Le verdi dimore ancora sussurrano pace (Italian Edition)

No problems sir…sure no problems mi guardo intorno. Look sir , many bats! Oh cristo anche i pipistrelli ci sono e grandi pure. Su forza On y va!

Massimo Rossi

I pipistrelli dormono beati riscendiamo le scale molto lentamente. Like Us On Facebook. Categorie Articoli La poesia della settimana. I testi che compaiono nel sito italian-poetry. Tutti i diritti sono riservati. The texts are reported in the site italian-poetry. These are authors who deserve to be read for what distinguishes them individually as poets, beyond what they might have in common as migrant writers, although they inevitably share many stylistic and thematic traits, even though that part of Italian literature which is a poetry of migration continues to indicate and guarantee, on the flip side, the common peculiarities mentioned before.

It is a question of listening to the single voices without missing the choral harmony, of appreciating every single sound with an ear to the combinatory possibilities that enrich the global musical symmetry. Author of narrative and poetry, her texts, often of a hybrid type, are strongly influenced by African and Brazilian oral tradition. Brazilian literature was at the core of her university studies. That is why some of the texts are in the early stages, almost unexploded. They can only be defined as texts between prose and poetry.

As for the subject matter and style I was deeply influenced by Brazilian Cordel literature on which I wrote my college thesis and by which I was immediately fascinated, along with oral Somalian poems that were recited so often during weddings and feasts in general. I wanted to meld together the voices I was listening to and try to render them in a text that would in some way render that mysterious aura that seemed to emanate from popular poetry. At first, in fact, writing seemed to me almost an act of arrogance. I hoped that by retracing the footsteps of anonymous poets, I would somehow erase any hint of narcissism.

How to reconcile, however, the desire for anonymity and orality with the urban reality in which we live? Hasan Al Nassar was born in in Ur, Iraq. A political refugee in Italy since , he received a degree in History of Islamic Countries from the University of Florence, where he lives. His poetry stretches on the cadences of Oriental speech, in long poems rich with dilated images nourished by an enduring pain, that erupts in the constant and repeated presence of fiery epiphanies: Anahid Baklu is Iranian, and in her country she began to publish at a very early age and was well received critically.

For years in political exile, she has recently begun to live between Rome, Teheran and New York, imbuing her poetry with the thematic and linguistic encounter between mirror images. In her unmistakably feminine verses the elegance of a very ancient, deeply assimilated tradition unfolds in terse and limpid verses, the light of the Roman horizon that illuminates a veiled sensuality: Both evince a wild and unsettling humour, that upends with its light touch the strong political and social undercurrent of commitment and denunciation: A poet who writes in a number of languages—Dutch, English, French— besides Italian, de Vos finds in poetry a form of reparation and refuge from the ills of the world.

Struck by the beauty of men and things, poetry extorts from him, as if under torture, confessions that lend themselves to wrong interpretations, causing further wounds. The conflicting relationship with the reader inspires de Vos to take often refuge in remote epochs and cultures, in which poets expressed the same problems congenial to him: The years spent in Tunisia have contributed to the enrichment of the poetic range of this poet known for his celebration of poverty in all its forms, considered as the only way to sublimate his own misery and that of the world.

Born in Albania, a political exile since , in he won the Montale Poetry Prize with the unpublished collection Corpo presente Present Body , and is now considered one of the foremost poets in Italian of his generation. His poems have been translated into Greek and English, and he translates himself into Albanian, finding every time in the pain of self- conversion his own divided and exponentially renewed soul.

With the novel Io, venditore di elefanti I, Seller of Elephants , written in the early nineties in collaboration with the journalist Oreste Pivetta, Pap Khouma in a certain sense inaugurated with a few other authors, the chapter of the Italophone literature of migration. Published by an important publisher like Garzanti, the novel has had wide resonance and has opened a debate whose importance the dominant culture has not been able to gauge by placing it in a wider context than that of immigration, or by judging it through literary parameters.

