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Italian poetry--Translations into English. For information and for orders, write to: Presently it is possible to identify a few phases that start with the first works which are substantially a testimony of the experience of immigration, written in a cursory Italian, often with the help of native authors, finally to become works of considerable complexity in language and subject matter. The autobiographical narrative and the memoir have given way to the escapist novel and more experimental fiction and now we have reached the stage of fantasy, noir, and sci-fi literature.

When we speak of literature of migration we adopt a definition borrowed from English, useful for understanding one another, but which in reality downplays the complexity of the phenomenon. Many others could be employed — literature of hybridization, global or worldwide — each equally valid and equally limiting.

It is very difficult to label the shared word that has its origin in migration, it is only possible with cross and deeply intercultural definitions that yet belong to us only in a small measure. Somehow we need to understand each other, and in the past definitions have been necessary to protect this literary phenomenon and allow it to gain some space of its own.

The literature of migration is a long way from being considered a sub-genre, and maybe be even a genre. It has a particular connotation, migration, which unites all writers in a plural identity which makes them similar and dissimilar at the same time, unique in the constantly different alchemy that characterizes them. It occupies more and more a place of primary importance, destined to grow as does the quality of a writing with a strong ethical underpinning, rich with stories and events and innovative in its language. It is so important that I believe the time has now come to stop using categories and instead work out together a redefinition of its acceptance.

In other words, it is necessary to redraw as soon as possible the critical parameters with which Italian literature itself has been judged and classified until now, since through other literatures grafted onto its language it is now forced to seriously rethink its very reason for being, its very destiny. But it must be a process of assimilation that takes into accounts the differences all the same. The world today is something with uncertain spatial and temporal boundaries, which an immense mass of precarious individuals traverses driven by need, by wants of all kind, especially primary and vital ones, but also by ones that are more sophisticated and privileged.

Globalization is nothing more than the reassuring name given to a phenomenon whose significance is still partly being ignored, even if it is disquieting; it is the label with which the ongoing explosive process of the known universe is defined and formalized, an enlightened and advanced way to greet the apocalypse. In other words, one can certainly be a migrant without being a writer—and this should be remembered, so as not to judge in a naive and hypocrite way so much bad literature of migration in a naive and hypocritical way—but one cannot absolutely be a writer without being a migrant.

For this reason, even the most local of writers from the province, who knows and speaks only his own minority dialect, must necessarily be, if he is really a writer, radically and inevitably a migrant. What then characterizes migrant writing beyond the language it uses? The multiple identity of which it is composed, the stratification of destinies and future projects that guides its voice; an ever- changing formula that allows it to be different every moment, a stranger to itself, in a constant renewal of its own volatile essence. The main characteristic that emerges from this new poetry in Italian which we are attempting to present—and that in a certain sense guarantees its necessity, its existence as poetry—is first of all the high degree of ethical content it displays, rooted in history.

Its strength derives from the twofold components of migration: What identifies migrant poetry is still the linguistic element, which is at the core of the question of identity. Next to the hegemonic language, or if one prefers the language of globalization, which English certainly is, a beautiful language that should be studied in all it complexity and richness—as it becomes more and more a basic language of communication thanks to the new technologies that bring together geographically and culturally distant worlds, two other languages are emerging: It is the language that the migrant writer necessarily finds in the various stations of his migratory pilgrimage and at the same time decides autonomously to adopt in order to express his inner world.

A language, then, which is imposed and elected at the same time. Thus there are no doubt differences between a literature that uses a language chosen freely, and one written in a language somehow imposed by circumstances. It is this difference that, in its uniqueness, lends such importance to the case of literature in Italian, a language without a significant colonial past that would place it among post-colonial literatures, but with which it shares many stylistic traits. It is a characteristic of Italian, in fact, the very epitome of a high literary language, to be contaminated, impure, dialectal as well, to be characterized by a twofold impetus, conservative and subversive, inherent to its history.

