Guide La Scelta (Oltre la terra Vol. 1) (Italian Edition)

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2] (Italian Edition) - Kindle edition by Glenn Cooper. note taking and highlighting while reading La porta delle tenebre: Dannati [vol. Buy now with 1- Click ® . potere, un giorno, dimenticare il cielo plumbeo e l'atmosfera opprimente dell'Oltre. Lei quindi non ha scelta: per salvarli, deve attraversare ancora una volta la.
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The idiomatic expression to be caught in offside cannot be translated literally. Football corpora in English provide confirmatory evidence that there are some expressions which require a different method of translation: However, in terms of rendering the equivalence in Italian and Persian, the is- sue of appropriateness introduced by Newmark should be taken into consideration.

The researcher came up with the word harif in the Persian language which seems to be more acceptable for follow- ers of football in Iran. In Italian, this expression can be translated as avversaria. Thus, there is no war-related connotation in English football terminology compared to Italian and Persian. So the allusion to war has been added to the target languages. Conclusion Football is the most popular sport in Italy24 and Iran25 and carry- ing out research projects in this field is both interesting and essential.

This study aimed to investigate and trace the strategies used in trans- lating football terminology from English into Italian and Persian. After investigating and tracing the translation theories in the target texts, this study came to posit that it is more appropriate to reduce the images to literal language for the Persian language as in the Italian language indirect loanwords can be found in Italian football terminology.

What has emerged from the set of examples compared and analysed in this essay validates the view that translating football texts can be particularly challenging as a manifestation of football language is code-mixing This study has also shed light on how the language of football works, particularly its use of semi-fixed expressions. Furthermore, parallel texts are considered to be an invaluable help for translators in every language so that they can come up with transferring the right meaning The opportunity to access parallel texts can be useful for checking the frequency of the synonyms and collocations28 in the target language.

Since football is a code-mixing language, translators, interpreters, and com- mentators need to be aware of the formation of their language production to prevent any mistranslation. Sociolinguistic Implications of Sports-Register Equivalence. Revista Veredas, 15 2. Free kicks, dribblers and WAGs.

Science and the Beautiful Game. An analysis of the war metaphors used in spo-ken commentaries of the edition of the Premier Soccer League PSL matches in Zimbabwe. Corpus approaches to critical metaphor analysis. Claims, Changes and Challenges in Translation Studies. Fahim Afarinasadi 51 Chomsky, N. Some controversial questions in phonologi- cal theory. Journal of Linguistics, 1, 97— The Cambridge encyclopedia of language Vol.

Cambridge University Press Cambridge. Translating medical ter- minologies through word alignment in parallel text corpora. Journal of Biomedical Informatics, 42 4 , — A history of Italian football. The metaphor system used to justify war in the Gulf. Metaphors We Live By. The Uni- versity of Chicago Press. The language of soccer — a sociolect or a register? The rhetoric of violence in Polish and English soccer. Language, Communication, Information, 87— A typology of code-mixing Vol. Clevedon, Phila- delphia, Adelaide: A Textbook of Translation. Metaphor in German live radio football com-mentaries.

John Benjamins Publishing Company. As an academic board member for Academic OASIS since , Fahim has authored mono- graphic studies and presented papers at international conferences in the fields of English and Translation, Etymology and Sociolinguistics of Sports. His doctoral research investigates localisation of football websites as multi-modal, cross-cultural communication. The translations have been also carried out by the author in consultation with Italian and Persian translators. Also, the following online resources have been used: Re- trieved from http: He also states that collocation is the habitual co-occurrence of lexi- cal items.

La traduzione era fatta bene ma quel brano mi parve proprio detestabile. Poesie del Fogazzaro entravano in una antologia inglese del di cui tratteremo oltre. From Cavalcanti to Fogazzaro, apparsa nel e recante fin nel titolo, come si vede, menzione del nostro autore. Questa consolidata reputazione estera non ci deve sorprendere. Ma osserviamo la cronologia delle opere di Fogazzaro in prima edizione italiana e in prima traduzione inglese: Miranda Valsolda Malombra Daniele Cortis Il mistero del poeta Piccolo mondo antico Poesie scelte Piccolo mondo moderno Il santo Leila Prime traduzioni: Tilton, New York, Holt; e poco dopo, trad.

