Dio giocava a pallone (Italian Edition)

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Poetic greatness is then reached when a character, the outline of a life, the representation of a place are categorically defined with simple and essential words His verses describe a humble recueil of facts and figures in an Alpine valley, a hostile and marginal reality, that acquires an almost Gothic austerity through the frequent winter settings, the harshness of the figures and the starkness of diction. The light is only that of the lumin fireflies or the dazzling sbaluch of the snow. The characters are always floundering and live in a climate of grotesque visions Limit The wind unravels in the loom of the pine tree.

Inside, souls thread cocoons of silence. Ossa mea are rags, my body a worn pallet; my soul has left its paws in the trap The limit in the black ink of the pear tree, of the crow that wavers up there, in wheels of splendor. Sparrows Sparrows of rags entangled between thorns and elders between a snare and a shotgun, between spindles of sunlight and mouths of shadows, between garden nets and hedges basted with snow: between life and death.

Wind Belfries between snakes of wind: the clapper-lizard of light up there, between patches of clouds. In the frothy air go butterflies of straw, a few strands of snow, a few ruffled black shadows. The wind capers through the narrow alleys. The daughters of Mary have flown away dressed in snow, in sky. Now the wind drags its feet by the torn garden nets to confess its sin. Then it kneels to say the rosary to the larch trees The Virgin from the lime wall takes wing behind the daughters of Mary, with their petticoats blown by the wind.

Chi ha dormito. He published his first book of verse, Le trombe di carta Sarzana: Editore Carpena , in In he published with Guanda his second collection of poetry: Incertezza dei bersagli , with a preface by Vittorio Sereni. In Milan: Il Formichiere he published the volume of short stories Racconto della contea di Levante , which received the Comisso Prize the same year. One of the short stories from the book was included in the anthology edited by Enzo Siciliano, Racconti italiani del Novecento I Meridiani, Mondadori, Franco Brevini, Le parole perdute , cit.

Il silenzio. The voices of the old were fires in the evening. Under the iron beds, in the dark, apples ripened and their scent reached as far as the fences. Estate I. Summer I Before reopening your eyes to the shock of things fraying in the heat, tonight you die, summer, sorrow, in a downpour that washes out even thoughts straining to walk in all this sunlight.

Estate II. La luce. Listen to me now, if you can. I mentioned the end of the fish, and a river: poisoned, like almost everything else, now: plants, animals He spent his childhood in Genoa until , and went to high school and college there after a brief stay in Val di Magra. He remained in that city from the end of to the beginning of The search for a job led him to the Turin offices of RAI, which at the time were the old administrative offices in Via Arsenale He has been living in Milan since Some of his unpublished poems appeared in Diverse Lingue , n.

Not having ever recognized myself I Firpo, I listen again to the Genoese dialect of my father and his friends, and favor this strong, narrative poetry, teeming with an anonymous crowd, those people The author delves into a sort of collective geology, in which dialect becomes the language of the chorus. His verses depict a dreary, mortuary Genoa, observed from an almost archeological distance There is a radical rejection of the lyrical self in order to give voice to the people, the biographies, the realities touched by the long wanderings on the sea, but also, in a prison-city on the wane, a suffering, humiliated humanity.

With his prose-like, narrative verse, Giannoni represents today the epic-choral peak of neodialect poetry. Then looking all around him, he would note so many different things: some interests due to mature in June, a word a lover wrote on a piece of paper lined with little squares. Yet to eyes that have been used up behind a pen, to fingers that can count to ten, even these things are something, and they ought to be talked about in school: ahead of all the rest, these are the things that should be taught so we can let the children know that here, when it rains, a rain of fine ink trickles down, made out of tiny numbers, and thinned out before it even lands upon the ground; it spreads and prints its traces everywhere, making the pavement look like blotting paper.

All this is still nothing: the houses, and the air thick with the smoke of factories, and the rain. In the port and in the roads out on the seas the odor of calculations makes us drunk, stirs up the stagnant waters of the quays and advances through the air and fills the sky. Like the wake of a thousand seagulls, or a scrawl, or like a greasy cloud, black, full, and thick A flourish of the wind, a rise and fall of rows of sums in the ledger up above. The more they struggle just to count, the more all that comes out of it is nothing These are houses where the cash is never ready And we, whose roots grow deep into the ground, we carry them in our bellies, in our guts, even if the turning moon that rings us round is sinking to the level of an oil-lamp When he was 7, his family moved to his present home, Milan.