Thus, in a short time the alliance between this newborn Italophone literature and national publishers has dissolved, along with the means for its diffusion. His inventive narrative, so steeped in the human condition, is counterbalanced by a poetry indelibly marked by the experience of jail and torture to which he was subjected in his country, where pain is the primary protagonist, narrative voice and subject of narration, without any more indulgence or possibility for redemption: His name is tied above all to narrative, but his poetry, even if quantitatively less substantial, nevertheless holds an important place in his work.

Strongly influenced by North American poetry—Monteiro Martins began teaching creative writing at the University of Iowa in the late seventies—he has been affected by the numerous literary encounters that have marked his cultural journey as a migrant, as he himself attests: Then, in my early adolescence, there were the great Brazilian poets, later the Portuguese and, right after, the Hispanic American. Brazilian literature shares with Italian literature a common Mediterranean feeling—Blaise Cendras said that the Mediterranean began in Turkey and ended in Rio de Janeiro—,the Graeco-Roman heritage, a privileged attention to the pleasures of the flesh, bedroom or kitchen, and the Latin language, that surprisingly has in many respects remained more intact in Portuguese than in Italian, isolated in that Atlantic limb of Europe for twenty centuries.

He was born in in Ilanga, where he began to write his first protest poems, and now lives in Rome. His relationship with Italy is all expressed in these verses: The poetry of Afro-Italians—and I refer in particular to authors coming from Cameroon, Nigeria, Somalia, Senegal, Ethiopia and Eritrea — the countries of the African continent that more than the rest have contributed poets who choose to write in Italian—is characterized by the choice of precise themes, expressed with a nearly uniform psychological and stylistic disposition.

Fundamentally, it is the weight of the history of colonization in the consciousness of the African people, and the artists in particular, who voice the discomfort, the pain and the abuses, the mutilations, in order to remember forcefully what has been taken away, denied, humiliated, and to claim their rights, in the past and present, the dignity of a people and a culture.

The liberation must happen here and now, it cannot be deferred, and literature and poetry are the instruments to attain it. Vittore whom Oliveira loved to quote: May God not wish it. Writing is for her a way of giving a name to things: Candelaria Romero was born in Buenos Aires in Her parents, both of them writers, became political exiles in Sweden with the whole family.

Her passion for literature, the theater in particular, grew in an environment of reviews and intercultural literary discussions, and she is still active in the theater as an actress and author in Italian, after moving to Bergamo in One enters her poems as if they were the house of her childhood, inhabited daily by poetically familiar words: Barbara Serdakowski was born in Poland and spent her childhood in Morocco. She emigrated to Canada, and then resided for different periods in various parts of the world.

She has been living in Florence for the last seven years with her husband, a Venezuelan artist. Her linguistic identity is fragmented into the many languages of her cultural stays: Polish, French, English, Spanish, and since , finally, Italian. The result is a multilingual and multi-focus poetry, which she explains this way: Until I was writing in many languages and then I would translate everything into one, generally French. At a certain point I decided to stop, I rebelled.

One of the objectives is not to get rid of my words. Allowing my translation to penetrate poetry, that latter will always remain, even if in decorative form. My poetry is like my life until today, mobile, and it can be penetrated by any other language.

My poetry remains open to contamination, a word that has aspects I do not share, a word of love and hate, but contamination with all the other languages is really what I am looking for. Decidedly new, in fact, is the form of elegiac short poem, often centering on a single situation or character, with very long verses interwoven with cultured references and colloquial speech, neologisms and flights of the imagination of extraordinary poetic intensity.

All this constantly under the command of a gentle and self-ironic gaze that looks at the world with a biting and sorrowful pietas. Born in Bosnia in , with a degree in English and German from the University of Belgrade, he studied history of theater in Berlin and now lives and works in Venice. She lived in Mogadishu from to , when she was forced to flee with the outbreak of civil war. Poesia della migrazione in italiano On the Boundaries of Verse. In she published the novel Madre piccola Little mother, Milan, Frassinelli Almost all of us were Italian- Somalian students and used mainly Italian to communicate, although we all spoke Somalian to various degrees.

