament, souls and lances beneath the throat, nailing breastplates and clamps in the violet without peace. The mists wrap around the hills prayers, drops of water on the stones. A lonely voice the word of the world that rips me within, almost yells. Others populate the echo of human depth feeding itself on the time and the place, without end.

Dressed in black the long bodies are almost lost in the drawn faces of a people consumed by the look of one who is begging for justice no longer in the hour of death but of forgiveness. Grottesco come stare seduti sul ramo di un albero a parlare da soli. Non so se vale la pena fingere che tutto sia ideale. Paragrafo assurdo: non buttare via la pura finzione.

Forse esclude la ragione ma il campo si allarga ovunque ci sia una misura di grandezza, e mentre ci si illude si perdono le radici. Vorresti il tuo albero quercia di luce con le radici strette nella terra. It is so incredibly distant maybe never a part of this world across what fissure will the camel come to pass? Reality unravels sleepwalking across a surreal landscape, bugs everywhere — blossoming lies with an overview in perspective ascetic glaciers, surviving lymph. Oak Tree or Leaf August flies off like a leaf across the tree tops with someone who blows beneath it to make it fly.

That silvery filament binding spirits to the earth fades away into thin air. You would like your tree as an oak made of light with roots dug deep into the ground. Insistente il falsetto si fa stridulo sapendo di mentire io tu e gli altri. Mattone su mattone costruisci il castello invisibile con le tante serrature a manico.

Nemmeno una nuvola. Non rimane che un feticcio di polvere. Voragine di corvo strapiomba il sereno ma non spezza le radici. Il gesto sonoro segna soltanto una melodia malata. The half-lie scratches insistently aware of its falsehood me you and the others. Brick on brick you build the invisible castle filled with handles and latches.

Not even one cloud. What to believe in if all is smoke that pertains to pale longitudes to implausible structures like eddies in the storms? A fetish of dust hangs behind. The musical touch signals no more than a sickened note dissonance that does not frighten the donkey, its bray makes no sense even if nightly the moon lights up its pelt. In the end what can happen? His translation of Giovanni Raboni will be published this year by Chelsea Editions.

Giovanni Raboni, born in Milan in , worked as an editor and critic. His many volumes of poetry are gathered in Tutte le poesie , which was followed by a final collection, Barlumi di storia, in He died in September Giovanni Raboni T he more I have read, thought about, and translated the poetry of Giovanni Raboni, the more convinced have I become that he is one of the great poets, and perhaps the single greatest Italian poet, of our time.

Raboni, I believe, more than fulfills all of these expectations, and it is this depth and variety in his work that I have tried to communicate, both in the book-length selection I am preparing and in the cross-section of that manuscript presented here. In keeping pace with it, I have tried also to keep pace with the smaller effects on which the larger ones often depend—not just the hendecasyllabic undercarriage and the rhymes where they occur , but also the parallelisms, the alliteration, the abrupt tonal shifts, the restless enjambment that characterizes so many of the sonnets, and so on.

Technique, of course, is merely a means to an end, and it is the ends that I have tried most to reflect—the striking and often quirky angle of insight peculiar to his vision and now and then simply peculiar ; the passionate moral, social, and political concern; the preoccupation, at times almost an obsession, with illness and death; the tenderness of late love. These are the things that impress us most forcefully and remain with us most deeply as we watch Raboni bear witness to the private pains and joys of his life and to the public shames and outrages of his times.

Qui, diceva mio padre, conveniva venirci col coltello Ma quello che hanno fatto, distruggere le case, distruggere quartieri, qui e altrove, a cosa serve? Se mio padre fosse vivo, chiederei anche a lui: ti sembra che serva? Lezioni di economia politica Cosa vuoi che ti dica. Uno come lui, capisci, era per forza il nostro uomo con i suoi colletti rotondi e duri, la spilla, le scarpe da vampiro. Down here, my father said, you were well advised to carry a knife with you Ah yes, the Canal is just a few steps away, the fog was thicker back then, before they covered it Is this the way?

Lessons of Political Economy What do you want me to tell you? Bambino morto di fatica ecc. Little Boy Dead of Exhaustion Etc. And you, if by some chance you were to faint, if no one else was there then you might bleed to death. For which behavior, you sentimentally suggest, he really should be thanked, no amiable or brutal quack having lifted a single finger there to willingly according to our will scrape it away.