He published his first poems in the 22nd issue of Nuovi Argomenti April-June Two years later his first book of verses, I cart , appeared in print. Einaudi Turin issued this text, as it did Teater in This myth of a biography, an age and a city shows no respect for the critical categories and the taboos of our historiographical conventions.

Herein, even the Milanese dialect is reduced drastically to a poignant idiom that stresses the naked and the transparent. Brevini, cit. Mengaldo, in Poeti italiani del Novecento Milan: Mondadori, Brevini, in Lo stile lombardo. Studi di letteratura lombarda dal Sette al Novecento Rome: Bulzoni, Brevini, Poeti dialettali del Novecento Turin: Einaudi, Tesio, preface to Memoria , cit. Romano Luperini, preface to Umber , cit. Franco De Faveri, introduction to Poesie: antologia personale , cit.

Oh what images of fire I dreamed! Friends, women, wine I curled up and demons were sinking their claws to puncture my dreams, squeeze my marrow dry. Hopes, pain, memories, love, you traitor and comrade of kisses, flings, glories, of people who laugh and vanish, of lamentations that old age-- clutching and telling-- cultivates in the blood like a flower dying with summer. Translated by Justin Vitiello IV. Buffone di un vento! Yet, from that distance, I long to hear a voice summoning me What a jester of a wind!

The city refuses to end and the countryside stretches like stagnant water where we grow old.

Siamo troppo abituati ad ascoltarci. All around, these missing persons dense in the odor of death Wrought-iron benches fragile in their void, silent on this besmirched earth We drank each other up with our eyes-- in gusts of thought that the distant thunder among the lean shadows of spruce, mountains and our exhaled tremor made theater. We sensed the air of the nightingales that behind trunks were like remorse of summer rain mid cloud covers where the sun creates the image of Angera, our golden Citadel. Angera Citadel, forceful and fierce in the fog, hid the lake. Over the edge, through the trees, the hospital loomed-- stripped, immersed in mud, melancholy-- as if seeking its identity amid the Pity And you, Pietro Gori, where are you?

Shades standing or seated and this body stretched, something dense-- with shoes and an unmade bed Dear friend, speak to me with your face lit by words reclaiming time! Air comes gently to the windowsill, birds soar as the world seems to wait for them there So I proceed, eyes down, yet something transports me and in my throat I squeeze those ruffled sheets.

Air reaches me like fog, I am fixed, cant wait The bed is there, something trembles, looks like a hand whose grasp fades away, clutching naught But who knows? Di Dio sono pazzo, si strappa la coscienza. The more I contemplate Him the more He recedes God is playful, like the moon, where my thoughts become clouds and He hides So I let my mind meander, speak with humans, and the moon persists, mad, clear, lunatic with its glow slipping through the night. Death plants fear in the heart, flees behind the mirror me. I watch life and will dies: do what you please, but please find use for me! Call me, call me, folks!

Dont let me sleep! Dont let my life go oblivious! Or my history just die Love, so lunatic, reaches me like joy of water--it always seeps among the living! Brevini, ed. Turin: Einaudi, ; Le parole perdute , cit. She writes in the dialect spoken where she was born. I do not mean here a chronological structure with gradual passage from an alpha to an omega, but, rather, a linking of poetic texts that deal with unified thematics: the body, lovers, the mirror, now vs.

This structure seems inevitable. For this bird, the hoopoe, never lays its oils on a synopic canvas. Instead, it daubs with its spatula. This gleeful and much maligned bird lives via indetectible surprises, fits and starts, grazing the reversals of a reality stranger than fiction. This invisible reality glimmers beneath primordial stains as original images reverberating from these deeply felt and variegated poems.

In her poems, however, such an intensity reaches the extraordinary point where it constitutes the essence of her lyricism. The world as we know it vanishes; historical reference points no longer exist; and experience in all its polyhedricity is reduced to the confrontation with the other. Loi, introduction to Ura , cit. Other lights shimmer in sky, on earth. I see what I watch, see the shadow of this place once again Could it really have been the way I feel today? I want to see it for myself so I can call brother that man who says his land is the loveliest I take yours and you have mine in mind how come these two signs mingle?

Otherwise, if they were compounded it would make the world tremble. Dont know It began in one of us, each pursued it, doesnt matter who. Secret paths we call ours passing through everybody. His university studies were done in Zurich and Pavia. A bilingual author, he contributes to numerous literary magazines and journals. He has also written theatrical pieces, some of which have been set to music. Herein, Quadri expresses his anguish in trying to create a new world.

