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Milano-Varese, Angelo Monteverdi. Studi in onore di Angelo Monteverdi. Modena, Aurelio Roncaglia. La lingua dei trovatori. Roma, Maurice Valency. In Praise of Love. New York, Van der Werf, Hendrik. Utreck, Et ella lo fetz a gran honor sepeillir en la maison del Temple; e poi en aqel dia ella se rendet monga, per la dolor qe ella ac de la soa mort.

A cura di Robert Lafont. Casa Editrice Le Let- tere, Firenze , p. Io mi avvalgo per convalida e guida del Vo- cabolario ragionato del dialetto di Casacalenda, di Antonio Vincelli, Edizioni Enne, Campobasso, Also a novelist and literary critic, she founded and directs the only poetry prize for bilingual book publication for Italian American poets with Italian poet, Alfredo dePalchi.

Ned Condini is a native-born Italian who has lived in the United States for many years, a fact that makes him thoroughly bi-lingual. Lafayette, Indiana, After all, it is a plant and I do love greenery. Other plants wait for death to give lesh to roots. I resolve to become a vegetarian. But this Venus Fly Trap is too much for me. It will have to die tossed into the waste can with the bright red lipstick, the blood red nail polish.

I no longer wear. She nods at us knowing we are lovers returning from paradise. Ho cercato di ricordare di darle acqua. Altre piante aspettano che la morte dia polpa alle radici. Propendo a farmi vegetariana. Questa dionea non fotosintetizza in pace. Sta cercando di diventare un animale e io che cerco tanto di essere un albero non lo sopporto. Ci accenna sapendo che siamo amanti che tornano dal paradiso. Each falls asleep and wakes alone in a dream on a cold shore far from home, without shelter from wind, sun dark, cold, heat. I feel as a tiny breathing thing alone in a vast night no hand anywhere to hold mine.

We wake into life sure of dying under the frozen sky and mute stars, glistening with winter light. We hold hands into new [years, knowing all new years turn old, and listen to the night, snow creaking in mounds, and the air iced from the [Northwind For the sake of the other, we do not say how each together is alone returning from paradise.

Ciascuno si addormenta e si sveglia solo in sogno su una spiaggia fredda lontano da casa, senza riparo da vento, sole, buio, freddo, calore. Mi sento un minuscolo oggetto che respira solo in una notte [immensa da nessuna parte una mano a tenere la mia. Ci destiamo alla vita sicuri di morire sotto il gelido cielo e stelle mute, che brillano di luce invernale.

A few bleeding leaves fall amidst wilting greenery. Poison ivy turns red with warning. My ninety-year-old mother still argues with my father, twenty years dead. Their hatred reverberates in a back room of my head, rattling recollections of a lonely childhood. Their loathing for each other colors all my days. I loved him, because he loved me best, but I look like her. My face and spirit tear at each other.

I am the child of hate. A weed sprouts from watery depths, uncultivated, lowers, white and purple, bloom, even in these days of dying leaves. Beyond winter, no one grieves. Italy, — d. America, ] written in Edna St. You died in spring, father, and now the autumn dies. Bright with ripe youth, dulled by time, plums of feeling leaked red juices from your eyes, blood hemorrhaged in pools to still your quivering mind.

Alcune foglie sanguinanti cadono sul verde che langue. Il loro reciproco disgusto colora tutti i miei giorni. Il mio volto e il mio spirito fanno a pugni.

196 I poeti e la poesia contemporanea

Sonetti americani per mio padre —per Donato Giosefi: scritti nello studio di Edna St. Vincent Millay Steepletop, N. Vivido di compiuta giovinezza, opacato dal tempo, prugne di affetto gocciavano dai tuoi occhi rosse essenze, sangue emorragiato in polle a calmare la tua trepida mente. In this russet November woods of Millay, I wear your old hat, Dear Italian patriarch, to see if I can think you out of your American grave to sing your unwritten song with me.

I carry your silenced poetry with your spirit. I take off your old black hat and sniff at it to smell the still living vapor of your sweat. You wore your heart and soles sore. At forty, not climbing autumn hills like me, you lay with lung [disease strapped down with morphine, hearing your breath rattle in your throat like keys at the gates of hell. Your body was always a iend perplexing your mascu [line will.

