La stella più bella (filastrocca rap) - (Libro illustrato per bambini) (Italian Edition)

Nicotera dagli albori al XX secolo

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She did not move as any mortal thing but like angelic dawn, nor were her words dull sounding like a human, they seemed to sing like one celestial spirit, sun struck wings had touched her soul and voice which I irst heard and had they not, my wound would lose its sting. Cerulean edges of her violet dress, conceal her fair shoulders scattered with roses uniquely beautiful aura, novel guise. Fame still proclaims that her sweet scented breast in Arabian mountains hides and poses yet she lies so haughtily through our skies. What helmsman could steer his precious ship through tides as I have done, never afraid to wrestle the currents or cliffs, guiding my frail vessel amidst the battering blows of her harsh pride?

And yet this rain of tears and fearsome winds of ininite sighs now drive my vessel on throughout my sea of winter and horrid night bestowing tedium to her, aches and chagrin to itself, nothing else, vanquished by strong sea surfs disarming sails to ungoverned might. Oh night, worthy of praise by the highest and keenest of minds, not by my ecstasy. You brought him back to me with tenderness the one who each joy of mine has governed disarmed my doubts, dissolving all stubborn remains of bitterness with sheer sweetness.

My game and my every delight consist of living ire and never feeling pain, of never caring if he who causes this relents the vehemence of his domain. Soon after the irst lame had burned away, then Love lit up another, which I feel with more intensity and greater sway. A ire just like the irst I feel; if this, in such tight space, is now the case I fear it will be greater than the other. What can I do, if burning is my appeal, if voluntarily I consent to taste ill after ill, one ire after another?

Durling, Harvard University Press, Annotazioni di Daniele Ponchiroli. Torino, Einaudi, , pp. She has published essays of literary criticism in Critical Companion to J. Her work displays a full range of emotion as she reacts to challenges she faced as an orphan, wife, mother and widow. Her immediacy of voice and personal subject matter create not only an unprecedented feel for the struggles of women of her historical period, but also relect a sensibility almost modern in its confessional tone.

Rime spirituali sopra i Misteri del Santissimo Rosario Roma: Molinelli, ; enlarged During the next twelve years, Turini Bufalini continued to write and revise this work, which she describes in two sonnets3 as providing her with an outlet for her creativity as well as with much-needed consolation throughout her dificult life. At the time of her death in , however, the poem remained unpublished. Over the centuries, the text of Il Florio was believed lost until, in the s, a manuscript was located among the family archives at the Bufalini castle in San Giustino Umbria.

I am greatly indebted to Professor Antonio Lanza, Director of Letteratura Italiana Antica, for permission to reproduce the original, as well as for translation permissions. I extend my heartfelt thanks to Professor Natalia Costa-Zalessow San Fran- cisco State University , for her unlagging generosity in sharing her knowledge of Italian literary history with me.

Comment on the translation In Il Florio, Turini Bufalini utilizes ottava rima,6 the traditional stanza form of Italian narrative poetry, to recreate the story of two young innamorati, Florio and Biancoiore, as they labor to overcome obstacles to their love. I was, however, labbergasted at her extensive use of text-within-text technique in the selection that follows. The two letters between the lovers, inserted verbatim into the narrative frame, heighten the realism and the emotional charge of the exchange and allow for close reader involvement.

Similar authors to follow

Ariosto does not show a response letter from Bradamante. Turini Bufalini, moreover, shows a response letter from Biancoiore comprising an additional fourteen stanzas nos. The two letters in Il Florio thus total an astonishing lines of text-within-text. Although Turini Bufalini may not have been the irst to employ the technique, we are nonetheless seeing in her Canto XVI an early and signiicant use of meta-narration.

On the one hand, I wanted my target language to capture the emotional spontaneity expressed in the letters of the young lovers. On the other hand, I vowed to keep faith with the formal metrics of the ottava and its elegant tone. The exciting atmo- sphere of a medieval tale—replete with chivalric knights, distressed damsels, court intrigues and feats of derring-do—demanded a broad action vocabulary.

To parallel the hendecasyllabic lines of the original with stanzas that gallop forward, I charged ahead with iambic pentameter, the preferred meter of narrative verse in English. To run the end-rhyme gauntlet, I relied on my anglophone steed, well equipped with slant rhyme, to echo the musical ring of the original when I did not have a full rhyme sound at the ready.

