La paura dei Djnni (Italian Edition)

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Rosis grivis di gjambe sutile ti fasin murae intal siump, si fasin presinsis Recitativo del vagabondo. Schema for thought— pleated gold over trees, dying moon throbbing on necessary steps Anticipation filled with faces; shrouds like flags unfurled whitening the horizon; all around glass-imbedded walls lying in wait, fashioned to hew hands, exposed knuckles Will you, knight without ensigns, knowing yourself unsure, carry your acrid figure to where acid meats and tough solitudes pulverize teeth?

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 The texts anthologized here are previously unpublished.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

This is my point: Cantarutti first and foremost, then Maria Forte, Buiese and Vallerugo, have all contributed, via their heightened sensibility, to the reshaping of our poetic language. Ultimately, they have made it the language of a people.

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Ciceri Nicoloso, Scrittrici contemporanee in Friuli , cit. Colonnello, G. Mariuz and G. Pauletto, eds. Ultimo luogo. Cosa lo ha spinto? Last Place The last place in the world, the world a station if it has a station, however small, the name vanished, two tracks, the service track aside with cars sealed for centuries that, more from precaution than fear, no one opens. An eternity like this. One day he got lost in the desert going just beyond that bend where the tracks are burnished gold in the setting sun.

What drove him? Who brought him back and laid him across the tracks? Yes, it was plain the desert moved, the tracks were covered again as quickly as the sand was swept away. A cola. Il sogno. Il marito si accorse in tempo. The Dream Maybe by now the snow outside has buried the earth melancholy Hiroshima landscape.

On the Sydney bridge the wind lifts your black hair loose from its pins. The ships pass slowly by, sounding their horns they head for open sea, gone already. Your pensive mother passes by in deep water. From that window the bridge is a single arc, a flight Before you my Regina stops her rush. She falls. She awakened among the dead. Her husband realized it in time. Veniva e viene ancora appeso alle travi del soffitto. Il suo nome varia da zona a zona e non ha un nome corrispondente in italiano. Being with you who are no longer with us is so much more than living among the busy lives who take away my breath that peace I need for being cursed the way I am.

Being with you always grape by grape my aurec hung on my slender rafter in this room with the painted outside door where a famished child has not eaten the bunch clenched in his hands because the grapes are numbered It was and still is hung from the rafters in the attic. The dried grapes were eaten in winter. Its name varies from place to place and has no equivalent in Italian.

Here, the Aurec is my deceased grandmother. He teaches elementary school. Then, in collaboration with L. Vit writes in southern Friulan, the language of Bagnarola. But his insights herein transcend the socio-political causes of this oppression. His alliterations develop in relief: e.

Walter Belardi and G. No sta vignimi dongia cuntralus. And that rivulet of light along the knee! When the sun ensnares itself in the thorns of the darkness, then whose will be the face that I caress? There are those who learn how to suckle from the white of the page, to whistle from a wind hidden deep within. And how you can command, condemn, cudgel all humanity, right from there, from that white room, perched like a king on the throne of the latrine. He studied at the University of Bologna and now teaches in a lycaeum in Pordenone. He has published numerous critical essays on literature and aesthetics in journals such as Testo a fronte , Studi di estetica , Diverse Lingue , and Baldus which he also edits.

The following essays of his have appeared in book format s : Diritto alla poesia , with A. De Biasio and A. Lettura della trilogia di A. Publishing a few chap-books in Italian—e. His most important dialect works are Altro che storie! The texts anthologized come from Vose de vose. He has comprehended and assimilated European Symbolism and Surrealism.

For him, they are overcome by their ineluctable fragility in an atmosphere of indistinct contours, all in suspension and expectancy. Searching for his own voice, he eschews his noble poetic tradition. He writes viva voce , in dialogue, retracing old terms, introducing innovation, finding points where the old and the new meet. Brevini, Le parole perdute, cit. Colonnello, Mariuz and Pauletto, eds. Geno Pampaloni, I giorni in fuga Milan: Garzanti, For the Autumn Left I.