You illed me with pride, and immigrant tenacity. So be it. You are done, unfulilled by song [except in me. If your dreams are mine, live again, breathe in me and [be. In questi boschi di Millay, novembrini, rugginosi, sfoggio il tuo vecchio cappello, caro patriarca Italiano, per vedere se posso pensarti fuori della tua tomba americana a cantare con me la tua mai scritta canzone. Col tuo spirito reco la tua poesia fatta muta. Mi tolgo il tuo vecchio cappello e lo annuso per odorare il sudore che esala, ancora vivo. Lavoravi come un mulo, il maggiore di troppi igli, un [magrolino in zuava frusta che negli Anni Ruggenti zoppicava su per i gradini della city, di porta in porta con carichi di giornali del mattino e serali, ciascuno contato un misero soldo sudato per mantenere la famiglia.

Ti logorasti il cuore e le suole. Il tuo corpo fu sempre un briccone impastoiante il tuo [volere di maschio. Mi riempisti di orgoglio e tenacia di immigrante. E va bene. Hai concluso, adempiuto nel canto [solo in me. Se i tuoi sogni sono miei, vivi di nuovo, respira e esisti in [me.

Tu non capisti mai la trama americana. Good night, go gently, tired immigrant father full of pride and propriety. We, your three daughters, all grew to be healthier, stronger, more American than you. The wound that will not heal in me is the ache of dead sensibility. Once full of history, philosophy, poetry, physics, astronomy, your bright, high-lying psyche is now dispersed, set free from your tormented body, but the theme you offered, often forlorn, sheer luminescent soul, glistened with enough light to carry us all full-grown.

The sky was falling. God bless Daddy! God bless spaghetti! When they laughed, I learned I had a pen for a tongue that could please.

From Local to Global

Buona notte, viaggia remissivo, stanco padre immigrante pieno di correttezza e orgoglio. Autobiograia incompiuta per mia iglia scritta nel , durante la prima Guerra del Golfo Nacqui nel Il cielo stava precipitando. Dio benedica la pasta! Quando risero seppi che per lingua avevo una penna che dava piacere. Are you wearing one? Twenty and virginal when raped one midnight in a jail cell by an angry Klansman, Deputy Sheriff of Montgomery County, Alabama—only law for miles around Selma.

Ne porti uno? Ventenne e vergine fui stuprata una mezzanotte in una cella di prigione da un rabido Klansman, il vice sceriffo della Contea Montgomery, Alabama—unica legge per miglia nei dintorni di Selma. My greatest moment of joy came in a near death—not when jailed by the Klans- man, but when giving birth to you who came by emergency Cesarean, bright with hope, lovely daughter; do you hear the ambulance of guilt, grieving in your near death birth, the re- birth of your mother, your moment of almost not being new life greeting me in your eyes, my eyes peering back at me, questioning, after the fever [subsided.

Are they yours, Daughter? I edit a book, On Prejudice: A Global Perspective, of xenophobia, ethnocentrism, sexism, racism, and hate the nuclear and oil barons who are your enemy. We cannot love without enemies who bond us together in love—Freud said— unless we see that avarice pours our own garbage and debris back upon us— Smothering us with mutual enemy.

Our oil, nuclear, chemical, and germ warfare proiteers hold us all hostage, you, me, and them, to the screams of skulls with their forever gold teeth, lampshades of skin, their ears are ours illed with a siren of guilt from the history book of corpses. It talks to autumn, Daughter. Its splendor makes us sing. Un sottile ilo di vita goccia sulla pagina mentre i miei occhi diventano gli occhi di un altro: Sono i tuoi, Figlia? Metto insieme un libro, Sul Pregiudizio: Una Prospettiva [Globale, di xenofobia, etnocentrismo, sexismo, razzismo, e odio i baroni nucleari e del petrolio che sono i tuoi nemici.

Il suo splendore ci fa cantare. Only middle age girth makes me look maternal. Menopause has left not one kernel of hope in my old ovaries. Oggi, non vengo o spero di divenire incinta, nessun bimbetto scalpicciante in arrivo. La menopausa non ha lasciato un briciolo di speranza nelle mie vecchie ovaie. It, too, possesses a navel for seeing the world through the skin, has rounded buttocks, good to place against the hand the way earth reminds lesh of its being. Through the eye of the needle, death is a country where people wonder and worry what it is like to live.

The sullen wish to live and live soon, to be done with death and the happy want to stay dead forever wondering: will it hurt to live and is there death after death? Near Bari and Brindisi where the ferry has travelled the Adriatico, to and from Greece for centuries. How strange to view you, piccolo villaggio, with ladybugs, my talisman, landed on my shirt. Ladybugs rest on me at the dig of stone sculptures the Belgian professor shows me. You never returned to your ancient land where now the [natives, simpatici pisani, wine and dine me in their best ristorante. I insist on paying the bill.

They give me jars of funghi and pimento preserved in olive oil—their prize produce to take back home with me. They nod knowingly, when in talking of you, I must leave the table to weep— alone in the restroom, looking into the mirror at the eyes you gave me, the hands so like yours that turn the brass faucet and splash cold water over my face.