Personcina Quando dorme se lo chiami muove un orecchio solo. Succhia latte nei sogni dalla sua mamma morta. Morde biscotti. Con le zampe assapora scialli e maglioni. Dorme sui fogli. Usa un libro per cuscino. With love, do you see? He gnaws biscuits. He adores the taste of coffee grounds. He savors with his paws shawls and thick pullovers. He sleeps on leaves.

He uses a book for a head cushion. Gli addii Ogni tanto mi sforzo di ricordarli: il ladro di verdura, il matto, la servante au grand coeur, il medico ecc. Strano gioco, ho paura, e assai poco redditizio. He quivers, green eyes marking the to and fro of pigeons. The Farewells Every once in a while I try to recall them all, the vegetable thief, the madman, and la servante au grand coeur, the physican, etc.

How much time has gone by! It hardly serves to swallow sedatives, to numb the nerves and brain, the problem really is the soul, the soul that wants no peace, the stubborn soul insatiable in its burning swoops and swerves through ever more laughably difficult drops and curves in chasms or labyrinths, and we know the soul is not just immortal but immortally immature. I feel them, lighter than the air, as they graze me, split the goodness of the air, not exiles but commuters of the air in transit between fog and gold.

Yes, it is true the curtain is still raised, and every evening there is still a show— but now there are no winners in our plays, no losers, and no blood, and no bouquets. And while you appear preoccupied by a variety of more innocuous tasks, you still permit your eyes to charm and warm themselves in it, brave and foolish as they are Ma cosa dico?

Era fascista? What am I saying? Was he a Fascist? Of course he was—the way that those who pounded him were one of them from Masnago and the rest from Induno: by being born there. Never would those of us who were from those parts be so atrociously innocent again. He is a poet and essayist whose interests range from contem- porary poetry to photography, to cinema and music.

He teaches at the Uni- versity of California, San Diego. Most of his life was however spent in Rome, where he was a teacher. His works, carefully exploration into the sparcity of language and expression, generally have dealt with human relations resultant from war, deracination, existential and spiritual conflict.

His literary activity included translation from the French of the works of Proust, Baudelaire, Celine, de Maupasant, Genete and Apollinaire. He came to me deliberately of this I am certain to make a gift of it. I can no longer find trace of it.

I see again in the leaving day the thin face whitefluted. The sleeve in lace. The grace, so gentle and germanic in its offering. A wind of impact - an air almost siliceous chills now the room. Is it the blade of a knife? Torment beyond the glass and wood - closed - of the shutter? I can no longer find sign of it. No trace. I ask the morgana. Conosco le cretacee porte che danno sul mare. Sul bosco. Ma i cardini della nascita?

I cardini della morte? Parts - remote - the dawning mouth, but does not speak. She cannot - nothing can - anwer. I no longer hope to find her. I have too jealously irrecoverably hidden her. Reasons The reasons for light. For shadow.

I know them. I know the cretaceous doors that lead to the sea. The woods. But the reasons for birth? The reasons for death? Era, la sua ragione eversa, la sola Cosa non persa? E rimase turbato. Il patto ………. Was, his ruined reason, the only Thing not lost? Unaware He was under the illusion, having found the accurately lost object again, of having gained something. It was a momentary joy. And he was left troubled. Almost like someone who suddenly finds himself stripped of an income.

He, unaware that anything found again is - always - a loss. The Agreement In shadow. Of shadow. But the hard living bodies? The two compact masses taut - almost steelescent? Where the two projecting people?. It is therefore - the place of every conjunction - perpetual parallax?

Inventions Those impalpable voices almost transparent. The blue of all those black eyes - non existent? Distant - always more distant - from itself, the mind has lost the name of it. Angels dissipated? Incorporeal - aphonic - couriers of extinguished notes. Lamps without switches. A former Wallace Stegner Fellow and the recipient of recent fellowships from the NEA and the Guggenheim Foundation, he teaches creative writing and translation at the University of Arkansas. His website is www.