For the autumn and animals left under the crystal of hours culling branches and earth for a den in a nook of the head. For the autumn metal sheet and the man who wakes up calling with hands full of fingers, with hair coiled on the brain, of the breed of autumn gulls in eternal earthward flight. Translated by Dino Fabris II. Translated by DinoFabris X. A rain eroding clay shoulders and finding us in the jaw of a November forever open in an lotus with luggage to manage the night, filled with leaves, peelings, signed papers.

If we fall asleep. Translated by Dino Fabris XI. A nylon cloth the clouds, and the man of glass takes on a hue of tar and rusty wire that binds the hours around his ribs. Spadoni and Luciano Benini Sforza are presently assembling an anthology of poetry written in Romagnol in the second half of the twentieth century.

Visionary and descriptive passages alternate. His variegated repertoire of images is characterized by subtlety in design and by a cyclical sense of melody. Notwithstanding traces of his literary tradition, Spadoni gives new life to his dialect that is virtually biological for its instinctive immediacy. Its affinities are clear from its settings everyday, humble objects and human types and its versification. The latter is characterized by a warm, colloquial vocality that lightens the sombre tone and mollifies the harshness of vision.

Cesare Vivaldi, in Il lettore di provincia , 79 Vivaldi, in Poesia dialettale dal Rinascimento a oggi Milan: Garzanti, Pietro Civitareale, in Abruzzo letterario , Prima che si faccia buio. All clocks have stopped. People refuse to grasp that the moon doesnt know what to do about us. Le voglie. Shadows play hide-and-seek and the street-lights perforate the aura of squandered hours. Ebooks and Manuals

Puoi fare di meno. That day comes when you grow weary, lace up your best shoes and go Come fili di tela di ragno. Nadiani and Cipriani also collaborated with Andrea Foschi on the essays in La parola ritrovata: la poesia contemporanea fra lingua e dialetto Ravenna: Long Editore, In , Nadiani co-founded the literary review Tratti.

He is now its editor-in-chief. The poems anthologized here come from Tir. This marginality, however, allows him to focus his lens sharply. Creaks, collapses, fissures, crashes of beams in the dust, cracks, cuts, splinters—all reverberate. These poems do an x-ray of an inexorably progressive landslide, an extraordinary yet oblique vision of cycles and seasons. His new emphasis is on an accumulative narration of data, objects, daily and work situations. His new instruments are parataxis and asyndeton or polyasyndata —i.

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

But dont talk to the computer about it! Stressed, we punch the keys to forget the impotent rage of our disguises Weariness The full moon plumb over the trailers that extend the night. We masters of the dark, hushed Feet sodden with dew we slither back home to shut the blinds, light a lamp, look each other in the eye: no one dares speak of going to bed.

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

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

From buckling heavy branches faraway anxieties. Is this, my love, the way one dies of completion broken, side by side, inside their own windbreakers? Strama: lacera da Laudario The Whip On the spent docks the rusted whip of a tackle rips the silence vapors in the distant whir of motors. Translated by Luigi Bonaffini El sol I. Svetava soverchiante come una torre altera la grande ciminiera fino a luntane piante.

Trebiatrici per aie, da longo, colonie, barconi in mezo a scie de svolazate paie. Piccola fabbrica non lungi da Chiaravalle, in aperta campagna. Smantellata dai tedeschi nel , ne restano desolate vestigia. The long shiver of the call runs through the people inside the waiting room. On the side, a few countenances, all of submissive lives wearing clean clothes contrite farmers in reticent shadows wives in the corner of the waiting room outside, the calash with puppets painted on its flanks, desolate in their vilified happy bloom.

Local whistle trains. The great chimney soared high like another lofty proud tower up to the distant trees. Water down in the gorge the attending murmur flees beyond the patch of elm trees that came out clean and purged from the cast iron gratings of the Sol the whine of black factories, turbines. Unshared, outlying was a large villa the swallows fell in swarms on the white hawthorns. A Small factory not far from Chiaravalle, in the open countryside.