Italy has always searched for a unitary language, periodically questioned and debated, and today, in a situation of political and cultural stagnation, in which Italian is strongly influenced by the language of advertising and the media, in a linguistic and literary homogenization which tests the very existence of poetry, this very language of migration, timely and naturally revolutionary, vital, holds the promise to restore Italian to its true richness.

It is a painful road marked by scars, but which for this very reason guarantees the authenticity of poetry. One can speak of a real movement that has blossomed around the phenomenon, with all its diatribes and contradictions. It is necessary at this point to make a comparison between migrant writers and native writers—the immobile travelers—an artistic cross- collaboration under the aegis of contamination and heterogeneity. Indispensable to the former, on the one hand, in order to free the exhausted, self- referential language of poetry from its baroque and hermetic excesses and from the experiments of a certain avant-garde, now in rear guard; and to the latter so that they can be accompanied in the refining of their linguistic instrument without risking a flattening and impoverishment of the poetic language.

The common adoption of the free verse, for instance, is deeply influenced by the poetic tradition of the countries of origin, often rooted in orality, and it grafts its rhythms and harmonies onto Italian poetry, creating sound patterns that redirect the metric perception toward an auditory experience. In the case of the migrant poets the difficulty is double: 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.


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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. 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. 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.

Letteratura artistica: maggio

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. 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.

Oriana. Una donna

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. 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.

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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. Difficulty in tearing the quiet flash And then what, of an eagle that picks up the tribes of the insult? And what about its severe hostility? Then what will remain among the density of the city the bursting of the dam? Clouds spring tears towards the eye sockets, towards the suburb, beyond the debris and violence in the dark night.

Arianna Trainito esegue "Donne" di Stefania Noce

I ignored it and ignore it. All has by now entered this time of history: Pioggia sopra il nostro espatrio. Signore della roccia credono la Morte madre dei nostri figli, la credono signora dei nostri poeti. Rain on our expatriation. Ladies of the rock believe Death mother of our children, believe it to be the lady of our poets.

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Now I need a song of love that tells the story that I embrace offering my forgiveness. Neppure fuoco sui confini. Se abbaiasse sul tuo viso il vento Che rotolino i giorni e il tuo rifugio triste! Non ho detto che sono del nostro sangue. Non ho detto che i loro elmi rotondi sono regalo della sera. Non ho detto che una terra proibisce ai suoi figli di entrare in un giardino: Not even fire on the borders.

If the winds were to bark over your face Let the days and your sad refuge roll on! You are following the wheat without wings from sidewalk to exile from paradise to fire or from fire to fire The first day stitched up your whimper, the Bedouin soldiers sewed you only some of them excluded. And you are following the grain without wings from sidewalk to exile from paradise to fire and from fire to fire. Ho strappato la punta delle lancette che scimmiottano le ore della mia morte dalle ombre livide inclinate. E la pianta eretta nella sua crescita incerta somiglia alle nostre mani.

Vieni, io costantemente ti chiamo, e la mia luna scioglie il ghiaccio della solitudine. Muri, eremiti sospesi nella condotta da ruffiani che hanno posto sotto la testa la pietra corrotta della mia mano, le mie mani tremanti nella marcia spettro della poesia. I ripped the point of the hands that mimic the hours of my death from sloping livid shadows.

And the standing plant in its uncertain growth resembles our hands. Come, I call you constantly, and my moon melts the ice of solitude. Walls, men lined up and prostitutes standing. Walls, hermits suspended condoned by pimps that have placed under the head the corrupt stone of my hand, my trembling hands in the march specter of poetry. Nella notte dicendo il grazioso sogno silente, seduta in quarantena. Tu, profeta analogo dal grido soffocante nella gola, lo sguardo fisso sulle porte chiuse spezza le ostinate barriere del cielo.

Questo tempo che io ho preso solo per gioco. Nella notte seduta, leggera, le mie mani si allontanano dal sibilo della frusta, e come si trascinano il lucchetto e la catena dietro di me! Quando con un voto alla stella di fronte alla finestra vuota io danzo. Mi getto coraggiosa nella vita. In the night saying the charming silent dream, seated in quarantine. Ah, but how heavy beats here the stroke of the clock! This time that I took only for a game. In the night seated, light, my hands move away from the hissing of the whip, and how they drag the padlock and the chain behind me!