The context was rather limited and the spoken language lexically poor, often rich with neologisms and constructions reminiscent of the other language. I really loved to read, I devoured all the books written in Italian that I was able to find in the poorly stocked libraries. I experienced a sensation of estrangement toward the world around the school, which continued when I met Somalian friends and relatives to whose group I tried my best to belong. I listened to stories and song in the desperate attempt to become familiar with them. It seemed that no place was really mine. Writing and using Italian in the way in which I had interiorized it, in the attempt to reconcile a language I had only read with the sounds and structures of Somalian, was somehow a way to reinvent a world to which I finally felt I belonged, to take back everything that could not coexist in reality.

Io conobbi per incanto Un giovane ambizioso Che per amore mi condusse Nella dimora fresca e pura. Alas, misfortune the most coveted privilege Not a solitary woman But with the flowering womb. I met through enchantment An ambitious young man who led me through love Into the fresh and pure home. My beloved did not want To leave me in misfortune. E dividemmo il piatto E vennero i nipoti. But one more than all the rest Entered my heart perhaps for his freshness perhaps for his sweetness. I see him now running Running through the field A stray bullet A red hibiscus on his chest. But the force of love Can save my boy Bring him with the plane Take him to his mother.

Quando ripenso al pensiero coniato per te, che ogni vita ha un senso, anche se sarebbe potuta andare meglio. Af Dabeyl, Af Dabeyl, quando nascesti a Eyl, il mare era calmo e la luna era crescente. Un uomo che nasce con tali segni ha un grande destino. Lo dissero tutti nel piccolo paese. Andasti nella capanna ancora piccino.

Come il vento fluivano le parole. Da allora sei Af Dabeyl. Ancor piccola le narravi di quando a piedi nella savana, raggiungevi la scuola per insegnare ai bambini a leggere. Di quando incontrasti il leone e pietrificato lo osservasti attraversare il tuo cammino. Bella storia per spaventare i bambini che vanno in giro da soli! Tu, Af Dabeyl, almeno avevi un fratello gigante. Lo chiamavano tutti Fudde, il possente, e quando attaccavi briga ti nascondevi dietro le sue spalle. Trascini ancora il piede sinistro. When I recall the idea coined for you, that every life has a meaning, even if it could have gone better.

We are all children of the wave. And I recall when you said that perhaps, the role of the Somalian intellectual was not really suited for you, that you would have fared better leading herds of camels in the North, in your small town. Af Dabeyl, Af Dabeyl, when you were born at Eyl, the sea was calm and the moon was rising. A man that is born with such signs has a great destiny. You went into the hut still a kid. With the wet coal you wrote the verses of the Koran on the wooden tablets. And from there resounded your melodious voice. Like the wind, the words flowed.

Since then you are Af Dabeyl. This Amina told to your daughter, adolescent mother, stronger than you, who are a man. And she murmured your name: Still small you would tell her about when on foot in the savanna, you walked to the school to teach children how to read. About when you met the lion and petrified, you observed it crossing your path.

But we have never been in the Northern lands, that we know how things have changed. Perhaps the lions are still there. Wonderful story to frighten the children that go around alone! You, Af Dabeyl, at least you had a giant brother.

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Everyone called him Fudde, the powerful one, and when you picked a quarrel you hid behind his shoulders. Since you broke your ankle, everyone took better care of you. You still drag your left foot. Avevi solo ventisette anni e il povero vecchio era quasi centenario. Tuo padre te le fece per ricordare.

Massimo ROSSI - Italian Poetry

Chi ha mandato il malocchio ad Af Dabeyl che si contorce per i crampi alla pancia? Forse una madre gelosa nel vedere tanta prodezza nel parlare? Bella maschera usare un oppositore politico per dare una parvenza di democrazia. Io non rubo, dicesti. Ti portavano in giro nei convegni internazionali per dar mostra della tua cultura, per far vedere che la Nazione aveva gente valida. Ti prestasti al compromesso. Era stato un modo per sopravvivere. Ora come riuscirai a sopravvivere? Il mare ti spinse fuori. Oh, Af Dabeyl, scintilla agile e lucente, volevi diventare una stella, ma brillasti invano.