Dismantled by the Germans in , only desolate traces of it remain. The text recalls a summer spent by the author in those places as a boy. Leonardo Mancino Born in Camerino Macerata in Leonardo Mancino Essential Critical Bibliography. Paglia, in AA. E che ce pensi E ci pensi E ci pensi che qualcuno - come si vorrebbe - ci ha preceduto sulla strada che andiamo percorrendo con tutta la fatica necessaria. Su questo palco ormai fradicio e vecchio che non si regge in piedi sempre ti ci devi muovere. Anche morire se necessario. And Do You Think And do you think how someone preceded us on the road that we keep walking on with all the strain it takes.

On this rickety stage barely standing now rotted and old you must make your way. Even die. People look at you with baleful eyes, the clothes are as torn as the years, as the little heart we still have left. At the corner of the eye tangled fears when you ask yourself why. Nel giardino. In the Garden In the flower garden the poison of sea fragrance grows like a ghost in the night the eye fixes the pupil seems a throbbing dilated abyss on the realm of sweet bewildered dreams the word constantly invoked keeps saying like a chant a verse Lettera del figlio.

Vedi la casa. Vedi la casa nascondersi dietro le braccia degli alberi alla campagna. Dal ballatoio sulle scale sembra di vedere una figura che si allontana e poi sfuma: se ci fai caso attentamente somiglia alla sagoma di una madre eguale alle altre, a tutte, che di riflesso spia il destino nella sua stessa immagine. Senti un lamento di un cane vecchio che muore. He lives in Perugia.

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

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

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

He was the editor of Dimensioni and Questar te He is the general secretary for the international prize Ennio Flaiano. The texts that follow are unpublished. The dialect of Giuseppe Rosato, as is the case with the content of the poems and the themes developed, displays totally unconventional registers and cadences, which arise from remote, intimate, personal echoes, and establish him not as the bard of a people, but as the voice of a contemporary consciousness that utilizes dialect for its discrete charm, for its exclusive resources and for the malleability and expressiveness of certain extraordinary structures.

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

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

E finalmente, dice. Ma le pinze? Mi riposo But what are you really thinking? And where is all such contentment after all? E ti stai zitto. Now you can cry oh mamma all you like but who will listen, who will pity you? So you keep quiet. Hi has been living in Florence since His work has been translated into various languages and he has in turn translated La muerte a Beverly Hills by P. The poems presented here are unpublished. I received his small book Come nu suonne with a sense of happy wonderment. His poems are pleasing and precious, and are written in that beautiful language of central Italy that awakens so many echoes of the poetry from which our Italian language was born.

A very tender poetry, that employs to great effect a simple, limpid way of approaching things. Franco Loi I read with great interest his poems of Vecchie parole. It seems to me that a magic lyricism makes perfect use of dialect in order to reinvent occasions of places and moments of days and seasons, achieving an extraordinary intensity and originality.

Giorgio Barberi Squarotti I thank you for the gift of Vecchie parole that I read with great pleasure: reconciliation and harmony of religious spirit and natural elements imbued with a similar soul; profound, age-old language that you execute with great skill and restraint, but that above all you do not betray by deforming it with thoughts and sentiments which do not belong to it, as is customary nowadays. I am more and more convinced that dialectality is an inner category.

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Uccelli di maggio. Fiori di neve. Snowflowers Snowflowers in the window and outside, stretching to the limits of the world, the bewildered field just yesterday a snarl of leaves a coating of rust on the sky now a glitter of glass tinted ashy January gray that on some nights brings a silence like a gnawing like an icy embittered moon in the heart.

Ma ora so che non posso. But Now I Know I Cannot Do it I used to believe that it was possible to come back to this height, where the giddiness of memory breathes life again into faraway dreams, and on that path I taste you once more as I did before, fragrant and hot, like bread fresh from the oven. And it is late, and always growing later, and narrow, and interminable, the way. Mi ha ucciso la luna. I Was Murdered by the Moon Heart in pieces and the years pressing like a packsaddle, I await the withering of the last rose on the hedges, blind to every hope, persuaded only by the nothingness there is.