Prichard-Agnetti, Lon- dra, Hodder and Stoughton; anche, stessa traduttrice, con pref. An Anthology of Forty Italian Poets. Translated into English Verse and with an Intr. Dei sette romanzi di Fogazzaro, cinque vengono tradotti e pubblicati per la prima volta dopo il , anno in cui esce Il santo. Ci imbattiamo in tratti ostici al lettore odierno, che si possono sintetizzare nelle caratteristiche seguenti.

Intanto, il linguaggio dal sapore antiquato, ottocentesco. I molti troncamenti in fin di verso e nel mezzo: Sperimenta tanti metri, e sembra usare talora una metrica accentuativa irregolare. Altro esempio, nella sezione Mistero del poeta vi: Quando il poeta si scorda della sua preparazione classica e mette da parte la retorica, abbiamo versi lisci, naturali nel linguaggio e scorrevoli nella prosodia cfr. Tutti i testi sono tradotti di sua mano.

A questo atteggiamento mentale necessariamente corrisponde uno JIT Tusiani include tre poesie di Fogazzaro nel suo From Marino to Marinetti. An Anthology of Forty Italian Poets , terzo volume di una vasta scelta di poesia italiana da San Francesco in poi, in traduzione inglese interamente sua. Nel raffrontare i due traduttori, vanno stabilite delle differen- ze. Usa un inglese decoroso, formale, con qualche tratto desueto.

Entrambe le aggiunte sono zeppe metriche, tuttavia non estra- nee al contesto: In Greene ritornano tratti antiquati e retorici: I due traduttori hanno delle espressioni in comune. Dal che si penserebbe ancora che il traduttore moderno potrebbe aver tratto spunti dal precedente. Vediamo tornare qui un espe- diente usato daTusiani per rendere anche altri metri: Ci fa tornare alla mente il caso di Emily Dickinson, che reclusasi vo- lontariamente per anni fra quattro mura nella sua casa di Amherst, nel Massachu- setts, scrisse quasi frammenti poetici che contribuirono a fondare la poesia americana moderna.

Ma alcuni tratti sembrano proprio ravvicinarla a questa Miranda reclusa in stanza. E forse il confronto testuale fra autore e autrice andrebbe esteso. Non solo qui, ma anche in altri luoghi notiamo questo as- sottigliarsi delle percezioni. Dovunque il guardo io volgo Dalle finestre, nereggiar li vedo A selve, a gruppi, or densi ora dispersi.

Come si aman gli abeti! Torno per un attimo alla Dickinson. In fatto di traduzione, le due recenti poesie rese da Joseph JIT Dagli spiriti mali, Signor, guarda i mortali! Dagli spiriti mali Guarda i mortali! Al bronzo ancora Sia pace. Con rotta lena Mia lunga pena Le piango omai. Solo un accento, Solo un lamento, Solo un sospiro Ancora, un bacio! Le stelle ridono Vaghe del nitido Speglio sereno; Mi trema e palpita Vespero in seno. Solo un accento, Solo un lamento, Solo un sospiro, Un bacio. The hour of darkness cometh. Come, let us pray.

Hear us, O Lord! Save Thine eternity, Are vanity. Echoes from the Valleys Vanity! For so much sin unknown, and so much pain. Echoes from the Valleys O Holy One! Echoes from the Valleys Alone canst tell! That lives its life intense, Loves, suffers Thine adverse Inscrutable decrees. Peace to the wave, to the hill These voices, too, be still: Echoes from the Valleys Peace!