To capture spontaneity, I reached for idiomatic expressions. Conversely, by inverting word order and pinning down a few archaisms here and there, I hoped to render some historical atmosphere and to move the translation closer to the source text. To pay homage to the prosodic features of the original, I matched consonance and internal rhyme wherever I could. We come upon the scene with Florio in the distant city of Montorio, where he has been sent by his parents, the king and queen, in an effort to separate the lovers.

Florio believes that Bian- coiore has jilted him for Fileno, an errant knight just arrived from Marmorina seat of the court where Biancoiore remains. The truth is that Biancoiore, against her will, was commanded by the queen to do so after Fileno won a tournament at court. Now alone, Florio denounces Biancoiore as unfaithful seeing the veil as proof of her betrayal , and threatens to turn his sword against himself. Franc- esca Turini Bufalini, Autobiographical Poems: Translations by Joan E. Mancini and Glenn Palen Pierce Detroit: In sonnets numbered and , Turini Bufalini directly addresses the title character, Florio, of her eponymous narrative work, declaring to him that writing has remained her only consolation refugio through years of grief.

Not quite twenty-one years old, she married Count Giulio Bufalini then seventy years of age. With professional military duties in Rome, Giulio was absent for long periods. She subsequently gave birth to two sons and a daughter but was widowed at age thirty. Her maternal love and devotion, evident throughout her poems, is later coupled with the lament of not enjoying a reciprocal affection. Her sons, upon reaching manhood, quarreled with her over money and litigated formally against her and against one another, as Giulio, the eldest, would retain future right of inheritance to the castle, whereas Ottavio, his younger brother, only the right to reside there.

At age sixty-one, because of family discord, she left Umbria for Rome to take a post in the Colonna household as lady- in-waiting to the duchess, Lucrezia Tomacelli Colonna. She returned to Umbria only upon the death of Tomacelli in Directed by Antonio Lanza. This international journal is dedicated to texts and studies on Italian literature and is available for purchase on the internet. For a discussion of the form, see: Casa Editrice Le Lettere, For a short synopsis of the Filocolo, see: Giovanni Boccaccio, Antologia delle opere minori volgari, a cura di Giuseppe Gigli.

Nuova presentazione di Vittore Branca Firenze: Revered for his narrative poems, principally Gerusalemme Liberata pub. Turini Bufalini may have known Tasso personally during her residency in Rome at the Colonna household. My thanks go again to Professor Costa-Zalessow for indicating these passages to me. In Greek myth, the souls of the newly dead were required to drink from the waters of Lethe a river of Hades , which aided them to achieve complete forgetfulness of their mortal past before entering the underworld. In Greek myth, the god of dreams who, as a son of Hyp- nos Sleep , assumes the form of humans when visiting mortals during sleep.

He is often accompanied by his brothers Icelus who personiies beasts, birds, serpents and Phantasus who transforms himself into rocks, water, woods and inanimate objects along with 1, other male siblings in order to enact the dream. O mio dolore intenso, smisurato! O me infelice sopra gli altri amanti! O senza alcuna colpa abbandonato!

O mia dura sventura! Jealousy Canto XVI Oh wretched me, more so than other lovers! Oh guiltless, thrust aside upon no grounds! Oh thing yet unseen in this universe! Oh my hard luck! Then by such wrath, by such a frenzy grasped, since to his clamor Death turned a deaf ear , furious now, in hand his sword he clasped, her gift to him in times far happier: Throughout his dream rested the unsheathed sword that he had drawn to run through his own breast, such was the reasoning so twisted, crude, against himself, its harm to manifest. But like a shield, hope lent him fortitude.

Without you I am good for naught, and neither would I live on: Io solo odio e disamo, per te, me stesso: Nothing can alter my desire—not fate, place, time, Fortune; neither can Love nor Death! Oh stars, you witnesses of my hard plight, reveal how I so fail and furthermore may die of keeping faith to cruel degrees with those nocturnal trysts and mournful cries!

I alone hate and eschew myself for you, though death I would receive! Ed ei risponde al domandar di quella: My right hand, poised for death to end my grief, clutches the sword. Write as my obsequy: The hurt he felt so struck his heart, so rent, he thought his certain death drew very near. Within the paper, his complaints he folded and called a servant, one faithful and shrewd, In conidence to him, the prince reprised: Be there by dark, and seek out Biancoiore.

Hand her this envelope and wait, and then with her response hurry back here again! Bending to the importance of the charge, the servant swiftly takes leave of his lord and gets there on the double, for his passage and pace with loyalty and trust he spurred. Soon as the damsel spies the messenger, who of their love was entirely aware , she brightens, summons sweet words to inquire: From me, the reason for his pain is hidden, and why he leads a life so sorrow-laden.