You always loved Xush the Light so much, after you finished the university in Italy, while many others preferred to stay, you said you had to return, for your father, for your country. Then they say mother-land. You were only 27 years old and the poor old man was almost a hundred. He died when you were in jail. Do you remember those burns? Your father made them so you would remember. Who sent the evil eye to Af Dabeyl who writhes from the cramps in his stomach?

Maybe a jealous mother in seeing such boldness in talking? At least at the beginning was the sense of justice, now it is only desperation. Nice mask using a political opponent to give an appearance of democracy. What work do you do? They would take you around to international conferences in order to show your culture, in order to see the nation had worthwhile people. You lent yourself to compromise. Because already the cancer of alcohol gnawed at you. You were an Islamic extremist. It had been a way to survive. What euphoria when they bombed the city, the tyrant flees, death to Afweyne, this is the moment that I have awaited for twenty years.

The sea pushed you out. And now the sea has been made saltier by the tears you cried in exile in the cold waters of the North. Oh, Af Dabeyl, shining and lively spark, you wanted to become a star, but you shone in vain. Io, sulla camionetta sudicia e un involucro prezioso tra le braccia. Fissavo attonita i fucili appoggiati sulle spalle. Guerriglieri accompagnavano il nostro addio. E la sabbia ricopriva tutto.

Tra le dune scivolose, rare capanne. Uscivano gridando i bambini e le donne tendevano il braccio. Ne percepisco il sentore. Ora mi accorgo di avere le labbra salate. Fuggo dalla morte e la porto con me. Se non fosse per il viso sereno dei fanciulli. Ondeggia fluttuante come pesce marino, il mantello rosso. Ora stringo al petto il prezioso involucro. La libellula si alza. Mio padre gesticola frenetico. Ma non sento la sua voce. Vedo il guerrigliero con il mantello rosso. Forse ha diciotto anni. E nasconde il torace con il mantello rosso. Come il mantello rosso. E tiene il fucile a tracolla.

E vedo un lungo cordone di guerriglieri circondare la spiaggia. Poi al centro un mantello rosso. Che fluttua, si contorce, si allarga. I, on the dirty jeep and a precious package in my arms. Dazed, I stared at the rifles resting on their shoulders. Guerrillas accompanied our goodbye. And the sand covered everything. Among the slippery sand dunes, a few rare huts. Children came out screaming and women stretched out their arms. This is the last goodbye. I can feel it. Now I realize I have salty lips.

But the sky is clear, clean, pale-blue. I flee from death and I bring it with me. If it were not for the serene face of the children. And I see rusty and heavy, an obtuse warship. A guerrilla raises the red cloak to the wind, the other grabs two edges. The red cloak sways fluttering like a sea fish. And it rises, from the obtuse warship, a steel dragonfly. A few hours have passed since a tender pulsating creature emerged from my womb.

Now I squeeze the precious bundle to my chest. The dragon fly rises. My father gestures frantically. And I turn around. I see the guerrilla with the red cloak. Perhaps eighteen years old. And he hides his chest with the red cloak. Like the red cloak. He holds the rifle slung over his shoulder. But his smile is candid, open, innocent. In the dragonfly surrounded by steel walls, I look out for the last time.

And I see a long line of guerrillas surrounding the beach. Then at the center a red cloak. Sono di madre europea, questo mi distingue.

Attenta che ti strappi! Non sono pura, chiusa, bella. Quelle piccole labbra pendenti, sono brutte. Le gambe immobili, un fiore sul pube, un abito largo. Insetti prenderanno la mia mente? Ci laviamo con le altre donne. I miei figli sono i loro figli. Voglio tenere insieme tutti i pezzi. Senza di loro, vecchie ed adolescenti, storpie e bellissime, bianche e nere, io non esisto. I am of European mother, this makes me different. On the sand, among friends, I fall down split. Those little hanging lips are ugly. Xiran so proud, at the center of everyone. Will the winds ever take me as well?