But his vision is not projected toward the future. Instead, it focuses on resistance against those who aim to eliminate the rural universe. In short, this vision is retrospection. A literary parallel to this aspiration is found in Giacomo Noventa. Ultimately, Quadri is haunted by the negative results of the gap between the two universes: the moral and the managerial.

His studies in dialectology and philology clearly facilitate his fieldwork, that is, in turn, the linguistic grounding for his poetry. Such games inform this poetry, refining and focusing it via respect for folk culture. One might doubt or even deny that Quadri still takes this approach as a mature writer. Gibellini, in Diverse Lingue , 2 Udine: Campanotto, Brevini, in Le parole perdute , cit. Per un pivello. Sveglia, galoppino! Your mop is going grey, your teeth are thinning out, you look awful! But, if you cant hack it, - fanaboola! Clap your balls! Il vecchio castagno. Hunched by the years, the cancer that abided, by the tangles of branches and tufts of leaves, the chirping of daunted birds escapes that soul in agony: empty, aged, dotard but still kicking, a doormouse emerges and scurries off.

Familia longobardorum. All around, handkerchiefs, school uniforms, even a pillow-case on a stool Inedita Mnemosyne He writes in the dialect of his native city. There are no features or gestures which are not a looking beyond, a way of querying the signals and warnings couched in everyday life. But in this gaze looking within the usual cycle of days and seasons lies the restless act of the search for meaning, the interrogation that springs from distance and foreignness.

Time is revealed in the perfect circle of repetition and return, within which chance and destiny move Giovanni Tesio, preface to El zharvelo e le mosche , cit. Bressan was interested in reconnecting the time of memory and everyday concerns, he was interested in clarifying.. Dante Maffia, in La barriera semantica, cit. Senza parole. Through the cracks come the sounds of perforated air: the turtle doves call me, the sparrows arouse me. And then I ask myself, could one live like this, just listening?

Amore di giovinetta. All refractory things become straight, in the ideal circle the quantified fact resonates. Astir in my brain half-structured remains, ants in procession.

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I sense my own ear, and I repent. Could it be the one all-surrendering voice? I wish someone would silence the silence this way. He received a degree in modern literature and teaches in a middle school. He edits the political-cultural journal Confronto. His poems have appeared in Diverse Lingue and Pagine. The spirit that prevails in this book is a profound pietas for the immense suffering that man has had to face every day in the dreadful reality of a life which has almost always been a struggle for meager survival. In the background there is the enormous crowd of the dead, the presence of the Manes, absolutely irreplaceable essences that every man on earth has embodied.

The attempt to relive the pains of the past by projecting them onto the present gives his work an almost sacrificial form: the poet presents himself as someone who wants gather in himself, and take responsibility for, everything that is malevolent, hard, coarse. He tries to give a new human sense to all this, using the only language that seems to allow him to communicate with that distant world in its innermost truth.

And this language, expression of a firm intention to appropriate the past, is pushed toward an almost mythical archaic time, with formal constructs of rare intensity. The book leads us in a secluded and wooded world see the richness of the botanical lexicon of the dialect , magmatic and germinating, against the backdrop of an agricultural-pastoral civilization in its age-old daily labor [ Amorosi spauriti. III But could we have stopped at that crossing bright with meadows, woods and blue? Lips and wind, hair in clover.

Publications: Libers. His poems have been translated into Swedish, Croatian, English and German. He writes in Marazanis dialect. Zanier finds his voice in the context of the best dialect poetry of twentieth century Italian literature. But, simultaneously, they are absolute, alive. Beyond the historical moment, they become atemporal. In its refrains and reiterations, this syntax breaks into a gurgling of syllables that slip and slide harmoniously from word to word, from line to line, thus lapping in a sweet, staccato lullaby. Zanier succeeds in creating subtle counterpoints between the banal and the poetic.

Via the use of original word-plays, he displays the mordant sense of humor so typical of his fellow Friulans that has been rarely understood by non-Friulan readers. Belardi and G. Faggin, La poesia friulana del Novecento Rome: Bonacci, Brevini, Le parole perdute , cit.

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Serbien Muss Sterbien. Inedita Crystal I slowly turn my finger round lightly as if along the edge of a chalice seeking the sound of your crystal voice. He is a performing poet and dramatist on radio and television and a militant critic in literary magazines and journals, including STILB , which he founded and edited. Doplicher has been a militant, via manifestoes and staged events, for the position taken in Poesia della Metamorfosi. His dialect poetry has not yet appeared in book form. Dialect is time, childhood, all time.