One accent alone, One murmur, one moan. One sigh — only this — As thy pebbles I kiss. Be silent, O deep! The stars as they smile Fall in love for awhile With my mirror serene: In my bosom bright Vesper reflected is seen. One sigh — only this One kiss. The silent waves hear; The dark mountains hear; They list, and hear only My murmurs austere. Keep, Lord, from evil the men of dying day! The Bells of Osteno We, too, upon the waves from lonely shores must, one by one with deep voice run. And keep from evil the men of dying day! All the Bells The light is born and dies: All that has birth, save Your eternity, O Lord, on earth is vain.

Echoes from the Valleys Is vain. All grief and terror that still despise You, all human error that still denies You, all love by You not blest nor won, forgive, O Holy One! Echoes from the Valleys Can know the truth. Echoes from the Valleys Oh, peace! The Wave of the Lake And is the shore asleep, whose love I in me keep?

Only one word, only one cry, only one sigh, and one more kiss. Be still, oh, peace! The stars are smiling in this clear mirror, calm and beguiling; and Vesper trembles, and beats fast upon my breast. Only one cry, only one sigh, and one more kiss. The Waterfall of Rescia These waves have no more peace, these waves can no more cease: Talora per la tua porta che geme Entran lume di cielo, odor di mare, Qualche figura taciturna e mesta; Ed anche in me, talora, entrano insieme Un folle ardor vitale che dispare, Un dolce viso tenero che resta.

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To the Ideal and to the God I love one lamp still glows with its immortal light. At times through this your door, which seems to moan, fragrance of sea and glimpse of heaven pass, or some sad person, silent and forlorn. And so to me, at times, together come a frantic warmth of life that quickly wanes and a sweet face that tenderly remains. Fuor da ogni finestra Nel chiaror delle nebbie il lago appare, Quale deserto, sconfinato mare. Io sederei a poppa ed essi a prora; Senza parlar ci guarderemmo allora. Beyond, the lake appears in misty night, Like a deserted, boundless sea at night.

Could I sail out upon this desert sea, Sail out alone, sail out afar and free; And, when the vanishing shores are lost to view, Yield to my thoughts and to the waters blue! And they will see the bit of art I learned, and smile at such a little knowledge found; and when in vain they will have sought and sought, they will explore the cells of every thought. And then, before they leave me, with disdain they will, my darling, open this my heart, and out of it will dazzle then and there the deep-stored sunshine of your golden hair.

Looking at last at your fine hair of gold, and at your pensive eyes deep as the sea, JIT Si sentiano i canti ; E dopo, che silenzio! From my window, though, I saw so many people on the road Beyond the meadow. Feeble songs were heard. And then, what silence!

One small falling leaf I even heard as on the ground it lay. Strange, I can hear now every little sound. Gelido fu il viso, Gelide e rade furon le parole; Ma per mille reconditi pensieri Non detti mai, compresi, eran congiunte Le nostre vite. Confitti negli abissi dei burroni Dove sole non penetra, protesi Sulle cascate candide, sublimi Sulle torri scoscese ove non giunge Nemico piede, voi felici, abeti! Vorrei di qua levarmi, Non posso. How fir-trees love each other! But underneath, their slender roots are eager To search, embrace, and strengthen one another, In countless knots commingled avidly.

It was like this one day. We used to live One near the other. Still our looks were cold, And still our words were also cold and few; But through a thousand deeply hidden thoughts, Unsaid yet understood, our lives were bound. O fir-trees, happy fir-trees! Nailed and stuck Down in the depth of every precipice Where sunshine does not enter, springing up Over white-foaming cascades, and sublime Above steep, rugged towers where no foe Sets ever foot, O happy, happy trees!

Living together in dark solitude Suits you, nor are you pricked by other dreams, Under the snow, save of the future sun. How from this very pen Do such new ardent syllables come out? Am I perhaps this moment in his thoughts Or is my soul now touched by the warm breath Kindling his songs? Or is it only love, This love whereof I die, and which through forests And mountains keeps a part of him reserved For him alone?