Guido Gozzano was born in Turin in and died there in , after a long battle with tuberculosis. That label, coined by a critic as a slight, suggests a particular attitude toward the past, as if the long day of Italian culture were winding down and nothing remained but dim and fading traces, twilight pieces. In a land that had produced Rome and the Renaissance, Dante and Leopardi, such an attitude was perhaps inevitable and was, in any case, pervasive; it was precisely this sort of passatismo against which the futuristi would shortly rebel.

Though not typical of his best- known work, it is profoundly beguiling. Giovanni Pascoli was born in in San Mauro di Romagna a town later renamed San Mauro Pascoli in his honor and died in Bologna, where he had followed Carducci as professor of Italian literature, in His personal life was famously full of tragedy: his father was shot to death when he was 11, his mother and oldest sister died the following year, and two of his brothers were dead by the time he was In he published his first collection of poems in Italian and also won the first of thirteen gold medals for his Latin poetry from the Royal Dutch Academy.

Subsequent books include Poemetti Shorter poems, , Canti di Castelvecchio Songs from Castelvecchio, , Poemi conviviali Convivial Poems, , and several others. It is not without fascination, but part of its fascina- tion surely lies in our knowledge that it is based on actual events. My Captain! But both also suffer from melodrama that verges on mawkishness. It was such qualities that I tried hardest to convey. Appare talora di lontano tra Teneriffe e Palma, soffusa di mistero: « La segnano le carte antiche dei corsari.

Hifola da-trovarfi? Hifola pellegrina? Radono con le prore quella beata riva: tra fiori mai veduti svettano palme somme, odora la divina foresta spessa e viva, lacrima il cardamomo, trasudano le gomme The island was not there. The isle exists. Occasionally it appears between La Palma and Tenerife, beguiling. The Unfound Isle, announced by fragrances, like courtesans And like vain semblances, when pilots sail too near it vanishes, turning that shade of blue that distance is.

Sussurravano i pioppi del Rio Salto. I cavalli normanni alle lor poste frangean la biada con rumor di croste. Con su la greppia un gomito, da essa era mia madre; e le dicea sommessa: «O cavallina, cavallina storna, che portavi colui che non ritorna; tu capivi il suo cenno ed il suo detto!

The poplars whispered by the Salto River. The Norman horses, each in its stall, fed on fodder, crunching it like crusty bread. Beyond them stood the wild mare, who was foaled upon a piney coast, salt-licked and cold; her nostrils carried still that tang of shore, and still her cocked ears heard the ocean roar. The man has left a little boy behind first born of eight who never handled reins. And though your flanks are spurred by hurricanes, heed his small hand.

And heed his childlike speech, though in your heart there lies a barren beach. He would have died alone there, but for you. E tu capisci, ma non sai ridire. Stava attenta la lunga testa fiera. Tu fosti buona Ma parlar non sai! Tu non sai, poverina; altri non osa. Chi fu? Ti voglio dire un nome. E tu fa cenno. You brought him back, reins trailing at your feet. The shot in your ears, in your eyes the flame, along the whispering poplar road, you came.

You bore him through the dying of the day so we might hear some last word he might say. In her pain, My mother threw her arms around that mane. O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray, you bore him home, the man who went away, who never can come home! Good though you be, you cannot others dare not speak to me. Give me some signal. God will show you how. The horses were no longer champing meal; asleep, they dreamed the rolling of the wheel.

They did not stamp their hooves upon the hay: asleep, they dreamed the whiteness of the way. The editor will select one poem for each poet and provide both the English and the Italian trans- lation thus acting as a bridge between them. In this manner two poets, whose approach to poetry may be quite different, will be conversing through the translator.

In he was awarded the Feltrinelli Prize for Italian poetry. What does it matter that this is a desert? The water is a form of liquidity. The gangsters are my leaders insofar as I am an Italian in America. Desert lakes glitter with pumped cash.

In the Biblioteca San Marco I have read manuscript codices. The water climbs the marble stairs in the entrance halls. We used to go to the Bronx just to make our confessions. The Cadillacs would silently turn the corner of Allerton Avenue. Gangsters in cherrywood coffins would slide into the church.

The Island of San Michele in the lagoon is the cemetery. That water eats everything. After a few decades the graves are empty.

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