Unhealthy breaths that rising through my guts. Will insects seize my mind? Will a mark on my body, unbalance me? We wash with the other women. My children are their children. I want to hold together all the pieces. Putting on a dress with the others. I am a woman as long as they exist. Saltella tra i binari e vaglia la palude della mente.

Isla hadle si sente espropriato. Camminava nella savana per andar a vendere perline ai turisti. Isla hadle veste ancora anni settanta. I pantaloni a zampa e i capelli crespi gonfi. Isla hadle ha deluso la povera sognatrice. Ha tanta compassione ancora. La voce fluente e i pensieri aggrovigliati.

He skips between the tracks and examines the swamp of his mind. He has a fracture that bleeds there between his ribs. And the pain is so sharp that it terrifies him to touch it. Isla hadle feels dispossessed. He walked in the savanna to sell beads to tourists. His father walked to lead his herds to pasture and from drought. But the bracelets bring in a lot, a lot more. Bell bottom pants and curly teased hair. He still wears a little gold chain given to him as a gift by a whorish aunt who knew whom to make deals with to send him to study abroad. He still has so much compassion.

Isla hadle wears leather sandals in the winter. The fluent voice and the entangled thoughts. I can no longer stand to see you unhappy. The trains come and go. Agronomo, allevava mucche e maiali. Ha risparmiato cinquantamila dollari per la salvezza dei fratelli. Per uno di loro ha comprato maschera e pinne e ora va per mare a pescare aragoste. Ma il dolore non ha senso. Il dolore colpisce a tradimento. Ci vuole molta calma e pazienza.

Devo capire e distinguere. Un troppo vasto margine di scelta mi uccide. Voglio vivere in solitudine e addestrare la mia anima. Voglio vivere in moltitudine e che con gli altri sia condivisione e vita. As an agronomist, he raised cows and pigs. Boots in the mud and a raincoat for the rain. He saved fifty thousand dollars to save his brothers. For one of them he bought a mask and fins and he now goes in the sea to fish for lobsters.

Another became rich dealing in sugar and milk. You should hold pain there and learn to bear it. You ought to rock it, caress it, so that it does not eat your heart out.

Much calm and patience is needed. When you want to talk about it you risk betraying it and then it grows bigger and it takes your breath away. If used with conscience pain is a privilege. Pain is illumination and catharsis. Then light can come in, but that, too, must be filtered, too much life could burn you. I must understand and classify. I see circular points.

A margin of choice too vast kills me. I want to live in solitude and train my soul.

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I want to live among multitudes and let there be sharing and life with the others. Only love can save me. Ti vedevo da lontano arrivare, con grossi libri di scuola, e correvo sempre gioiosa, con mani sporche di terra. And I was the most beautiful actress, I only lacked the hair, the long and raven-black hair of the sweet and distant Indian.

From a distance I would see you arrive, with big school books, and I always ran joyously, with hands dirty with earth. Ricordi di quando sul fuoco, preparai le anguille fumanti e rosse uova alla coque? E tu Nureddin sorridesti Vedrai tutte le amiche, come saranno invidiose. E tardi, verso il tramonto, rinchiusa in una piccola stanza, udii un canto dolcissimo, di donne che battevan le mani. Do you remember the time over the fire, I prepared the smoking eels and red egg a la coque? And you smiled, Nureddin. All that gold weighed heavily. And later, towards sunset, locked up in a small room, I heard a very sweet song, of women that clapped their hands.

I thought that it was already time: Ma subito mi videro le zie: But immediately my aunts saw me: Resign yourself today little one, for you can be a bride only once. It was thus that I saw you arrive, from a distance and the sun was red, Nureddin my most loved cousin and I had royal jewels and long raven-black hair. In Bagdad he published his first works of narrative and poetry, working as a journalist for various journals.

