Sei passi nella nebbia (Italian Edition)

Io a dire il vero ho sempre desiderato essere pubblicato da Fanucci. Ma torniamo a Fanucci. Le loro vecchie edizioni dei romanzi o dei racconti. Game is my istinct. I parigini sembrano tutti impazziti. Tipica divisa da p. Pugni e mosche, poche le mosche parte seconda. Pugni e mosche, poche le mosche. Sotto di noi le auto sembrano velocissime e in effetti il rumore che fanno ricorda un mare in tempesta, anche il rumore che sta facendo il mio cuore ricorda un mare in tempesta.

Rochester Market cacatio mirabilis. La cantina era quasi piena. Prendete Silene, per esempio. Lei se lo metteva tutti i giorni e quando ti sorrideva tu pensav. Quelli che hanno cominciato a leggere Doppler sono oggi arrivati — mediamente — a pagina cento. Entro nella parafarmacia deserta e vedo la dottoressa rumena acc. Miki al Salone di Torino. Volevo ringraziare tutti coloro che sono stati buoni con me e non hanno usato violenza. Fino a questa mattina ho pensato seriamente che fosse uno scherzo organizzato da quelli di Blonk ai miei danni. Fino a tre ore fa ho pensato seriamente che non fosse possibile.

Importante aggiornamento su The Pale King. Ora ho appena finito di legg. Ho trovato il nimesulide sottobanco alla pescheria del porto, dovevo venire fino a Genova, maledette case farmaceutiche. La tavoletta della legge. Quando ti sei seduto: I cerotti transcutanei invece non so mai dove metterli. A volte ho la sgradevole sensazione di essere preso sul serio. Universo parallelo prima o poi mi passa: Lo leggo sui mezzi pubblici che sto prendendo spesso ultimamente ieri ho dato 8. Solo che la signora una volta raggiunto il marciapied. Allora ho messo un piede sul Kindle, cosa che con i libri di carta non produce lo stesso effetto.

Ho fatto il conto, nonostante questo piede in casa siamo a quota quindici apparecchi dotati di indirizzo IP voi quanti ne avete? Capire a fondo il fondamento. Antonella Tancredi per venire allo sportello del cittadino passa attraverso lo sportello del suo SUV parcheggiato in doppia fila in una strada stretta dove la gente poi rischia.

Volevo proporre un incontro giorni dopo. Pensavo di coinvolgere anche alcuni amici che tenacemente continuano a vi. Mi sono sentito come il dottor Rieux. Ciao, ho deciso che Kabul non fa per me e me ne torno a casa. E il difetto da quel momento vi accompagna sempre chiacchieria. Abbiamo tutti una specie di febbre. Alzarmi in piedi costa una fatica enorme, i piedi appoggiano su una superficie molle e viscosa che li trattiene e mi impedisce quasi di camminare.

La gioconda, tempera su carta. Mentre la suonava sembrava di vedere un sorriso sul suo musetto. Ma no, niente da fare, le sue zampette tozze si sono fermate e ci ha guarda. Piccolo decalogo sragionato per novelli nudisti in calore. 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. 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. Intrinsic to this poetic design are two motifs: Ultimately, Quadri is haunted by the negative results of the gap between the two universes: 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. Edizioni Del Riccio, Gibellini, in Diverse Lingue , 2 Udine: Brevini, in Le parole perdute , cit. Your mop is going grey, your teeth are thinning out, you look awful! But, if you cant hack it, - fanaboola!

Yet under this Lombard sky, come evening, everything drowns: 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: All around, handkerchiefs, school uniforms, even a pillow-case on a stool Of the stone walls crumbling nothing remains but blot, naught, naked roofs about to collapse, gutters, a well, a walnut tree, a name etched on a deserted farmhouse: El canto del tilio, Udine: Edizioni del Leone, ; Maraeja , Poesia in piego n. Grafica Campioli, ; Data , Padova: Biblioteca Cominiana, , critical introduction by Luciana Borsetto.

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.

Through the cracks come the sounds of perforated air: And then I ask myself, could one live like this, just listening? All refractory things become straight, in the ideal circle the quantified fact resonates. Astir in my brain half-structured remains, ants in procession. Non ho voglia di parole: 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.