Then, the years pass, but the time I could touch remained. Its pillow still suffocates me when I try to sleep. Then I go through crises when the voice summons and consoles, but never emerges. Oh, it does breathe, caress, warm me with sea redolences. Sweep colors upon me—colors of a pale sky and transparent algae. Then regrets foam: cut wood, that sense of loss. I was summoned to the pier desert and the wind was too strong.

I realized I was late for the appointment. But the voice insisted, and its words came back. The people who spoke my language are now foreign: twice dead since the time of my birth.

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But all generations abide, floating in the oily channel of words. The ships have departed. Yet the dialect plumbs the depths of their wakes. There my ship of fools finds its in-and-expiration, its intonation, song, farewell. As long as I have the oxygen to take leave in my Aria dei mati. Il volo. Slate-scrape of my nails rising to my fingertips from deep deep inside. By dawn, by dusk with this scraping in a heart bursting in its musk.

Ah, my love made of water, ah, my love made of salt ah, pigeon in the chestnut leaves dying! Il canale. One more blot upon the void. I come full circle when the rank, persisting life within me seems itself to feel repugnance. La voce. Then, in , his Dona de pugnai was issued by the Italo Svevo Press of Trieste; likewise, there, in , his Crature del pianzer crature del rider appeared with e Edizioni.

With Roberto Damiani he composed the dialect play A casa tra un poco , various texts for radio, and the anthology, Poesia dialettale triestina Edizioni Italo Svevo, 1st ed. In , his plaquette 9 Poesie scritte a Trieste , preface by G. The texts published here come from Crature. In this idiom there is rooted a fragmented, raw, passionate poetics, straining with obscure regrets, outrageous prophecies, overbearing resentments, repentance, violence.

This poetry is virtually blood-stained, suffered, contorted, anxious. At the same time, it is plastic, symbolic, concise and, often, metaphysical. His themes come from everyday life, but they burn like hot pepper in a sweetly consuming fire of multiply interwoven tongues of flame, and in subliminal crackles. This poet is audacious in his juggling of syntax and in his forcing of words to say exactly what he wants them to.

His aim is to create a sense of rhythm where informing variations on metrics predominate. What abides in his autobiographical sketch resembles the bones of a fish whose flesh barely clings to a durable structure. Brevini, introduction to Crature. Bibliography R. Damiani, in Poeti dialettali triestini Trieste: Lafanicola, Svevo, Tesio, presentation of 9 Poesie scritte a Trieste.

Previously he had written, in Italian, the novella La bomba La Battana, —and subsequently other novellettes of his appeared: Il parco di Villa Marin Udine: Doretti, and Andar per pavoncelle Marka , At the same time he published two long poems in Italian, both in Alfabeta and He is editor of the quarterly Diverse Lingue Udine: Campanotto. His literary dialect is native to his place of birth. Therefrom, the author has continued to plow in ruts of twentieth century poetic tradition and to struggle to disinter himself, via the use of dialect, from the crepuscular movement.

And this imagery enfleshes landscapes of swamps, an unstable condition between land and water—in an expressionistic way that becomes psychic. His vitalism pushes his words to the edge of screams, grimaces, delirium, inebriate see Schers. All hanging over the abyss of nothingness. In the 16 compositions of this dissonant suite, the poet condenses a tension of a journey that evanesces and, then, essentializes. At the core of his dilemma is a Saturnine indecision: the insecurity and fear of being. Herein, we encounter his typical symbols and warnings, fraternal and frankly cowardly relationships with his fellow humans, his self-denigrations and solitary denunciations, his desperate need of some kind of reward for his suffering, his bitterness, frustrations, murky fears, self-destructive tendencies.

But then a miracle occurs. From the doldrums of ancient prayers and petrified shrieks and age-old defeats, light emerges. Nazzi, Dizionario biografico friulano Udine: Ribis, Nel grembo di Saturno. This barbaric hope that has made you live in the belly of being belly of Saturn, has you, green snake, slipping down cracks, sick shadow, August cat Fire and ash, hot caress on quake of bones, drive each day to try to begin Ti ha uccisa la luna.

Blind, bent over, I drag myself through clefts looking for light. Stiamo qui oggi. That silence away down there— is it the edge of a field? I wobble in mist; you, my arm, take me to the light! Conta le olive sulla tavola. Make me bitter, moon, count me with the olives. The only leaf-quake that I see are these sheets of mine in gold-stained shadows. Translated by Dino Fabris Cu la lenghe crevade Con la lingua crepata. Rosis grivis di gjambe sutile ti fasin murae intal siump, si fasin presinsis Recitativo del vagabondo.