For an instant, in this foreign place, I have met you again, Father, and have understood better, your labors, your struggle, your pride, your humility, the peasantry from which you came to cross the wide sea, to make me a poet of New York City. Which is truly my home? Mi mostrano il tuo certiicato di nascita— Donato Giosefi, nato nel — scarabocchiato a penna, su carta che ingiallisce. Quando gli dico che sono una scrittrice, prima della [famiglia americana a ritornare alla casa paterna, di colpo sono nobile!

Coccinelle riposano su di me allo scavo di sculture in pietra che il professore belga mi mostra. Non ritornasti mai alla tua terra vetusta dove i nativi, simpatici paesani, mi dan da mangiare e bere nel loro ristorante migliore. Insisto a pagare il conto. This home where you would have [been happier and better understood than in torturous Newark tenements [of your youth.

Chicago poems-Poesia di Chicago

This land of sunlight, blue sky, pink and white lowers, [white stucco houses, and poverty, mezzogiorno, this warmth you left to make me a poet from New York City, indifferent place, mixed of every race, so that I am more cosmopolitan than these, your villagers, or you could ever dream of being. This paradoxical journey back to a lost generation gone forever paving the way into a New World from the Old.

Maria Lisella has been an editor and journalist for most of her life and has covered the travel industry, a profession that has taken her to dozens of countries. Her work appears online at FOXNews. Bound; Bible and silk thread. To bring poetry to people is her mission: for 36 years she has successfully hosted the radio program The Poet and the Poem.

In , when the blood of the U. She opened the microphone to the city inviting poets, non-poets, ordinary citizens to share their voices on the airwaves. Best known for The Poet and the Poem, which is celebrating its 36th year on the air as an hour-long radio program, Cavalieri con- tinues to produce and host the show on public radio.

Her programs include every Poet Laureate since and a signiicant collection of African-American poets. Cavalieri has written 16 books of poems and 26 produced plays. She lives in Annapolis, Maryland, and was married to metal sculptor, Kenneth C. Flynn who recently passed away. She has four children and four grandchildren. I suoi programmi hanno proposto tutti i Poeti Laureati a partire dal e una notevole raccolta di poeti Afro-Americani.

La Cavalieri ha scritto 16 libri di poesie e ha prodotto 26 opere teatrali. Vive ad Annapolis, nel Maryland, ed era sposata con lo scultore Kenneth C. Flynn, scomparso recentemente. Ha quattro igli e quattro nipoti. But the African-American link came through poetry rather than cultural or political afiliations. When I heard a new radio station was being planned to go on-air in Washington, D.

I had the love and history on my side Because Washington D. I worked three years fundraising and sweeping loors to get a radio station on the air, to establish a platform for poetry. Although I was making poetry available in a way that had not been done before, I still had to prove myself. Gwendolyn Brooks was wary of me, but became a friend; Allen Ginsberg insulted me but eventually respected my work. My most profound memories were of truck drivers, prize-ighters, drunks, grandmothers, who called in to read their own poems.

Nel periodo tra il e il aiutavo ad avviare ed insegnare la scrittura presso i campus universitari della costa orientale del College di Antioch, a Washington D. Quando venni a sapere che una nuova stazione radio sarebbe stata fondata, con trasmissioni a Washington D. Lavorai tre anni raccogliendo fondi e pulendo pavimenti pur di far partire le trasmissioni radiofoniche, per fondare un programma per la poesia.

Ricorda dei momenti signiicativi di The Poet and the Poem? My heritage is an ongoing theme I have only begun to explore, there is so much richness wait- ing, the past has so many stories, but I cannot be objective about its effect on me yet. I have yet to make enough use of it. This worries me. But the past is all still in my future. Poetry is the way we rinse off language. If it were not for po- etry, we would all talk in slogans and TV commercials. We would use the language of politicians — words with no meaning.

Poetry is, as Allan Grossman once said, the way we preserve the beloved. I see it as the great equalizer, the democratic ideal, the way every person can speak with an inimitable voice, the miracle that each one of us has our own breath and cadence that cannot be sto- len. Poets document what it is to be alive at this moment in history. What would you like readers to come away with from po- etry?

I feel less alone now. E devo ancora utilizzarlo appieno. Useremmo il linguaggio dei politici — parole senza signiicato. Cosa vorrebbe che la poesia lasciasse ai suoi lettori? Ora mi sento meno sola. Thompson N. Thompson is a full time writer and translator and lives outside Oxford, UK. His latest book of poetry is Letter to Auden Smokestack, a verse epistle in rime royal. Pier Paolo Pasolini Although he achieved inter- national fame as a ilm director, Pasolini was irst and foremost a poet and played an important part in Italian literary life as editor, critic and novelist.