She is the author of Speaking Spirits: His spirited sense of humor was on display, even well beyond the comic exempla that peppered his sermons, as evidenced by the painter Volterrano, who figured Piovano in animated dinner conversation https: Ever the jokester, Mainardi composed the epitaph for his own tomb in Florence, which in Italian reads: I had this tomb built for myself and for anyone else who might like to join me inside it.

The two anecdotes translated for the first time into English here are num- JIT The force behind the humor of such examples of early Italian popular literary prose often hinges on linguistic wordplay, including puns or sophisticated quips. Sometimes, as in the first case here, they implicitly critique the beliefs or behaviors of characters representing the cultural elite.

Facezie tend to be far shorter with less character and narrative development than the typical novella, and their messages are not aimed at moral edification, oftentimes deliberately satiriz- ing such writings, so they are not usually stated as explicitly as the lessons in exempla or favole, for instance. Among other Italian writers of motti and facezie are Franco Sacchetti in his Trecentono- velle, as well as Poggio Bracciolini and Giovanni Pontano , who wrote their anecdotes in Latin.

While I did not analyze the Motti e facezie di Piovano Arlotto in Speaking Spirits, I refer readers to it for examples of the myriad ways that other Renaissance Italians feigned ghostly voices for their own purposes. The protagonist of the first translated anecdote is Lionardo, the soul of Leonardo Bruni Although originally from Arezzo, Bruni rose to become the Florentine Cancelliere della Repub- blica from until his death. He is esteemed among the great Renaissance Italian humanists for his scholarly contributions, which include the Historiae florentini populi in twelve volumes, his two Dialogi ad Petrum Paulum Histum, the De interpretatione recta, biographies of Dante and Petrarch, and translations from Greek JIT Here Mainardi effectively denounces Bruni for his perceived sin of greed by fictionally representing the charge as a self-accusation made by the roving spirit.

He implies that the imperious Muses are ultimately unreliable. Arlotto neither comes across as heartlessly cruel, nor at all religiously abstemious; his act of withholding wine from the equally etiquette-challenged ghost of the humanist may suggest that Arlotto finds Lionardo to be exaggerating the urgency of his thirst. Nevertheless, I opted for this translation, which captures the hyperbole with a similarly colloquial tone, but also tickles the awkwardness of a ghost complaining of a bodily necessity.

Just as Petrarch trembled, froze, and burned out of love of Laura, so Bruni responds to his own passion, which is notably not for the state of his soul. Another esteemed historical figure mentioned in this facezia is Jacopone da Todi c. He was the Franciscan friar who composed pious lauds, primarily in veneration of the Virgin Mary. The lines attributed here to Jacopone da Todi do not exist in any of his lauds known to us today, but are likely intended to resemble his devout verses because there is a deliberate play on words. But in a different tone or with a different emphasis, the same lines can sound greedy and possessive, akin to: The second anecdote presents its own translation dilemmas, primarily in the form of idiomatic expressions, but also a similarly rhymed incantation to dispel the morning fog, that is the brain fogginess of the hangover that Nastagio and Zuta appear to be experiencing after over-imbibing the previous night.

Given the narrative context Piovano is one who can talk his way out of any situation and the deeper etymology related to speech of fante one with the capacity of speech; an infant, in fact, is a being who does not yet speak , I emphasized this aspect in the translation: Piovano is a clever and consummate talker. Another idiomatic expression is non tenne la pania something did not go as expected , which is similar to cadere nella pania to fall into a trap , in that case, something akin to: In fact, Nastagio and Zuta originally aimed to get Piovano to pay for their wine, but they instead pay for Malvasia for all three of them in order to learn how the clever Piovano casts a spell to dispel their fog.

The incantation rhymes in the original Italian, but it is awk- ward: It is a choice that I fretted at far greater length than will appear on the page. I am grateful to Linda Lee, Tim Kirk, Michele Rossi, Gino Belloni, and my fellow translators of the Middlebury Bread Loaf workshop for their excellent questions and suggestions that kept me pondering deeply the process of rendering culture and language between contexts. On the Death of Leonardo Bruni from Arezzo Passing through Uccellatoio, Piovano Arlotto paused to ex- change a few words about business with Agnolo the innkeeper there.