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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: 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 [ Piccin, ; Andrea Zanzotto, in il Belli , n.

III But could we have stopped at that crossing bright with meadows, woods and blue? Lips and wind, hair in clover. Circolo culturale Colavini, ; Che Diaz. Colavini, ; La lingua degli emigrati Florence: Nuova Guaraldi, ; Sboradura e sanc Florence: Le parole gelate, ; Usmas: 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. Faggin, La poesia friulana del Novecento Rome: Amedeo Giacomini, Wie eine Viole in Casarsa: Brevini, Le parole perdute , cit.

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.

Trevi, ; La stanza del ghiaccio Rome: Lacaita, ; La notte degli attori Rome: El Bagatt, ; Esercizi con la mia ombra Minturno: 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. 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: 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. Gualtiero De Santi, Nello spazio della dispersione Naples: Giacinto Spagnoletti, in Storia della letteratura italiana del Novecento Rome: 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! One more blot upon the void.

I come full circle when the rank, persisting life within me seems itself to feel repugnance. 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. Damiani, in Poeti dialettali triestini Trieste: Tesio, presentation of 9 Poesie scritte a Trieste. His first works appeared in Italian: Manovre , novel Milan: Scheiwiller, ; La vita artificiale , poems Padua: Rebellato, ; Incostanza di Narciso , poems Milan: Scheiwiller, ; Il disequilibrio , collected poems Udine: Scheiwiller, , preface by David Maria Turoldo , initiates the highly productive stage of his dialect poetry that continues to complement his writings in Italian.

In , he published a novel in Italian, Andrea in tre giorni Fossalta di Piave: Rebellato and a volume of Friulan verses, Sfuejs Milan: 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 Then in , Scheiwiller issued his new book of Friulan poems: Thereafter, his production increased dramatically: Giacomini has also published translations of medieval Latin literature from Historia Langobardorum by Paulus Diaconus, Milan: He is editor of the quarterly Diverse Lingue Udine: 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. From these oxymora, Giacomini extrapolates his continuum: 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: 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.

Let me cite, apropos, one particularly painful confession he makes: 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: 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. 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 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 Then, after a ten year silence, she took up writing in the western variety of Medunese, placing the following poems in numerous books and review: Tore Barbina and A. 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. 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.

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. 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 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. Receiving the Cima Prize for his next volume, Miel strassada , he issued it in Campobasso: Then, in collaboration with L. Fioretti, he published Frassinar in San Vito al Tagliamento: 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: 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. De Biasio and A. Lettura della trilogia di A.

Publishing a few chap-books in Italian—e. Scheiwiller, —he has focused mostly on writing in Friulan. His most important dialect works are Altro che storie! Campanotto, ; Sapeghete: Poesia in piego Rome: Campanotto, —which won the Lanciano Prize that year. 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. Francesco Piga, La poesia dialettale del Novecento Padua: Colonnello, Mariuz and Pauletto, eds.

Geno Pampaloni, I giorni in fuga Milan: 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.

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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. He has published the following books of poetry in his native dialect: Par su cont Ravenna: Cooperativa Guidarello, ; Al voi Ravenna: Longo, ; Par tot i virs Udine: Edizioni del Girasole, 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.

Cesare Vivaldi, in Il lettore di provincia , 79 Niva Lorenzini, in Il presente della poesia Bologna: Vivaldi, in Poesia dialettale dal Rinascimento a oggi Milan: 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.

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. Dagli assetati campi , original poetry and translations of poems by Greta Schoon Ravenna: Guidarello, ; Il sole oltre la nebbia , stories Lugo di Romagna: Nadiani, Elio Cipriani and Andrea Fabbri have edited the following collections of essays: Lingue in poesia Moby Dick, ; La morte di Virgilio: Nadiani and Cipriani also collaborated with Andrea Foschi on the essays in La parola ritrovata: 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. 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: When he was twenty years old he published a chapbook in Italian, Echi Ancona: Ata, , while his dialect collection E per un frutto piace tutto un orto introduction by Plinio Acquabona, with four illustrations by Emilio Greco, Ancona: 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: Look at me hit the ground: I am this life exploded that on itself relapses. Translated by Luigi Bonaffini El cardo sui grepi o cavedane! Translated by Luigi Bonaffini Su la neve De gravi rami in schianto luntani soprasalti.