While pursuing these many different paths, he continued to write and publish verse throughout his life, including poetry in the Friulan dialect. But it was his novels and screenplays of Roman low life that led to his success in the cinema as director: Accatone , Mamma Roma , The Gospel according to Matthew and his famous 70s trilogy Decameron, Canterbury Tales and A Thousand and One Nights. Non puoi, lo vedi? You were young then in that May when error Was still alive2… in that Italian May That gave at least the beneit of ardour, That careless, less immorally healthy Time of our fathers, when you — humble brother, Not a father — were ready with a stealthy Hand, ready to sketch out an ideal other But not for us now, as dead here as you In this dank garden bringing light to bear On silence.

II Tra i due mondi, la tregua, in cui non siamo. Scelte, dedizioni Nei cerchi dei sarcofaghi non fanno che mostrare la superstite sorte di gente laica le laiche iscrizioni in queste grigie pietre, corte e imponenti. Now the wind blows bringing in intermittent drops of rain. II Between two worlds, this is the respite where We have no life. Choices and sacriices… Make no sound in this garden now so bare, If noble. But all the obstinate lies That deaden life are here for death to know. And in these circles of sarcophagi, Banal inscriptions of these banal folk Show nothing but a lasting transition Set in the graveness of this greyish stone, Brief and imposing.

With unbridled passion But no longer any scandal, the burnt Remains of millionaires who came from nations Much grander; as if they were here, the hum Of irony from prince and pederast Whose ashes lie in scattered burial urns And, although turned to cinders, still not chaste. The silence of the dead here is witness To cultivated silence of these last Remains of men still men, of weariness The weary garden tactfully disguises, The city that surrounds it making less Its splendour in between the pieties Of makeshift shacks and churches.

And so I come across you quite by chance With hope and old mistrust still on my tongue And ind you in this makeshift lean-to placed Around your grave, your spirit resting here Along with these free spirits. Ed ecco qui me stesso I feel here — in this quietness where your tomb is Laid, in this country where your tension had No place in this unstable fate of ours, — How right and wrong you were, before the sad Day of your murder, writing the supreme notes3 You did.

And bearing witness to the seed Of power with its old traditions not Displaced, these dead attached to ownership That founders in the centuries with its pot Of evil and its grandeur. But the taps Heard from that hammered anvil, heartrending, Obsessive, if faint, coming from the traps Of poverty, bear witness to its ending. And here I ind myself, poor, in the kind Of clothes the poor admire in window dressing Of garish splendour, but have lost the grime Picked up in long forgotten streets and seats Of trams that give my day a dizzying time.

Vivo nel non volere del tramontato dopoguerra: amando il mondo che odio - nella sua miseria sprezzante e perso - per un oscuro scandalo della coscienza Come i poveri povero, mi attacco come loro a umilianti speranze, come loro per vivere mi batto ogni giorno. Poor as the poor, like them I pit myself Against humiliating hopes, like them I struggle every day to keep one step Ahead in my life. Ma come io possiedo la storia, essa mi possiede; ne sono illuminato: ma a che serve la luce? Ma in esso impastati quali comuni, prenatali vizi, e quale oggettivo peccato!

But how can I own history When it owns me, has me illuminated: And what use is its light? And so his deeds, Internal and external — all that go To give some body to his life — must needs Be subject to religions, there is no Escape, they take a mortgage out on death To trick the light and light this trick they do. Ciecamente fragranti nelle asciutte curve della Versilia, che sul mare aggrovigliato, cieco, i tersi stucchi, le tarsie lievi della sua pasquale campagna interamente umana, espone, incupita sul Cinquale, dipanata sotto le torride Apuane, i blu vitrei sul rosa E lo sommuove.

VI I have to go… and leave you in the sad Time evening brings as it falls softly on The living in the sunlight that turns pallid As it thickens above this part of Rome Turning dark and stirring it, making it Look large and empty. And the eager longing For life lights up in the distance, split With the harsh rasp of the trams, the raucous And distant shouts in dialect that knit To form a concerto. Diademi di lumi che si perdono, smaglianti, e freddi di tristezza quasi marina You feel that any true faith is missing, Life is not life, only survival makes sense — which is happier than life perhaps — in being Akin to the animal world, they mumble Arcane orgasms, the only passion Is for daily existence, whose humble Fervour gives a sense of festival To humble corruption.