Then he dismounted and was leading his horse into the stable when somebody — highly agitated and in a terrible hurry — called out to him: You must help me! What has become of that wisdom, learning, doctrine, and eloquence in Greek and Latin letters of yours? Where are those speeches worthy of Cicero that dazzled the entire world? Can it be that Fame and all the Muses who once bowed before you have now abandoned you so that you find yourself in this fix? I leave my body and all my possessions.

See what has become of me. Think of how I feel. I am very uncertain about my fate because I know the kind of life I led, especially in regard to my sin of greed, for which I made every type of wretched deal just to accumulate money and possessions. It cost me dearly but I never stopped wanting more. Piovano was absolutely transfixed, such that he remained there still as a statue for a full quarter hour.

When he regained his composure, he mounted and rode to Florence. For my part, I want to follow what that holy man, Brother Ja- copone da Todi said in one of his lauds, which is steeped in morals and good common sense: All is mine, I laud Since I rejoice and give, by God! And they gave charitably to wickedness together with the intention from that point on to do their utmost to always indulge themselves. Apparvemi vostro padre e salutommi e disse: Io mi ti raccomando. Vedi se tue farnetichi: A vision came to me just before daybreak, and it feels like a thousand years passed before you arrived Piovano, I beg you, do this good act and quickly, and for our part your money is not better spent than in buying Nastagio and me a half carafe of Malvasia.

I come here only to realize that you want me to work? And if he had lived eight more days, he would have been hanged. I would not waste one coin on him. But if you two want to buy a jug of Malvasia for the three of us, I will teach you an enchantment, one that dispels the morning fog, so that it will never disturb you. Her most recent works are: Renato Filippelli, , authored eight books of poetry during his lifetime: His complete works were recently published: Tutte le poesie, Gangemi Editore, Author of six critical books and numerous educational text- books as well as newspaper and literary journal articles, Filippelli is a deeply religious poet with strong roots in Southern Italy.

His major themes are historical and cultural focusing on the plight of Southern Italy, on nature and on the minority of exploited or abused creatures and persons. These are the first English versions of his work. Ti strapperanno con oscura forza, ignara e dolce, dalla solitudine. Io sentii da lontano il suo schioppo. Nulla gli dissi, lo guardai negli occhi.

They will tear you, with dark strength you, unknowing and tender, from solitude. Slobber oozing hatred will drip on your innocence. To a Dog They killed you one morning, and you were old and so tired that not even a cry rose from your throat, few drops stained the dirt road. I heard the gunshot from afar. I said nothing, looked at him in the eyes.

He approached you, the coward, pointed his arm at you, checking to see if you would fight back, then he touched you no longer afraid. But you were still alive, you raised your eyes to his face, veiled by the agony, but without rancour, sad, slowly you licked his hand with your faithful mouth. Quelle erano le nostre donne, negli scialli del pianto: There appeared our women, wrapped in shawls of mourning proud figures who surrendered to hunger and came down from the mountains.

They were behind their lined up pails, gestures of fretful but determined creatures, earth rekindling their faces with each breath of shame. And so too the British soldier showed compassion for those shadows hovering at dusk: Oh My Beloved Dead The South burned you with staunch sun oh my own dead, my restless dead shy figures like the twisted roots of my life where a declining light deepens. The subdued event of shadows that descend from you to the sea I feel pass over me, as the earth feels the vast murmur of the grass in the rapid sweep of wind E tu fosti una statua di silenzio coi figli stretti intorno ai tuoi ginocchi, e mamma ti guardava dalla soglia.

Cadde tutta la vigna giovinetta. Tu rimanevi come un capitano fiero davanti alla sua schiera morta. They circled you with their snickers prostrating the delicate shoots, the roots planting their machine guns they searched your eyes to find your agony. As though you were a statue of silence with your children clinging to your knees and Mother watching from the doorway. All the young vineyard fell. You remained like a proud captain in front of your dead ranks.