Soon as she learned of all he would infer in what he wrote and what he left untold , and of his indignation and his anger— that his heart was by Jealousy controlled— cold fear, martyring anguish to endure, gripped her at heart and instantly took hold. Those pages would have burned from sighs so searing, had not her tears kept them from disappearing! Repeatedly between choked sobs and tears, having read what he wrote, and read again, seeing fault of lovers ingenuous!

As long as breath and life in me be found, let not Love pierce me with another wound! As this, my soul, within my lesh so frail, is spoil to dart diverse. Love cannot slay my breast that loves and prizes you alone , lest with your beauty his darts he would hone. To unravel our love she made provision and wove with craft, and perhaps proited. So cruel is she! By her I was betrayed, and by you, too, falling for traps she laid!

Heaven well sees that when you sought your leave from me, my life turned hard, for I without a heart remained!

BUY ON AMAZON'S NEVER EASY

You plucked it from my person when you abandoned me to pain, cruel one! By calling me ungrateful you then ind aire anew a means to skirt my blame! Prendi pur qual tu vuoi dubbiosa strada: Mancar si sente in tal dolor la vita e la faccia ha tutta di pianto aspersa.

Constant I know you; know, too, that a love constant for you does Biancoiore have! To live and die with you do I aspire! Let not that crude steel blade to you lay claim and cover you with an eternal shame! Go follow any dubious path you will: So pained, she felt that life itself receded, her face wholly awash in tearful sprays. Her pages folded, she expertly brought together and entwined the wax and knot. Those crimson lips now parched from such distress, with her plentiful tears did she, the damsel, moisten the gem in order to impress her image, lovely, proud, upon the seal.

Then, perturbed by an anger amorous, to carry back her answer does she call the messenger. Devoted, bowing low, off like an arrow shot straight does he go. Ha pubblicato diversi romanzi, narrative di viaggi e racconti sia in italiano che in inglese, tra i quali Tiro al piccione , ristampa , Peccato originale , Biglietto di terza , ristampa , Una posizione sociale , ristampa col titolo La stanza grande, , Grafiti , Molise Molise , Il tempo nascosto tra le righe , Detroit Blues , e i romanzi in inglese Benedetta in Guysterland , premio American Book Award, , Accademia , Il paese di Nonsisadove - romanzo telematico, websito arscomica.

Non ne capii molto, ma tre parole strane, belle, incomprensibili mi affascinarono: Leo Spitzer, Martin de Riquer, T. Bergin, Salvatore Battaglia e, ultimamente, Robert Lafont. Il Lafont, che basa il suo studio sul testo manoscritto C della Biblioteca Nazionale di Parigi, che io seguo, ne fa una panoramica: Die Melodien der Troubadours. Fernandez de la Cuesta, Ismael. New Haven and London, Studi in onore di Angelo Monteverdi.

La lingua dei trovatori. In Praise of Love. Van der Werf, Hendrik. 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, Her compendium, On Prejudice: 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. 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. Sonetti americani per mio padre —per Donato Giosefi: 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. 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.

Programma di sabato 2 settembre 2017

Mi riempisti di orgoglio e tenacia di immigrante. 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. When they laughed, I learned I had a pen for a tongue that could please.

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. Ebreo, Polacco, Romania, omosessuale 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: Near Bari and Brindisi where the ferry has travelled the Adriatico, to and from Greece for centuries. Il cupo desiderio di vivere e vivere presto, di farla inita con la morte e la voglia appagata di stare morti per sempre chiedendoci: 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. 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: 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.

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 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. 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 wish and hope they think: 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?

Desidero e spero che pensino: Ora mi sento meno sola. 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: His collected poetry came out as Bestemmia: 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. 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.

Le ceneri di Gramsci Although it has to face Harsh weather, the history of this soil is sweet Between these walls and oozes with a trace Of different soil and in its dampness meets Another dampness; these echoes bring back — Familiar from the latitudes replete With English woods that coronet the lakes Misted by sky beside the meadows green As phosphorescent billiard tables Or emeralds: Severe, non-Catholic, elegant as song.

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: Come i poveri povero, mi attacco come loro a umilianti speranze, come loro per vivere mi batto ogni giorno.