In the rumble Of this empty space in history, all Pulsating pause in which life is silent — You feel the pointlessness of all ideals. Nearby, about the mound and piles of rubble, Illegal shanty housing and the blocks Of lats that almost look clean, young kids play out And in the tepid breeze dance light as socks Pinned out. Elsewhere, dark adolescents pout As well: with devil-may-care attitudes They whistle down the pavements, twist and shout Tearing down roller blinds, full of a rude And festive joy making a fearsome din That breaks the evening calm with interludes Of rasping sound.

But life is bustling here, Its folk lost in it like a bright kermes, A fair that leaves hearts full; and here they are Poor, but out for fun this evening; defenceless But empowered, the myth for them reborn… But having in my heart the consciousness Of those who know how history is the mover Will pure passion ever move me again When I know that our history is over?

Ezra Pound and his Italian Critics

It is now a protected archaeological site. She lived many years in Rome and now resides in Manhattan. Today, there are two main anthologies of his work, as well as many individual volumes to peruse, most of them issued by the Milanese publishing house Mondadori. The principal anthologies are: Poesie scelte with introduction by Giovanni Raboni and Di certe cose: Poems — which contains an Afterword by the author.

Risi is also well known for his extensive translation work, especially the many volumes of Pierre Jean Jouve, also selections from Supervielle, Jules Laforgue, Kavafy, and Radnoti. The titles alone indicate his engagement with social themes. Both as a poet and a ilm-maker, Risi is clearly heir to the traditions of Parini and Leopardi, predecessors whom he often evokes within the poems, along with other quite different inlu- ences such as Rimbaud.

A progressive, neorealistic ilm-maker and author, his is a constant critique of hypocrisy, corruption, injus- tice, indeed every abuse of power in contemporary life. Often he mimics the speech of the enemy—governmental meta-language, publicity slogans, etc. A unique, original civic stance is veined with sardonic bursts. If he reduces phenomena to the bones, however, he also expands our sense of a higher destiny for humankind with his noble reminders. Never tiring of telling us the harm we all have done, Risi seems to me right in step with the ecological-minded poets of today in America and in the world.

I include one poem, a fantasy about freeing birds, that, simple as it is structurally, relates to this theme. Both keep an eye out for the absurd, often domesticating the exotic. I give you a sampling of some poems about North Africa. A Flaubert piece is precious, a long poem about Leopardi a challenge.

Lewis Carroll is in there. Often these poems are monologues faintly in the Browning tradition. I like them for their concreteness and the slight tilting of our perception of persons we thought we knew. Alas, some of these are epitaphs as these persons gradually faded from view. One needs to read widely in his work to perceive the full range of his powers and the variety of subjects treated. I include in this selection some of my favorites from his early Counter-Memorial series, in itself a signiicant title.

In preparing a volume of of Selected Poems, I would certainly look to some of his later work. There is consequently the question of how often where, and when to use punctuation at the end of lines. I have taken a moderate approach, adding punctuation when absolutely necessary. That soldier who asked me the shortcut past Sempione— how much anxiety in those eyes!

The Wolves A black wind invades my deserted city, city that suffers in the dawn of houses. My deserted city has eyes of ruins, already someone is gathering the roses in its blood. Pubblicamente io ti ringrazio. Tribes III And so in the regimented chaos of a circus exotic excrement and amber acts, mallets on metal rings resounding, tents come crashing down with their poles in a colorless morning. Methodical, stubborn, deaf to others, they hold their ground.

If only they knew how disarmed the heart can be where breastplates are highest, all bolts and screws, and how tender the hedgehog is underneath. The good guys take a nap in a cavern or write to mamma, crushing active isotopes under their nails ready for the assault: a dead sun. A Christmas light within a pine-tree of heat that my father, the general, already viewed at the celebration of Hiroshima bleaches the guinea pig city, and the ruined town fries and melts as a spurt of coca-cola.

A center so urban with so many federal buildings and a little of the American ideal— a real center with a good view, Anabaptist, aseptic, endowed with a horizon but one that the shifting has decentralized. You ought to see the town from high up, in one sweep of the eye— black palate veiled in mallow— all the way to the houses and formerly plaid Tartan, hard veins of streets twisting silently n an ashy Vesuvius where a lone remaining blackbird smoothes out its feathers now white in the nearly sweet, poisonous autumn.

Ecco la piena, non si contano gli anni urgono e rompono con tanta allegria musi di latte! One happiness is all happiness; if there were two, it would be as if none actually existed. I Sto imparando a disamare macchina indietro a tutto pudore.


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Like the cuttleish in defense, squeezing, using itself up, I know the costly art of the fugue in darkness. VII A sale! XI Near the river, I watch lovely black-veiled sentences glide by— opium and poison in the whirlpools of our days. How much glue gelatine friable clay and saliva is needed to cement the incommunicable!