Schema for thought— pleated gold over trees, dying moon throbbing on necessary steps Anticipation filled with faces; shrouds like flags unfurled whitening the horizon; all around glass-imbedded walls lying in wait, fashioned to hew hands, exposed knuckles Will you, knight without ensigns, knowing yourself unsure, carry your acrid figure to where acid meats and tough solitudes pulverize teeth? Is forgetfulness your end?

Serious, slender-stemmed roses form a wall in dreams, make themselves felt Give over to these respites? Drown in the honey of these tropes? She published two books of poetry in Italian: La porta dipinta and Interrogatorio Tore Barbina and A. Ciceri Nicoloso, eds. The texts anthologized here are previously unpublished. For the latter, so distant by now, can do us no harm. I repeat, these women are recreating Friulan poetry—not as a male-female dialectic, but as the truth of all human consciousness es.

This is my point: Cantarutti first and foremost, then Maria Forte, Buiese and Vallerugo, have all contributed, via their heightened sensibility, to the reshaping of our poetic language. Ultimately, they have made it the language of a people. Ciceri Nicoloso, Scrittrici contemporanee in Friuli , cit. Colonnello, G. Mariuz and G. Pauletto, eds. Ultimo luogo. Cosa lo ha spinto? Last Place The last place in the world, the world a station if it has a station, however small, the name vanished, two tracks, the service track aside with cars sealed for centuries that, more from precaution than fear, no one opens.

An eternity like this. One day he got lost in the desert going just beyond that bend where the tracks are burnished gold in the setting sun. What drove him? Who brought him back and laid him across the tracks? Yes, it was plain the desert moved, the tracks were covered again as quickly as the sand was swept away. A cola. Il sogno. Il marito si accorse in tempo. The Dream Maybe by now the snow outside has buried the earth melancholy Hiroshima landscape. On the Sydney bridge the wind lifts your black hair loose from its pins. The ships pass slowly by, sounding their horns they head for open sea, gone already.

Your pensive mother passes by in deep water. From that window the bridge is a single arc, a flight Before you my Regina stops her rush. She falls. She awakened among the dead. Her husband realized it in time. Veniva e viene ancora appeso alle travi del soffitto. Il suo nome varia da zona a zona e non ha un nome corrispondente in italiano.

Being with you who are no longer with us is so much more than living among the busy lives who take away my breath that peace I need for being cursed the way I am. Being with you always grape by grape my aurec hung on my slender rafter in this room with the painted outside door where a famished child has not eaten the bunch clenched in his hands because the grapes are numbered It was and still is hung from the rafters in the attic.

The dried grapes were eaten in winter. Its name varies from place to place and has no equivalent in Italian. Here, the Aurec is my deceased grandmother. He teaches elementary school. Then, in collaboration with L. Vit writes in southern Friulan, the language of Bagnarola. But his insights herein transcend the socio-political causes of this oppression.

His alliterations develop in relief: e. Walter Belardi and G. No sta vignimi dongia cuntralus. And that rivulet of light along the knee! When the sun ensnares itself in the thorns of the darkness, then whose will be the face that I caress? There are those who learn how to suckle from the white of the page, to whistle from a wind hidden deep within. And how you can command, condemn, cudgel all humanity, right from there, from that white room, perched like a king on the throne of the latrine.

He studied at the University of Bologna and now teaches in a lycaeum in Pordenone. He has published numerous critical essays on literature and aesthetics in journals such as Testo a fronte , Studi di estetica , Diverse Lingue , and Baldus which he also edits. The following essays of his have appeared in book format s : Diritto alla poesia , with A.

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De Biasio and A. Lettura della trilogia di A. Publishing a few chap-books in Italian—e. His most important dialect works are Altro che storie! The texts anthologized come from Vose de vose. He has comprehended and assimilated European Symbolism and Surrealism. For him, they are overcome by their ineluctable fragility in an atmosphere of indistinct contours, all in suspension and expectancy. Searching for his own voice, he eschews his noble poetic tradition.

He writes viva voce , in dialogue, retracing old terms, introducing innovation, finding points where the old and the new meet. Brevini, Le parole perdute, cit. Colonnello, Mariuz and Pauletto, eds. Geno Pampaloni, I giorni in fuga Milan: Garzanti, For the Autumn Left I. For the autumn and animals left under the crystal of hours culling branches and earth for a den in a nook of the head. For the autumn metal sheet and the man who wakes up calling with hands full of fingers, with hair coiled on the brain, of the breed of autumn gulls in eternal earthward flight.