His poems have appeared i various anthologies and in journals such as Paragone , Salvo imprevisti , Tracce , Gradiva , Lengua, Tratti e altre. These texts were born after a period of meager and uncertain practice with dialect. On the creative level, the speech of the Frentan area, and in particular that of Lanciano, paralyzed me: I passively felt its fascination, but was unable to go beyond a series of quotations — or at most of brief insertions — in an Italian context.

It was therefore inevitable that I would eventually dare to immerse myself totally in this language, which I felt was extremely expressive, rich with a remote music, dead to the world of modern communication but mysteriously alive as a biological event. At this point I was obliged to give in to that semiconscious wave that was swelling, to recover its transgressive and atemporal force, to recreate it through archaic gulps, agglutinations and linguistic rasps, setting aside all constraints and false parallels with Italian.

Where has it plunged us, what good does it blow this great wind rising over mouldy days this empty idle chattering of chickens this rolling of the intoxicated sky this mouth of petroleum that swallows up the sea: these putrid leaves, these leaves that gut the face of the scarred and disembowelled earth. You inflame me: who are you. But to the bottom of a pan, to capsize like a wreck there, pours the devil of my revel and the levelled quickened oil.

Che sa Emme? From the marbled marine mass we get our Em. The misty mantle round the moon? All Em. What does Em know? A mute and mysterious medley of months: she munches mu and moo, gives me mellowness of mauve, and oh how im- maculate is the magic land of Em. I theoretical essays are contained in the volume Le ragioni di una scrittura. 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.

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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. 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. Fiore Adriatica Ed.

Enne, ; Profilo storico del Molise Venice: Ed. New York: Peter Lang, 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. Tracce, n. Orazio Tanelli, in Nuova Dimensione October Bonaffini, introduciton to The Peacock. Chi arriva e chi parte! Quando parto. 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.

Always the same. 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. A mio figlio. 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.

La parola. 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.

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  4. 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. II Milan: Leone Piccioni, in La narrativa italiana tra romanzo e racconti Milan: Egerton Bede, ed. Vineta Colby, ed. Jovine and Luigi Fontanella, in Novecento , 9, vol. Giambattista Faralli, in Poesia dialettale del Molise Isernia: Anthony J. Tamburri, in World Literature Today Summer 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: it no longer carries jugs, it has no cushion for the head. 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. 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 ever ends, and nothing is born. Nothing, there is nothing to bring outside, that in this world we have brought nothing at all. Nothing, there is nothing, I am also nothing. Only I know that what I know is really nothing. La via del molise. Slowly you start to count: the time gone by before your eyes, begins to waver. The road to Molise is sweet as honey, it stretches across mountains, over rivers. You can see the towns in shape of crosses and the heart rejoices, wants to sing.

    And you hear an ancient voice that calls you from the dark of the fountain, from the branches. Tesio Udine: Campanotto, ; Controcielo , grotesque novel, preface by F. Brevini and note by A. Serrao Milan: Scheiwiller, Spagnoletti e C. Vivaldi, eds. Milan: Garzanti, The poems printed here come from Controcore. This is a bastard child of a perennial world, unconscious victim of the she-wolf mother unnature?

    It does so via his inexhaustible inventions of turns-of-phrase and metaphors against a baroque backdrop that is, literally, black-and-blue. Here, an endless neologistic and prosodic bombardment rages against the traditional music of the Romanesque vernacular and transforms this tongue into a solar and underworld language that acts in critical and mad counterpoint with the pulsations of memory, the joys of youth, sensuality, material life.

    Piga, La poesia dialettale del Novecento, cit. Brevini, in Nuovi Argomenti , 47 July-September Maffia, in La barriera semantica, cit. Night is gentle, limpid, no dreams. I set out alone to meet the broken dawn. The thought of the moon hovers and light flows in its nuances. The ghosts of things swarm, shades withdrawing from shadows of annunciation of day I revive in the fancy conjured by the world and who-knows. Si fa chiaro quel gran dolore che fa tremare. I cani allampanati hanno un andare sbilenco e incrociano gli umani sentieri. Il vento viene da infinite leghe e si disperde al crocevia fino al momento del supremo andare che ci fa uomini.