History scolds you. Blanketing the horizon in one mass, rattling tent-posts, they came forth; everyone huddled beneath linens and curtains, only prayers broke the paralysis. I spotted one all jaws, all beak ready to snap and spring, its armored vest the perfect war machine. Coming out into an eclipsed sun I held a pillow under my head and, like Pliny the Elder or a Ghetto chronicler, lost myself completely in the fascinating phenomenon. Ho imparato a disporre le parole Senza lasciarmi andare, soprattutto Senza idarmi troppo. Thus, each night, the violence of history is a theoretical issue.

One Happy Family The worker greases the machine, the machine fattens up the owner. Together in the evening they emerge onto a balcony overlooking a factory. Non uno che non abbia assaggiato la canna del padrone—noi siamo sangue inferiore inquadrato a consumo. The Deceased Held tightly in perfumed linen bands, beneath the fabric of my mask I experience ininite joys; inside me are only sand and barley, ballast for one who navigates through shadows. III The Farmer The Nile God opens furrows in my ield, rakes and fertilizes, then with majestic macho, stealthy as a panther, withdraws.

Not even a God can do everything. Harvesting down in the mud exhausts me while the agronomist in his white tunic stretched out in shade noshes his picnic. XII Il profeta portato dalle acque Sono un uomo dai vasti progetti che trova posto dietro i padri morti. Mi richiamo a un Dio solo impronunciabile. Ma io mi reputo egizio. He never sees his victims, has clean hands. Where thick grass grows, an Eastern city lashes. These local gods have animal faces and beaks, yet I consider myself Egyptian. Coral barriers, submerged islands, beaches, forests, metropolises, galaxies; the world is not enough, fantasy navigates through muggy air.

Off with rings, off with shoes! We need to breathe deeply. Let others make plans. My pilgrimage? Clara la luminosa I Che secolo il nostro di padri severi! While time is at work, Nature remodels scenery, History takes the stage fragment by fragment across millenniums; new forms, new values. Luminous Clara Excerpt I What a century of harsh fathers this is! How could I ight back? I belonged to him, his masterpiece, a baby cradled in praise, virtuoso whose hands traveled the whole planet, got kissed even by Chopin.

I was spontaneous and changeable, for you always a distant entity. We battled, until inally united. Happiness seemed truly uneventful so luxuriously had life rewarded us. He holds a Ph. His current projects include Microscope Gallery, an art space in Bushwick presenting monthly exhibitions combined with a regular event series www. Antonio Spagnuolo Napoli , poeta e saggista, vive a Napoli. Ha scritto anche un pezzo per il teatro, Il cofanetto Asor Rosa, e nel volume antologico Disordinate convivenze: Poeti di ine secolo, curato da G. Nota sulle traduzioni In questi nuovi testi di Antonio Spagnuolo emerge un io poetico che spesso interviene come intermedario e osservatore intimo.

Esiste come interlocutore, questo io; persiste di verso in verso. Questi componimenti sono astratti e abbastanza fragili, per cui abbiamo deciso—io e il mio collaboratore, Andrea Monti—di lasciar regnare la sottigliezza e la delicatezza. Speriamo di esserci riusciti.

Recupero occasioni rinverdite confondendo le crepe del passato e a doppia fonte, ora piena, o triste, spacco le mie giornate senza agganci. Dal tempo degli altari denudavo le lampade nel perimetro corto delle pene, lentamente alle braccia ora scolora la strada senza un ine, tra le congiunzioni di una fragile bacheca. From the time of the altars I denuded the lamps in the short perimeter of grief, now slowly the road without end fades into the arms, among the junctures of a brittle display case. Illusion Even the trill of the void is an illusion of other times and lashes, of the last scaly fracture of repetitions, of a yet partially alterable beast.

Ad incastonare cristalli sogno di essere altrove avvolgendo la vampa come frusta di luna sotto gli stridii dei gabbiani cambiando senza ine le rese del miracolo. Ecco i bagliori continuano a momenti. Quel giro preferito, ben disposto a silenzi, mormora sottintesi alle nebbie. Piegato allo specchio come un ladro offro bicchieri per custodire tristezze, igure deformate mi travolgono e non comprendo cosa mai circonda la mia casa nel vortice dei giorni che costringono al pianto, uno scherzo sprecato. To be saved are the images of the matrices through the endothelium gathering tumors according to petit-bourgeois errors.

Fever Now you tear off the fringes of the fever between unreachable strings and the heat-wave of memories, melancholies led through my unfulilled days. Thus the shabby triles where the couch is impressed with circles of ourselves deforming ingers. There continue the glares, at times.