Translated by Dino Fabris II. Translated by DinoFabris X. A rain eroding clay shoulders and finding us in the jaw of a November forever open in an lotus with luggage to manage the night, filled with leaves, peelings, signed papers. If we fall asleep. Translated by Dino Fabris XI. A nylon cloth the clouds, and the man of glass takes on a hue of tar and rusty wire that binds the hours around his ribs.

Spadoni and Luciano Benini Sforza are presently assembling an anthology of poetry written in Romagnol in the second half of the twentieth century. Visionary and descriptive passages alternate. His variegated repertoire of images is characterized by subtlety in design and by a cyclical sense of melody. Notwithstanding traces of his literary tradition, Spadoni gives new life to his dialect that is virtually biological for its instinctive immediacy. Its affinities are clear from its settings everyday, humble objects and human types and its versification.

The latter is characterized by a warm, colloquial vocality that lightens the sombre tone and mollifies the harshness of vision.

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Cesare Vivaldi, in Il lettore di provincia , 79 Vivaldi, in Poesia dialettale dal Rinascimento a oggi Milan: Garzanti, Pietro Civitareale, in Abruzzo letterario , Prima che si faccia buio. All clocks have stopped. People refuse to grasp that the moon doesnt know what to do about us. Le voglie. Shadows play hide-and-seek and the street-lights perforate the aura of squandered hours. Puoi fare di meno. That day comes when you grow weary, lace up your best shoes and go Come fili di tela di ragno. Nadiani and Cipriani also collaborated with Andrea Foschi on the essays in La parola ritrovata: la poesia contemporanea fra lingua e dialetto Ravenna: Long Editore, In , Nadiani co-founded the literary review Tratti.

He is now its editor-in-chief. The poems anthologized here come from Tir. This marginality, however, allows him to focus his lens sharply. Creaks, collapses, fissures, crashes of beams in the dust, cracks, cuts, splinters—all reverberate.

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These poems do an x-ray of an inexorably progressive landslide, an extraordinary yet oblique vision of cycles and seasons. His new emphasis is on an accumulative narration of data, objects, daily and work situations. His new instruments are parataxis and asyndeton or polyasyndata —i. Everyday prose speech, the brutality of history in the making, the infamous and the banal—that is to say, the terms of contemporary threats to the very act of writing poetry—are all here, center stage.

The shattering of verse in Nadiani conveys his interaction with lived, transcribed prose. This idiom is lived to the extremes of chaotic enumeration where his dexterous and resourceful rhythms overcome the flat, monodical flow of apparently run-on phrases. In our heads we say no to North Africans with languid eyes Sleep is what wakes us and we dont buy Automat Today after swats that lit up the night the flies are unsure of themselves For one, over-long moment we stop to hear the thud on the pavement of an over-ripe fig, the putrid splash of the wheels The sparrows wallowing in their puddles seem amused and, in the murk, we envy their chirping.

But dont talk to the computer about it! Stressed, we punch the keys to forget the impotent rage of our disguises Weariness The full moon plumb over the trailers that extend the night. We masters of the dark, hushed Feet sodden with dew we slither back home to shut the blinds, light a lamp, look each other in the eye: no one dares speak of going to bed. In an ample anthology of works in print was published by Scheiwiller, with the addition of the section Laudario , which assembles the texts subsequent to Carta laniena , and an unpublished poem written in The volume is edited and prefaced by Franco Brevini.

He died suddenly in Numana in the summer of Mondadori published posthumously the book of poems El sol. In this sense dialect is seen as a metaplasm of language, alien to any aesthetics of the untranslatable. The model for this operation was presumably offered to him by a popular sixteenth-century poet of the Marche, Olimpio da Sassoferrato Franco Brevini, in Poeti dialettali del Novecento , Einaudi, Scataglini has a very personal ability to cross the boundaries of reality without escaping it, forcing to the utmost the contours of the image, expanding them, and at the same time corroding its core, its inner center, so that it may open to the air and burn in the air.

Towards her I lean through an ancient obedience with the gloomy mien of one becoming immanence. Essentially, sex is a seeming allegory: you can find a nexus only with deathly misery. Look at me hit the ground: breathless, I agonize like a reeling bloodhound lost amid the ice. Raso: abbattuto. Translated by Luigi Bonaffini El cardo sui grepi o cavedane! Cavedane: strade campestri. Translated by Luigi Bonaffini Su la neve De gravi rami in schianto luntani soprasalti.