    Scattering The shaded sky sheds the moon. The pain that wracks us clarifies. Lean and hungry dogs weave, cross paths cut by hands. Wind rises from infinite compounds and scatters at the turning point, that moment of the supreme adventure that makes us human. Il freddo. La carne e il sangue fatti parola. The Cold That holy cold that dries your heart and the sudden frost, quick deep freeze of Bohemian droplets on the branches of the Pincio Flesh and blood become word.

    And us, bone-deep, passing through the needle-eye of super-starry heavens that go lunatic. La gloria e la fiacca. The grass shivers in auroral chill Poetry in Italian: Coordinata polare , Rome: Ed. Something else that struck me in these poems is the acceptance of a tradition such as the Neapolitan, not in its easy musicality or in the fatuous and abused melody of sentiments — the Neapolitan song — but in the innermost philosophy of this great city and in the stylistic observance of an inclination to think, of a movement of thought within sentiment, which after all constitutes the most profound character of Neapolitans, so as to produce a renewal within tradition.

    Dialect is for Serrao a virile, paternal tongue, in which there is no regression: it is the instrument of an inner monologue and a dialogue with his dead father, which is the same thing , carried out at the urging of a totally modern anguish, far removed from any alleged Neapolitan well-being. A landscape that seems swept by a wind of destruction and the often rainy and wintry weather increase the effect of displacement. Serrao uses a closed, harsh dialect While She Should Have Left Came Winter So Winter Comes In Lord, to you I entrust the melancholy of this gentle sprite, and the signs of mine upon my brow, of mine under the eyelids He teaches contemporary literature at the Academy of Fine Arts in Naples.

    Writing in dialect, in my dialect of Cappella, very close and similar to Neapolitan but with a few autonomous morpho-syntactical characteristics, to me means more and more drawing out my voice, my imagination, my anthropological-expressive identity grounded in an sharply defined archaic territory like the Campi Flegrei. Dialect, then, neither as a flight toward the past nor as a negation of the present, or not merely this, but as a pressing necessity to discover my roots, opening my cultural heritage to original and inherent possibilities.

    This means that Italian, Latin and dialect must interact, without either academic-philological pretensions or the least late-avantgarde temptation. I am even less seduced by the not very seductive siren of post-modernism. For me it is a question of bringing to light the numerous suggestions and images, the complex phonic and rhythmic layering that has deposited inside me over the years, without any kind of exclusion or privilege.

    Le piastrelle. The Tiles The cracked tiles wobble when you walk on them, the whole house shakes, a house with so much pain inside, chairs and mirrors swallow dust and grimacing mouths. A knife slices through the walls, a thin breath like that of gasping birds, beneath the rows of tiles the things the shadows on the floor below stir, creak.

    And so many long, black tails, so many worms come out at night from underneath the tiles to jump on you in your sleep! Brucia in basso. It burns Below It burns below it burns twisted roots the animal kicks and bites dead rats below a dry wind burns doors and windows slam the tongue chews only saliva that burns in the throat below Pare luna. It seems moon. These tinkling stairs seem a luminous scroll, where the blackest wings go up and down, tiny feet with a line of blood much thinner than cotton. A Miseno. At Miseno At Miseno there is the sea and the lighthouse, there is a light at Miseno, hazy and distant, that spreads over the mountain, getting lost there, and then a voice rises from the ground, the voice of the statues eaten by wind and time, and from the sea rise ghosts of salt that prick your eyes.

    He studied in Naples degrees in French literature and Philosophy. Very intense and decidedly productive his relationship with two distinguished Neapolitan writers: Domenico Rea and Fabrizio Ramondino. He wrote in Neapolitan dialect from the mid-Seventies to the end of the Eighties. Greco ESI, His poems appear in the anthologies Poesia dialettale dal Rinascimento a oggi, cit. He is also known as a satyrical poet in Italian under the pseudonym Sasade.