Currently, he is a member of the advisory board of the journal Al Mefiyon Exiles , published in Lebanon. In exile for many years, he now lives in Florence, where he graduated with a degree in the History of Islamic Countries at the School of Literature and Philosophy, after which he received a doctorate in research from the Oriental Institute at the University of Naples. His texts in Italian have come out in Eleusis, Varia, D. From what wound do we come, weak wayfarers? There is the whole globe of the earth over our blankets, our cities are under the lead tent.

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Vedo le donne nude come vetro roteare in danze funebri. Ci ammazziamo nel silenzio, odo candele livide nello specchio. The cold covers me with ice and in love you are my isolated lodging. In the forest the sparrows crash into me the wind and the storm crash into me but your face was beautiful in the window dust the rooms are white, the stone is like soap. I wait for your water you arrive where the night writes my silence and my drought.

Because museums have bastard padlocks and my years flow into the canals with quiet light for us stone is bread, dagger the water. I see women naked like glass panes whirling in funereal dances. In the feast of the happy butchers I see naked cities, I see a knife longer than our days, longer than the season of peace. We kill ourselves in silence, I hear livid candles in the mirror. Il tuo viso non lo vedo: From piazza santissima annunziata to the church of san marco the public bus crowns us with its smoke and I under the wall of rain the cry goes on behind the window of the trolley and there is another cry on the sidewalk I see naked cities.

I soldati del mio tormento, inerti, sono fili di vento e di neve Sono queste ombre volanti, questo brivido segreto nel corpo. Oh Eufrate di Nassiriya Nelle foreste, perseguitati dai trattori o dai grappoli dei fiori. The soldiers of my torment, inert, are wisps of wind and snow They are these flying shadows, this secret shiver in the body. They are this overturning in the land of paradise, they are those that slip a sail into the heart of hell.

Oh Euphrates of Nassiriya In the forests, pursued by tractors or by bunches of flowers. Ricordi il sale che ancora resta nel tuo bicchiere? Era questa la strada del riccio, lo stendardo della fame del lamento? Ogni volta tu canti per la gloria: I tuoi alberi erano orecchini con pietre di Gerusalemme: Do you remember the salt that is still left in your glass? Who will save the country then? Who will save the water? Who will pour the honey on the table or in the tea glasses in the afternoon?

And is this then the disappointment of the lesson of the living? And let the call of goodness rise virtuosly after your death, and let it make, in order to not forget, jewels of your dream! Was this the road of the chestnut husk, the banner of hunger of moaning? Every time you sing for glory: I fari del martire e le sue stelle sono le stelle della famiglia, i nostri vestiti sono intessuti della stoffa delle farfalle. Al mattino cantiamo con il nostro pianto prima degli uccelli dei vicini: That was the affection that lights the wings of water. Sono di ghiaccio le nostre cinture, si estende la nostra terra per ingravidarsi di fuoco.

And who among us knows the hour of night? Our belts are of ice, our land spreads to become pregnant with fire. Before they abandon the flesh Un palpito di violenza. A beat of violence. Amare la natura, gli ambienti, i paesaggi. Ascoltarne la voce, i sussurri. Conoscerne carattere, potenza creatrice, colori, rispetto grande per il suo valore.

Imparare i suoi ritmi, la sua fragile forza. Tavolozza di un estroso pittore, scrigno di tesori. Per tutti coloro che desiderano imparare in maniera gioiosa a conoscere il fiume, il suo territorio, le sue bellezze naturali, Vivere il Fiume significa entrare in un fantastico mondo fatto di divertimento, di crescita e di sicurezza. Nel Parco delle Cascate, l'artista esce dagli spazi tradizionali trasformando la zona in una vera e propria galleria open air, portando il visitatore dal classico museo alle porte della natura, la quale si impadronisce delle opere e le fa evolvere nel tempo.

Il parco archeologico dell'Altopiano dei sette Comuni, a Castelletto di Rotzo, in lo. Presso l'area archeologica del Bostel si trova il baito, struttura ricettiva ad uso bar e ristorante, con un punto informativo su storia e ambiente del territorio. Home Tourism Vicenza with children The naturalistic parks.