From buckling heavy branches faraway anxieties. Is this, my love, the way one dies of completion broken, side by side, inside their own windbreakers? Strama: lacera da Laudario The Whip On the spent docks the rusted whip of a tackle rips the silence vapors in the distant whir of motors. Translated by Luigi Bonaffini El sol I. Svetava soverchiante come una torre altera la grande ciminiera fino a luntane piante. Trebiatrici per aie, da longo, colonie, barconi in mezo a scie de svolazate paie. Piccola fabbrica non lungi da Chiaravalle, in aperta campagna. Smantellata dai tedeschi nel , ne restano desolate vestigia.

The long shiver of the call runs through the people inside the waiting room. On the side, a few countenances, all of submissive lives wearing clean clothes contrite farmers in reticent shadows wives in the corner of the waiting room outside, the calash with puppets painted on its flanks, desolate in their vilified happy bloom. Local whistle trains. The great chimney soared high like another lofty proud tower up to the distant trees.

Water down in the gorge the attending murmur flees beyond the patch of elm trees that came out clean and purged from the cast iron gratings of the Sol the whine of black factories, turbines. Unshared, outlying was a large villa the swallows fell in swarms on the white hawthorns. A Small factory not far from Chiaravalle, in the open countryside.

Dismantled by the Germans in , only desolate traces of it remain. The text recalls a summer spent by the author in those places as a boy. Leonardo Mancino Born in Camerino Macerata in Leonardo Mancino Essential Critical Bibliography. Paglia, in AA. E che ce pensi E ci pensi E ci pensi che qualcuno - come si vorrebbe - ci ha preceduto sulla strada che andiamo percorrendo con tutta la fatica necessaria. Su questo palco ormai fradicio e vecchio che non si regge in piedi sempre ti ci devi muovere.

  1. Sea Routes To The Gold Fields - The Migration By Water To California In 1849-1852?
  2. Take-off;
  3. La globalisation et les pays en développement. : Marginalisation et espoir (Questions contemporaines) (French Edition).
  4. La grammatica di Dio. Storie di solitudine e allegria;
  5. Anche morire se necessario. And Do You Think And do you think how someone preceded us on the road that we keep walking on with all the strain it takes. On this rickety stage barely standing now rotted and old you must make your way. Even die. People look at you with baleful eyes, the clothes are as torn as the years, as the little heart we still have left.

    At the corner of the eye tangled fears when you ask yourself why. Nel giardino. In the Garden In the flower garden the poison of sea fragrance grows like a ghost in the night the eye fixes the pupil seems a throbbing dilated abyss on the realm of sweet bewildered dreams the word constantly invoked keeps saying like a chant a verse Lettera del figlio. Vedi la casa. Vedi la casa nascondersi dietro le braccia degli alberi alla campagna. Dal ballatoio sulle scale sembra di vedere una figura che si allontana e poi sfuma: se ci fai caso attentamente somiglia alla sagoma di una madre eguale alle altre, a tutte, che di riflesso spia il destino nella sua stessa immagine.

    Senti un lamento di un cane vecchio che muore. He lives in Perugia. Ponti , by Giuseppe Giacalone , ; Idillio e catastrofe. Poesie , and is interested in art criticism he has edited at least twenty exhibits. Mazzamuto, Palermo, As a dialect poet since , he appears in Umbria by P. Some of his poems were included in the anthology Fiori di San Valentino. The poems here included are unpublished. Ponti the man has a serious notion of life, a pessimistic conception of the world, but Ponti the poet almost always succeeds in transcribing his inner feelings into a cold and calculated style, as if it were a defense mechanism against his suffering.

    A way of writing cold what one feels hot, a way of laughing at his own pain, as a way of overcoming the pain. But in reality he holds man responsible for his pain, because humanity, from a social point of view, does nothing to make life less miserable. Vivaldi, Poesia dialettale dal Rinascimento ad oggi , cit. Follia paesana. But what have you got inside your head? To drive me crazy? E caloia de fantignole e merolla sdirinate. Cuore dolce. And flashes of fits and wornout marrow.

    Sowing pegs and reaping puddles. Never feeling quite right your whole life long. Nevica da mille ore. And I am dozing off in a needle shaft of moonlight that colors all it touches like a crayon made of sun. Quando rischiara. Holding a literature degree, he taught in secondary schools. Prose: Un regno e un regno Milan, ; Apologhi a Pietro Foggia, ; Le piccole patrie Pescara, ; Viva la guerra Bari, ; Concerto sul colle Chieti, ; He also wrote a few small volumes of essays and satirical and parodic verse : Poesia in forma di cosa?