From buckling heavy branches faraway anxieties.

Incontro / Encounter by William Arrowsmith | The New Criterion

Is this, my love, the way one dies of completion broken, side by side, inside their own windbreakers? 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. 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.

Translated by Luigi Bonaffini Sol: A Small factory not far from Chiaravalle, in the open countryside.

• .
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• Hunting Power!
• Pouvoir et gouvernement dentreprise (French Edition);
• Tell Me No Lies.
• Incontro / Encounter.

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. Augeri, in Oltre Eboli: Quinta Generazione, ; Giacinto Spagnoletti, in Storia della letteratura italiana del Novecento, cit. E che ce 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. 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.

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. 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 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: Senti un lamento di un cane vecchio che muore.

He lives in Perugia. He published six collections of poetry: Ponti , by Giuseppe Giacalone , ; Idillio e catastrofe. Poesie , and is interested in art criticism he has edited at least twenty exhibits. As a dialect poet since , he appears in Umbria by P. La Scuola, , in Poesia dialettale dal Rinascimento ad oggi , cit. 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. Near the manure pile the footprints of Hamlet the painter of scenes: But what have you got inside your head? To drive me crazy? E caloia de fantignole e merolla sdirinate. 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. Holding a literature degree, he taught in secondary schools. 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: 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. 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 Emblema, ; Hobgoblin, Firenze: Olifante, bilingual edition with a Spanish translation by C. Vitale ; Neniaton , Firenze: Poesiarte, ; Il fumo degli anni , Venezia: Poesiarte, ; Solitudine delle parole , Chieti: He has also written short stories, critical essays on literature and art and monographs: Carlo Betocchi , Milan: Mursia, ; Betocchi: His work has been translated into various languages and he has in turn translated La muerte a Beverly Hills by P.

He also edited the anthology Chile: 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: I am more and more convinced that dialectality is an inner category. 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. He published four collections of poetry: 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: A frenesia a ruzzole mi hai staccato il collo: But to the bottom of a pan, to capsize like a wreck there, pours the devil of my revel and the levelled quickened oil.

From the marbled marine mass we get our Em. The misty mantle round the moon? What does Em know? A mute and mysterious medley of months: Publications in the dialect of Chieti: Ristampe e inediti Pescara: Cappelli, ; Il finito presente Rome: Campanotto, ; Da parola a parola Bari: I theoretical essays are contained in the volume Le ragioni di una scrittura. Dialoghi sul dialetto e sulla poesia contemporanea Pescara: Vignuzzi and a note by G. The poems presented here are unpublished Moretti unfetters the dialect of Abruzzo from regional themes, using it as a language endowed with full semantic potential.

His case is typical of neodialect poetry To mark this distance he no longer employs closed forms or the hendecasyllable, but a laisse of long lines, with the cadence of a recitative and a very personal, internalized rhythm, and a predilection for the discursive long poem His poetry is marked by strong reasons Franco Brevini, in le parole perdute , cit.

With respect to age, complexity of intellectual culture, literary experiences, Vito Moretti rightfully belongs to the new generations of dialect poets In his poetry metrical freedom does not mean lack of rhythm which, on the contrary, stems from careful research of the deepest rhythmical sources, of cadences that combine dialect words into well-connected groupings.

Moretti gives unequivocal proof of this Moretti then starts from the instances of contemporary culture, of intellectual, philosophical culture, and from an ethical quest, from political and religious aporias, to look for the most appropriate expressive medium in the rhythmical cadence bound to dialect words. Essential Critical Bibliography U. Contributi per una lettura di Vito Moretti, Chieti: It Has Fallen Softly to Weigh Softly the darkness has fallen, softly the night with the black houses rooted about like wornout beasts of burden.

It has fallen softly to weigh, with that round moon hung up by the hands of a hundred craftsmen, the thread of hours that my day brings back to the signs of the earth, and that now ready to close the blinds and to separate us from the joust of dreams I represent as a patient game of pardons. Will it suffice to whisper resolutions to repent? The house is a cave, you told me, a lump to swallow now the children have deserted, and the words--you laid them gently on my breast-- had an umbilicus of the world, like the weeping of the bulrushes with the priestly hallelujah.