Ma nella desolante mia condizione di diseredato, io possiedo: 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 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 intorno ronza di lietezza lo sterminato strumento a percussione del sesso e della luce: 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. In those far-off souls That laugh and shout as they drive off, you feel The life in those impoverished houses Where they fritter away the fruitless, real But expansive gift of life: 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. Sul cippo si leggono solo le parole: 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: 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?

It is now a protected archaeological site. She lived many years in Rome and now resides in Manhattan. As one critic, Luigi Picchi, succinctly put it, describing his poetry: 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. I include one of the best of his early poems about the atomic threat that became our nuclear threat: 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 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. IX Lasciati guardare senza amore: Like the cuttleish in defense, squeezing, using itself up, I know the costly art of the fugue in darkness. IX Go on, get stared at without love: 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! 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. A little Middle Eastern joke of my own. 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. At dinner we joke about a promise unfulilled: Off with rings, off with shoes! We need to breathe deeply. Let others make plans. 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.

Journal of Italian Translation, Vol. VIII, No. 1, Spring | Luigi Bonaffini - www.farmersmarketmusic.com

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 pubblicato numerose opere poetiche: Ha scritto anche un pezzo per il teatro, Il cofanetto Spagnuolo ha ricevuto diversi primi premi in concorsi letterari: 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.

Treacherous doubts that once vanished to hazard away hours and evanescences, a grain separating the ruins of stars. Monotony is dark and unbending, a light whisper describing desires by requesting your sulking gaze, your every change deepening the wrinkles that will remain, conserving distances. In , she pub- lished Sweet Fire: After teaching in Istanbul, Turkey, from , she became interested in translating Turkish as well as Italian poetry.

Thanks, with particular gratitude, to Dr. Triplett, Librar- ian of the New York Public Library, Rare Books Division, without whose knowledgeable professional assistance this work would not have been possible. Ziegler also answered essential scholarly questions. Divise In Cinque Libri Venice: Gabriel Giolito de Ferrari et Fratelli, Penelope was a benefactor of this learning; apparently, so was Muzio.

In a letter to Antonio Mezzabarba, he explains that he depicts Tullia as the nymph Tirrhenia, and — at her request — as Thalia, the comic muse. Twice ined, she had refused to wear the sign of the courtesan. The Cardinal and Giulia shared two residences: Luigi did not live to enjoy the fruits of his labors; his death in left Giulia and Tullia in a precarious social and inancial position. Had clergymen been allowed to marry, Tullia might have been spared the poverty and loss of innocence she laments in the preface to her epic. Her life was marked by the tension between the label cortigiana courtesan and her aspiration to become a cor- tigiano courtier.

She inally succeeded on the merits of her poetry and philosophy. Proicient in Latin, it was said that she could argue in that language. Muzio manages to skirt the issue of the family iction by em- phasizing the maternal nature of the bond. He does, however, portray his beloved Tullia as someone whose guidance beneits those creative souls who learn from her, himself included.

The selless care and diligent dedication that recall the highest calling of an educator are embodied in the highly original portrait and in this uncommon, early use of the word maestro in the feminine — maestra. In reinventing the classical idea of paideia, Muzio creates a subtle shift, from the Greek practice of the older male patron of a male pupil — to a familial, female, version of paideia. This home- schooled family education brings us back to the Greek root paidi child. The pastoral eclogue is an archaic form that nevertheless resonates with emotional immediacy.

All we have is her epitaph and this poem. Here she lies, until the resurrection of Christ. In the year of our Lord, , the 1st day of February. This she did at the age of thirteen years, ten months, and twenty days. For him, the earth-nymphs weave a broad crown on earth and in the water, and the sylvan gods surround him, silent and reverent.

Et non sofferse ingiusto fato, Che pervenir potesse al mezo giorno; Anzi al primo apparir cadde dal cielo. Et in un punto le nemiche stelle Posto han ine al piacere, al foco, al canto. O death, bitter unyielding death, how you have reduced us to shadows and to suffering. Would that she could reach midday, and not suffer so unjust a fate, that, at her irst blazing-forth, she should fall from the sky. Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Refresh and try again. To add more books, click here.

Just a moment while we sign you in to your Goodreads account. Rate this book Clear rating 1 of 5 stars 2 of 5 stars 3 of 5 stars 4 of 5 stars 5 of 5 stars. Want to Read saving… Error rating book. Betta la barchetta va dal dottore by Silvano Martina it was amazing 5. Il lupo e la volpe by Silvano Martina really liked it 4. Chi ha paura del buio?

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