That favorite path, to which silence is welcome, murmurs unexpressed thoughts to the fog. As the anger reemerges and reverberates, the ancient solitude, subdued, the determined, obscure fairy tale that every morning seeps through the tangle of past images, it is the irrational experiment that strangles. Peridi dubbi che svanivano per azzardare ore, evanescenze, un granello che divide le rovine delle stelle. I am the ardor in the pupils, already assigned by the touch, I seek coagulations and wounds and am distracted by fragrant rooms.

When the sling calls up in the deep, an unnerving is certain, the heartbeat pressing on to confess prayers, only memory renews the laziness of spring. For example, in his Suora Carmelitana , the first volume of a trilogy, he explores a startling new theme, within a different genre, a tale in verse, as shown here, from the beginning of the eponymous poem:. And my aunt Who had worked in the company And when she entered the war was over Is there from Since then she has left three times to vote Divorce, abortion and And twice to go to the hospital.

To vote one needs a dispensation And also for the hospital. Returning to his childhood home, Buffoni finds. The following verses mark an undeniable break with his past poetry, including the previous trilogy:. Li teneva in ufficio Accanto al tavolo. Strappati dai croati ai prigionieri He kept them in his office next to the table. Torn from the prisoners by Croats. Ho gli occhi di dolore e sono turco … In prigione mi hanno torturato Con gli elettrodi Ho i segni sotto il mento e sui ginocchi Anche i piedi mi hanno massacrato As a poet who grew up and matured in Lombardy, with its well-known Enlightenment traditions that influenced him in his progressive politics, he approaches Rome with foreign eyes.

Here is a capsule poem that neatly shows a linkage between ancient and modern Fascist Rome:. Four intestines, still frightened, at the dimensions of the External Ocean to be soothed with sacrifices. Yet if he arranges his poems long after to form together a retrospective whole, it is not so with his translations. Now he only translates poems, in fact, which he will use to form a future quaderno di traduzioni: the intentionality is there from the very beginning with his translations, in contrast to his original verse.

Little here would hint at the massive translations down the road. True, Buffoni also did edit two works of 18th century Scottish poets Fergusson and Ramsay during the same period, but it was only in that our poet-translator translated a book of poetry by Keats : Sonno e poesia. In the following years, he would turn his hand to the 20th century, to Wilde 24 , and Heaney 25 , culminating in his Songs of Spring Indeed, if he translated often by commission during the s, his translations following Wilde were all by choice.

No longer forced to translate, Buffoni has spent the last twenty years translating lyric poetry most congenial to his poetic temperament, which would fit together in a structured whole i. Thus let us now move on to his specific translation ideology. To best grasp the difference in translation philosophies between Buffoni and older Italian poets, one name makes the difference: the Italian phenomenologist Luciano Anceschi. Anceschi, a follower, in his turn, of Antonio Banfi, sought to free the study of poetry from rigid a priori definitions.

Contrary to Croce, Anceschi held that poetry is defined, from individual work to work, by looking at the system of relations structuring it. Poetry is not, as Croce argued, simply defined by what is poetry and what is not: form and content are not inviolable entities.

This maxim would always hold true for Buffoni. Indeed, for our poet-translator, translations are not photocopies of the source texts. The focus, for Buffoni, is neither on an impossible reproduction of the original text nor a free adaptation. I have been loyal to your poetic loftiness altezza , betraying you here and here and here: I did it to remain the most loyal possible to your loftiness altezza. This is what I say every evening to the poets alive and dead with whom I try to interweave poietic dialogue In his prefaces to the anthologies he edited of Italian poetry in various languages, Buffoni expressly indicates what he considers a pernicious translation method.

We will treat them in order. For Buffoni, a poet must first find a rhythm: once he has found a rhythm, he has found the subject. It is rhythm, which according to our poet-translator, allows us to resolve the apparent conflict between, for instance, an Italian poet with a quantitative meter translating a British poet with an accentual meter like Keats, Coleridge, or Byron. We will point out specific instances of this, when Buffoni offsets words, carving a new rhythm into the translation, or changes meter entirely.

The avant-text, which includes all of the materials and drafts for the final text, can be useful, as the poet-translator explains, in reflecting on the genesis of the poem. Buffoni has on several occasions used such preparatory material in his translations — whether his versions of Bernard Simeone, Eddy van Vliet 39 , or Seamus Heaney. If, as we know, the target language is in always in a state of flux, at a particular moment of time, so is the source language, and, consequently, the source text.

In the years, decades, or centuries since the composition of the original poem, the linguistic structures of the original, from syntax and grammar to lexis and pronunciation, have changed. Equally, the target text, the translation, is determined by its historical and linguistic background.