    Pescara, ; Un uomo sfinito Lanciano, ; Minime della notte Chieti, Ha published books of narrative for secondary schools and edited anthologies. He was the editor of Dimensioni and Questar te He is the general secretary for the international prize Ennio Flaiano. The texts that follow are unpublished. The dialect of Giuseppe Rosato, as is the case with the content of the poems and the themes developed, displays totally unconventional registers and cadences, which arise from remote, intimate, personal echoes, and establish him not as the bard of a people, but as the voice of a contemporary consciousness that utilizes dialect for its discrete charm, for its exclusive resources and for the malleability and expressiveness of certain extraordinary structures.

    The selection of poems does not exceed the number of fingers of both hands, yet it permits a discourse that is worth carrying out and it refers to the use of dialect in poetry Rosato goes back to a precise condition of poetry consecrated by dialect. Yet she goes to meet the sun: what death could be more beautiful?

    To be able to believe there is a rising east that waits for us as well as for the last moon of September, a morning filled with light in another world that lies behind the night The dark will swallow us, and afterwards there is no striving and there is no need, there is no curve of moon or spread of stars, there is no sky, there is no anything.

    E finalmente, dice. Ma le pinze? Mi riposo But what are you really thinking? And where is all such contentment after all? E ti stai zitto. Now you can cry oh mamma all you like but who will listen, who will pity you? So you keep quiet. Hi has been living in Florence since His work has been translated into various languages and he has in turn translated La muerte a Beverly Hills by P.

    The poems presented here are unpublished. I received his small book Come nu suonne with a sense of happy wonderment. His poems are pleasing and precious, and are written in that beautiful language of central Italy that awakens so many echoes of the poetry from which our Italian language was born. A very tender poetry, that employs to great effect a simple, limpid way of approaching things. Franco Loi I read with great interest his poems of Vecchie parole.

    It seems to me that a magic lyricism makes perfect use of dialect in order to reinvent occasions of places and moments of days and seasons, achieving an extraordinary intensity and originality. Giorgio Barberi Squarotti I thank you for the gift of Vecchie parole that I read with great pleasure: reconciliation and harmony of religious spirit and natural elements imbued with a similar soul; profound, age-old language that you execute with great skill and restraint, but that above all you do not betray by deforming it with thoughts and sentiments which do not belong to it, as is customary nowadays.

    I am more and more convinced that dialectality is an inner category. Uccelli di maggio. Fiori di neve. Snowflowers Snowflowers in the window and outside, stretching to the limits of the world, the bewildered field just yesterday a snarl of leaves a coating of rust on the sky now a glitter of glass tinted ashy January gray that on some nights brings a silence like a gnawing like an icy embittered moon in the heart. Ma ora so che non posso. But Now I Know I Cannot Do it I used to believe that it was possible to come back to this height, where the giddiness of memory breathes life again into faraway dreams, and on that path I taste you once more as I did before, fragrant and hot, like bread fresh from the oven.

    And it is late, and always growing later, and narrow, and interminable, the way. Mi ha ucciso la luna. I Was Murdered by the Moon Heart in pieces and the years pressing like a packsaddle, I await the withering of the last rose on the hedges, blind to every hope, persuaded only by the nothingness there is. His poems have appeared i various anthologies and in journals such as Paragone , Salvo imprevisti , Tracce , Gradiva , Lengua, Tratti e altre. These texts were born after a period of meager and uncertain practice with dialect.

    On the creative level, the speech of the Frentan area, and in particular that of Lanciano, paralyzed me: I passively felt its fascination, but was unable to go beyond a series of quotations — or at most of brief insertions — in an Italian context. It was therefore inevitable that I would eventually dare to immerse myself totally in this language, which I felt was extremely expressive, rich with a remote music, dead to the world of modern communication but mysteriously alive as a biological event. At this point I was obliged to give in to that semiconscious wave that was swelling, to recover its transgressive and atemporal force, to recreate it through archaic gulps, agglutinations and linguistic rasps, setting aside all constraints and false parallels with Italian.

    Where has it plunged us, what good does it blow this great wind rising over mouldy days this empty idle chattering of chickens this rolling of the intoxicated sky this mouth of petroleum that swallows up the sea: these putrid leaves, these leaves that gut the face of the scarred and disembowelled earth. You inflame me: who are you.

    Gazzetta Codici Sconto

    But to the bottom of a pan, to capsize like a wreck there, pours the devil of my revel and the levelled quickened oil. Goodreads helps you keep track of books you want to read. Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Other editions. Enlarge cover. Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Storie di solitudine e allegria by Stefano Benni. Details if other :. Thanks for telling us about the problem.

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