    He uses his Neapolitan dialect to express a malaise that betrays Symbolist roots renewed through the realism of a very different tradition, imbued with a profound and sorrowful musicality. Some faded withering soul of an old unmarried lady got really tired of sewing the dresses that you asked for and ripped away your eyes. I am the one who gave you this quite unpleasant sickness. I am ashamed of living with my arms that drop under the weight of death.

    A sprite each morning walks with him towards the school and then takes him back home. The underling of death follows us step by step. The sprite goes out the door to take a little stroll. He earned his keep today. Translated by Luigi Bonaffini. E scacciali, gli spiriti! They got inside your nerves just like so many ants and gnawed away at you worse than a dead cat. You yourself have cast a most malicious spell.

    There is no sorceress who can sprinkle grains of salt over your recent wounds. Non fumavo sigarette, non andavo con le donne. I always walked alone waiting for better times, my pockets filled with stanzas that bedeviled death. And the last twenty years? An album full of stamps. While never smoking cigarettes I smoked away my youth. Versi noti di canzone nella nebbia della notte. With the lyrics of a song they have locked you in a coffin.

    And you know that after them one morning death will suddenly appear. His corpus poeticum puts us in touch not only with the myth of beauty but with something that transcends our idea of its harmony and hovers around a consciously honed, succinct truth. Just an earthy and elegant wit that comes to life via the critical discipline of writing, with a keen eye cast on the future, always in progress. Lunetta Bibliography Antonio Motta, preface to Iune la lune, cit. Zagarrio, Febbre, furore e fiele Milan: Mursia, Nigro, In Puglia Florence-Bari, Inside the entrails to catch ghosts it peers.

    It masks as chick mosquito shade. It rolls over inside chaos filthy with mold and blood with seeds and wind it slowly uncorks your senses. Open the doors and get undressed so that when you least expect it before the final star dies out feet in the air and without knocking hugging the wall very quiet it will come to visit you.

    Nu mecidde de crestiene, viete a lore. In campagna. Un macello di cristiani, beati loro. A swarm of people, lucky for them. The scirocco romps among the olive trees. Puff: the people vanish one and all all of them all at once a burning swells the underbelly! A crevice opens in the ground and lets out a mass of rising dough to be kneaded gently by hand. Kneading it seems as though I were palpating breasts. From beneath the fingers a mare of a woman starts slowly to grow. Oh, yes! His first books of poetry were published in Italian: Sul mare i lembi senza cimose ; La lunga veglia ; Un grido di gioia ; Stormire He has also composed the Grammatica del dialetto di Mattinata Foggia, and the Dizionario del dialetto di Mattinata.

    Rome: ; Le parole di legno , Mario Chiesa and G. Tesio, eds. Milan: Mondadori, ; and Poesia dialettale del Rinascimento a oggi, cit. He is all toil and solitude, sun and shade, primal needs, animals, nests, nature, fear, dream. The fabulous vision of Orion, after so much travail, so many emotions, comes to its apotheosis and closes in a cycle that reopens, with three dots of suspension, in the invocation of the rebellious mule that refuses to be recaptured by the child.

    The sweet, dramatic nursery rhyme breathes as a magical prayer, a tender exorcism that dissolves in the omen-filled night. Words have the virtual, hypnotic force of signs without significance. These cadences accentuate the dynamic structure of a regular sequence of tercets and septenaries. Donatella Bisutti, in Steve , 7 and in Il Belli , 4 Loi, in Il Sole, 24 Ore 29 January I gelsi, i meglio frutti. There I had a bunch of friends my brother and my little sister and my mother in a house so bright.

    But you left me in the fields in the company of a little cat and the bitch Guardiola. Where could you still go? I have a great fear, father, when, razor in hand, you shave, that you might put on like you did your best clothes, and the freshest grapes and everything you might fit in a large basket and bring it to her to my mother in a house so very bright.