But ours is an old disquiet, and it makes you tired in the silence of the nights. And it may not be worth it to wear away the boundaries, or consciously to turn back to hailing yesterday. The cock may crow, even three times, or grow ill with dizziness on the sabbath that has aged us. All of us, with small steps, have the day for crouching on the glass, the red moon that every evening scales the fans of the soul.

Rimango a contare le veglie. Like a tree with hidden branches I stay here to calculate the vigils. Tomorrow perhaps, tomorrow I can tell you of my faith, the sour temper that wraps memories in paper and turns them into passions. Previously the principal of a middle school, he now is involved in the publishing industry via his collaboration with major dailies and literary reviews such as La Repubblica , La Fiera Letteraria , Critica Letteraria , and Produzione e Cultura. La poesia di Albino Pierro , critical essay Rome: Adriatica Editrice, ; La luna e la montagna , stories with preface by T.

Enne, ; Profilo storico del Molise Venice: Scarano, ; Cento proverbi di Castellucio Acquaborrana Campobasso: He transcends dialect verse by writing poetry in dialect. He does so with a sure-handed grasp of linguistico-cultural contamination reconfigured in totally contemporary language. Orazio Tanelli, in Nuova Dimensione October Bonaffini, introduciton to The Peacock. Chi arriva e chi parte! When I Leave When I leave and lay down my clothes inside my suitcase, the jacket with the shoulders on a hanger, its sleeves neatly crossed over on the chest, I feel like I am laying a dead man in his coffin.

Some people arrive and some leave. And on your final trip you bring one jacket underneath the ground and leave behind at home another jacket dangling on a hanger. To My Son I am sorry, son, for having planted you in a sunless orchard, quiver of a flower in a guitar; huddled sparrow you wait to be fed with your mouth wide open and quietly flap your wings, but with every hour you grow in my heart like leavened bread, like a scream choking in my throat. The Word The word on the lips of a peasant comes out among nettles and stones like a clod turned over by hoes.

The word on the lips of a big shot is just like the scrawl of the topping on a cake all garnished with almonds and sugared candy of silver and gold. Adesso nemmeno mi riconosci. A look was all we needed, and like the north wind we destroyed the world, slier than a stone-marten or a fox. Se dipendesse da me.

He writes in Italian, English and his native dialect. As in the cases of Zanzotto, Noventa and Pierro, this journey promises the re-embracing of an archaic, maternal language. In this poetry, there abound dissonant rhythmic percussions, phonic analogies, pounding and obsessive reiterations of suffixes, enjambments breaking sound waves, internal rhymes, and phonico-visual synesthesia.

Bibliography Giuseppe Ravegnani, in Uomini visti , vol. Leone Piccioni, in La narrativa italiana tra romanzo e racconti Milan: Jovine and Luigi Fontanella, in Novecento , 9, vol. Giambattista Faralli, in Poesia dialettale del Molise Isernia: Tamburri, in World Literature Today Summer People arrive and eat, they rest and think: Lazily in the shade passes the day and sleep is like the sleep of fledgling birds. You keep your eyes half-open and half-closed, because you want to see what you can do. It gets lost in the valleys among stones: Desire to work is a small hole, because you want to know what we must do.

Il vento del paese mio. He shoves you to and fro along with rocks, he presses, rips right through you, knocks you down. This wind can eat you up alive, your drivel turn to ice under your teeth, you brace your knees to grope along the street: A wind like this you never will forget: He made of you a man who can bear mountains, stealing your seeds, your ears of corn, your wheat, ramming against you and strapping you down.

So many years have come and gone, today the wind is a good friend outside my door. The Song of Nothingness Nothing, said the hen, can make you happy. Nothing is done for nothing, because with nothing you can do nothing: Nothing ever ends, and nothing is born. Nothing is made with nothing; I am filled with this nothing: Nothing, there is nothing to bring outside, that in this world we have brought nothing at all.

There is nothing that is new in this land that slides: Nothing, there is nothing, I am also nothing. Only I know that what I know is really nothing.