American Dante Bibliography for 1955

So a retranslation will change according to its temporal moment. In other words, he was forced to retranslate because his own language and that of the world around him had changed in the past ten to twenty years. Intertextuality, the term originated by Julia Kristeva, refers to the fact that there is no completely original literary creation.

Literature is born from literature. Sanguineti, a friend of Buffoni, also thought the same way about translation. This final category, the poietic encounter , is the most important, and to a certain degree includes the rest. Essentially we will look at the poietic relationship between Buffoni and the source text by commenting on the different methods used by our poet-translator in conformity with his own poetics. In his translations especially from the Romantics, he is more literally faithful than to translations of contemporary poetry.

Nonetheless, since filler adjectives are often used for metrical reasons or due to rhyming, Buffoni has no qualms in excising them, as he notes when translating English romantic poets. Buffoni is extraneous to this category. The second translation method is usually followed by poet-translators. Buffoni incorporates translations into his own work: above all in his two quaderni di traduzioni along with Del Maestro in bottega.

With this title, Buffoni aimed to underline two aspects: that his volume is an homage to poetic language, to poetic song; and his close spiritual ties to Keats, the poet whom he has translated most completely. To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steel it, Was never said in rhyme Buffoni, in his translation of these verses, emphasizes the knowledge that the past is lost, and that the mind knows this.

While Keats mentions that no one can heal this change , Buffoni speaks of the subjective process of knowing sapere that no one can sanarlo. The Italian is more final, more desolate. This alliteration ties together the whole discourse, signalling the painful inexorability of time. Songs of Spring , published in , consists of 38 poets and poems, ordered chronologically 54 , drawn from poetic traditions as diverse as Dutch, French, Icelandic, Greek, Hebrew, Latin, Scottish, Spanish, and Swedish, though the vast majority are from English.

Other prominent poets represented are Wilde and Heaney with 8 poems, Coleridge and Spender with 7, and Byron and Kipling with 6 apiece. This is indeed rather an innovative practice for quaderni di traduzioni, which generally include complete poems, and not fragments. Within the volume itself, Buffoni creates certain intertextual echoes. Indeed, the image of eyes as mirrors in water reflects the very same intertextuality, where words mirror each other in books through time.

Other examples of intertextual links within Songs of Spring are easily visible, as in the succession of Coleridge fragments about the moon, for example. Songs of Spring contains two special examples of translation that I will focus on now. No other Italian poet in quaderni di traduzioni translates into dialect.

Both renditions are more concise than the original, and if they both retain some of the original exuberant tone, are less markedly festive. Yet, proceeding onwards, the contrast between the two versions becomes great. Moreover, if the Milanese speaks of narrating the dances of the past trascorso 72 year, the Italian speaks of the year that dies muore. So, if Buffoni in his Milanese translation concludes that there is nient de pussee bell 73 than the last days of the year an explicit statement absent from the original poem , this is completely removed from the Italian, as is the sensation of being together Insemma , inozent Not having his own volume nearby, he retranslated them After an upbringing in Lombardy, where such a past tense is eschewed in oral speech, he has spent many years in Rome, where the passato remoto is often used.

The retranslation, then, is a more philologically correct translation, closer to the English, and more aesthetically pleasing besides. Perhaps this is owing to anxiety of influence, or simply to the English rhythm, which combined with its particular lightness of tone, is hard to get across into Italian.

The English velocity is unmatchable. This is one of only two poems in the volume that directly deal with an Italian subject. Poesie : precedute dal Canto eroico e funebre per il sottotenente caduto in Albania.

Ezra Pound and his Italian Critics

Roma: Il Presente , Cantico dei cantici. La sala degli scrittori suicidi. Bologna: Edizioni La Linea , Fronimadi-Matatsi, Margherita. Annunciazione : poesie. Atene: Neoi Kairoi , Fronimadi Matatsi, Margarita. Noda gordiano. Galanaki, Rea. Il secolo dei labirinti. Georgoudis, Vangelis. Boulogne: Les Cahiers de Pandora , Lirici greci contemporanei. Alk Gian, futurista. Bari: Graphiservice , c La Grecia, sai…. Gregorio Nazianzeno. Poesie 2. Ad Olimpiade : carm.

Pisa: ETS , Poesie 1. La poesia del Nazianzeno. Padova: R. Iliopoulos, Vaghelis - Comida, Luciano. Erede perplesso. Ioannidu-Stavru, Rula. Nastrini gialli : dialoghi con un disperso. Nicosia: [s. Iordanidou, Maria. Milano: Biblioteca Universale Rizzoli , Kalvos, Andrea. Palermo: [s.