    But you left me in the country often with fleas and with gnats in the cave to listen to the wind blowing through the oaks. I refused to believe it the first time and after you I did come cowering; but After you beat me with the strap I was left alone, and grumbling spitefully, that evening when you left on the shady road behind the edge of the steep valley. Then I cried no more. How could I fall asleep at night? Yews, foxes and untrustworthy men filled my valley with their rustles. Tane grotte voragini.

    Parole cerchi, segni. The works anthologized appear in print for the first time. In my youth, the only thing guiding me on my linguistic journeys was my intuitive love of writing. Peasants and artisans had spoken it well. But now those who do are few and far between. It was the language of my petit-bourgeois milieu and of my friends—who were of working- class and subproletarian backgrounds.

    In contrast, the historical and philological culture of Potenzan got integrated into the form and content of my Italian poetry. Lunetta, in Da Lemberg a Cracovia, cit. Martelli, in Sulla soglia della memoria Salerno: Edisud, Giulio Ferroni, in Storia della letterature italiana Turin: Einaudi, Penalty Kick Pstrigne was playing a dirty game and Ntriscina bit at the bait, hotly demanding penalty kicks like the Devil asks for flour Pstrigne forced his hand with a two-pronged thrust and a flagrant clip Moon Aura Last night I saw a moon so pure it defied every space-flight science.

    It loomed larger than earth and I was sure the world and I were already dead. It wasnt a moon but a dream lost in bygone days when murder didnt exist. Yellow moon, violet star, I was oblivious to killers and crooks because I was dead and the moon deaf and dumb Maria Maria. Maria, Maria Maria sang and sang unawares she was a whore. She always wore skirts unawares she was a whore.

    Hindaco e Francesco "Hai delle isole negli occhi" - Battles - TVOI 2019

    Subsequently he published the results of his research on Lucanian culture: Centri intellettuali e poeti della Basilicata del Secondo Cinquecento and Basilicata tra Umanesimo e Barocco Pursuing his cultural studies as means of reflection on the Problem of the South, Nigro produced essays on Antonio Persio and Bernardino Telesio, Vincenzo and Porfido Bruno, Carlucci, and Rocco Scotellaro and anthologies of Southern poets of the second half of the twentieth century.

    Other important dramatic works: Bande e Discarica , Hohenstaufen and Il santo e il leone. Poetry published: Giocodoca and La metafisica come scienza. These poems play on and experiment with mass media language and the transformation of contemporary culture via news theater and spectacle. In , Nigro and a group of Puglian poets founded the avant-garde Interventi culturali.

    In , he started to publish the journal Fragile , which metamorphosized into In-Oltre. The poems anthologized, all written in Melfitan, are previously unpublished. He can be considered an experimental poet; but he does not belong to that squad of avant-gardists who announce the Apocalypse then fraternize with the enemy on neutral ground. Instead, Nigro is among the few poets who wage a real war for renewal in language and thought and who take the personal risks of being considered gadflies. His work is typical of a poet and a man who is uncompromising and who strives to capture the inexpressible and transcend cultural oppression by inventing a new language in confrontation with the conventional.

    He goes beyond the formulae of absolutist realism to devise his own uncontaminated, integral, diverse form and content. His vehicles are metaphors, alliteration, transgression. Thus he presents an authentic ludibrium falsae veritatis, letting his play spirit run wild on its mathematical course where fury and life artfully collide. Faceme pace, non so ie curu galiota ca pensate. I recoil brandishing my fist at these throngs of ocular ruts. Peace, I am not the pander you think.

    Peace--or else laid out in my coffin on that last night of fear must I keep watch over your dissolution? Must I watch you watching me, bit by bit, dissolve? The garden, the woods, the valleys are beds without rest, beds are these roads, these palaces and dwellings amassed one upon another by earthquakes. I climb up every day where a castle juts to embrace the valleys in my eyes and the higher I scale the more landscapes open to me: roof-tops, gradients, squares