When with a vow to the star in front of the empty window I dance. My reckless enthusiasm at the beginning of the trip. Ah, this autumn, vain cypress of your four seasons! I throw myself courageously into life.

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Tu resta, che non manchi la tua ombra dalla mia testa di girasole. Stay, that your shadows will not be absent from my sunflower head. I morti delle diverse ombre dicono: For friendship the tree knocks at the window. I know when I throw the noose, before the trip, the tree strangles me. The tree promised to your skeleton. The dead of different shadows say: And when I wait for death that the condemned from aligned trees know, the command that frees the space is the wind in the air. E la luce tremante, nel tempo del mio sonno, guarda la mia veglia.

Avevo gli occhi negli occhi del vino per poterti bere. Ah, my heart, you so soft playmate of the moon with wings bright and dark you delayed the entrance of the moon. And the light trembling, in the time of my dream, watches my wakefulness. From the tree no sign, all of a sudden the vase of color breaks in the middle of the sky. I had eyes in the eyes of the wine so I could drink you. The measured chalice of my age and the bittersweet slash of a rebellious love. He works in Milan as a professional educator in the area of drug addiction and intercultural affiars. He is on the editorial board of the online trimonthly of literature of migrationEl Ghibli and contributes to many journals, among which Internazionale, il manifesto and Caposud.

His work has appeared in several anthologies of short stories and poetry. You leave a reality, an equilibrium, and enter in a new dimension, thus discovering analogies and differences, light and shadow, new noises, new sounds, new words. Feeling itself generates the need to communicate and make ones own emotions comprehensive for the listener. Words are thought, emotions just exist. What is really important for me is communication, the possibility to tell and de scribe to others what I am living, without appealing to a bilingual dictionary.

On the other hand, in the experience of migration words have the same power of notes: He lives in Trent. Among his published books are: Gianmario Lucini has written about him in Arnold de Vos. Do you ask me why I chose to write in Italian, I did not: I am a small fish not easy to take in, and this is not my home sea. Distance is reckoned to be the breeding ground of desire, a stimulus to authors. So, I succeded for the first time to write real Italian poetry my migrant voice, born in Holland, was accustomed to the use of the Italian language since , while staying with my Dutch wife as archaeologists in the loneliness of the Tunisian countryside near the Algerian border, and then by myself in Tunis.

Forse ho preso da lui. Ricaduta a distanza di tempo volente o nolente la raccolgo, una forma contorta che mi brucia tra le mani: La mano non data. Maybe I take after him. From the blast furnaces of our silence some residue has flown. Fallen again in due time willingly or unwillingly I pick it up, distorted shape burning my hands: The hand not given. The moth-eaten sweater reveals with delight a body that wrinkles.

Leaning against the front wall the new door is ready: La rosa della rugiada spina la voce che espettora gli struggimenti della notte e la lena della luce che torna. The rose of dew bone chips the voice coughing up nocturnal heartaches and the force of turning light. Uno si affeziona al male per la bellezza, la vigoria e il rigoglio. One is drawn to sickness because of beauty, vigor and growth. Even water is a gift and I carry the fertilizer which I eat from my garden.

What is mine of botanical arts I gladly husband to a lovely plant. And if you have given me eyes to see beware, if it was to poison my life. Sono davanti al tavolo come davanti al muro. La parola mi inchioda, minchia. Essa ferisce e guarisce, nel mentre la vita va avanti e intristisce. I am in front of the table; as if in front of the wall.


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  • It wounds and heals, meanwhile life goes on and gets uglier. Solitudine divina, screzi buio e luce del pensiero. I sette giorni della settimana sono tutti per te: Salvati con il frutto della mente se in previsione non hai il frutto del ventre. Heavenly solitude, you tinge the dark and light of thought. The seven days of the week are entirely for you: They seek refuge where there is no refuge. Fra i due tramonti giorno e notte sgrottano il grande occhio della creazione. Dawn opens up to hope. Between the two sunsets day and night unwrinkles the great eye of creation.

    Siamo stati creati, ma non finiti: We have been created but not completed: A varcare stretti clandestini anche se non sappiamo nuotare: To cross clandestine straits even when unable to swim: The ancient tribe of the desert blocked by frontiers, shuttered in cities flies at the height of the skyscraper on carpets woven inside the tent in the image and likeness of the rare heavens of prosperity, God willing.

    They shatter on marble pavements already cracked, because the place is in shambles. I would have done better to cloister myself, but what clause is enclosure? Suffering for the beauty of creation is our tribute to the body that we rent. Insieme, e mai insieme. Separati dalla cortina invisibile della convenienza: E lo hai fatto. Together and never together. Divided by the invisible curtain of convenience: A crooked love was born that I pay off in solitude. My love is a basket weave with broken wickerwork everywhere: Composizione per la decomposizione.

    The old man stares at his useless clean poems, when cleanliness is no longer desired. Composing for the decomposing. Penso alla mia lontana figura sulla luna che il bosco si riprende. I stagger among the tree trunks, an old bark my feet ambushed by the thick under-bush. I think of my distant image on the moon that the forest reclaims.

    Dew, what moist carpet you have put down on the mad planet where chipmunks rain down egg-shaped nuts while a church bell invites the spirited mob of this world to come to mass. He received a degree in Albanian literature at Elbasan and in modern literature from La Sapienza in Rome. In he published in Albania his first collection of poetry, Antologia e shiut Anthology of the Rain , which came out after five years of censorhip with the editor N.

    A quelle che si sono arrese e a quelle convinte di potersi accontentare. As Patricia Tallakson maintains, epigraphs open a dialogue with the original text and its author. At various points throughout the narration Maiorana underlines this responsibility, through direct address to the readers. Through vivid multi-sensorial description, Maiorana creates the illusion that we are eyewitnesses to a scene unfolding in downtown Catania on a spring day in As a ragged, unkempt man lies nearly unconscious on the ground, a young woman is the only one to break the wall of indifference and fear demonstrated by bystanders, as she assumes responsibility to give aid to the stranger.

    Through this imaginative reconstruction, the author creates the illusion that Stefania defines her own civil identity and essential components of the person she was and for which she must be remembered. The narration of facts that took place on 27 December , the day Stefania Noce was killed, opens with an idyllic vision of her birthplace, Licodia Eubea, where she lived with her mother and grandparents.

    The author immediately alters the emotional and temporal registers through a flash forward to events that, in relation to the narrative present, have not occurred: By employing this technique, Maiorana builds suspense, and moreover, positions the readers as witnesses to the actions suffered by Stefania, which are presented from diverse points of view and in juridical and personal discourses through a creative montage.

    Il sangue, a symbol of vital life e then violent death, links the traumatic loss suffered in the private, family space to the traumatic loss suffered in the public, social space, and marks the wound inflicted on the community of Licodia Eubea. The Carabinieri conclude their findings, stating: Such constructions make it seem as if the murders of women are contingent upon uncontrollable, inexplicable forces and constitute anomalous cases; they thereby prevent understanding feminicide as a systemic national problem deriving from normalized social and cultural structures of maschilist thought and behaviors in everyday life.

    In the first testimonial sequence Maiorana alternates between two stylistic and discursive registers: Maiorana elaborates the microhistory lived by Stefania along with those lived by fellow women which together stand as synechdoche for the macrohistory of Italy, and examines masculinist assumptions, ideas and behaviors that create the socio-cultural conditions from which feminicide derives.

    Through specific rhetorical strategies the author spotlights the role of readers as witnesses called upon to think about the social problems evidenced in the text, creating new images of the relation between the individual and the material conditions that contribute to feminicide. Through the shoes, Maiorana evokes the phantasmic voices of the women victims who speak to reader witnesses and put into question their involvement: La sentite la paura?

    Lo sentite lo sgomento? Si chiama lutto, assenza, perdita. Siete davvero certi che le nostre storie non vi riguardino?