From Ritratto da nascondere, , Tutte le poesie Grass Grass is born on the edge of the roads it lives on a drop of light. Over the centuries the human grass of the South felt the harsh steps of men, ignorant and on purpose, press down then leave, it bent over without dying, laid down curled up in the knots of its roots, in the slow agony of its land. Allora, in quel lontano chiarore si sbatteva, con lunghe ali di gioia, come un gabbiano, la mia infanzia. Then, in that faraway brightness writhed my childhood like a seagull with long wings of joy, Now my blind soul digs furrows in the Earth like a mole.

His collections of poetry include Otto febbraio Scheiwiller, ; Giorni di scuola Edimond, ; Piccole poesie per banconote Polistampa, ; Corpuscolo Einaudi, ; Vecchi filmati Manni, and Mancanze Einaudi, He is also the author of the critical work Il cieco e la luna. Parlava… Le carezzai piano piano i capelli. Era tornata la calma sembrava. La mattina le carezzai i capelli. Poi, tutta la giornata. Spoke in her sleep. I slowly, slowly stroked her hair.

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Things turned calm it seemed. In the morning I stroked her hair. And again, at night, upon going to bed my hand reached for the silk of her tormented little head. Era anziano e malato. Era stato un buon pianista. E adesso, in poltrona, leggeva una partitura, eseguendola in mente. He was old and sick. He had been a fine pianist.

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And now, in his armchair, he read a score and played it in his head. And thought is something no less incredible, if you think about it, this nothing that becomes word and movement, the stream of terms that exercises its right to be pronounced in silence and flow here transcribed, the immaterial within the material -or perhaps in its void -like Grace in its mortal body.

Her PhD is in Paleoanthropology, and her studies took her to Middle Paleolithic excavations in France and Germany, where her long- dormant love of languages was rekindled. After a second visit to Italy in , she began studying Italian at the University of Ari- zona, beginning with Italian and proceeding through all the undergraduate courses. She discovered her passion for translat- ing with the very first poem in a level Italian literature class, and began translating WWII-era short stories in with Beppe Cavatorta. He is the editor of several books and anthologies: Bal- leriniana with Elena Coda, , A.

He is also the author of Scrivere contro Writing against, , in which he recreated a profile of experimental writing in Italy from the be- ginning of the twentieth century to the late s. Cavatorta also specializes in the theory and practice of translation and cultural interchange. He has published his translations of several American poets into Italian in the anthologies Nuova poesia Americana: San Francisco New American poetry: San Francisco, and Nuova poesia Americana: New York New American poetry: In he edited for Mondadori Poesie — Poems, — , the collected poetry of Luigi Ballerini.

Cavatorta is finally the co-editor with Luigi Ballerini of Those who from afar Look Like Flies, an anthology of Italian poetry from Officina to the present. The second volume is in the making. In , after living in various small towns throughout Italy, he settled in Rome, where he taught elementary school for the rest his life. With Il seme del piangere The seed of tears, the poet returns to the style of his early collections and more traditional poetic forms.

The comprehensive col- lection Tutte le poesie The collected poems; published by Garzanti in contains numerous previously uncollected poems. Caproni was an amateur violinist, and music is central to this collection, in which the rhythm of the poems mirrors that of the hunt, a symbol for the attempt to capture meaning through poetry.

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After the death of Caproni in , Giorgio Agamben edited a new collection of his poems entitled Res amissa Things removed. Le riconosceva una per una, come il pastore riconosce le sue pecore, e nel sole infinito che batteva su di esse fermava a lungo lo sguardo su quelle pietre cariate — sul suo paese tagliato dalla rotabile a fondo valle, con tutte le case vecchie ad eccezione della sua e di poche altre, candide pei muri di calce al sole.

Her eyes came to rest on each, confirming them one by one, as a shep- herd does his sheep. And as the endless sun beat down on them, her gaze came to rest at last upon those crumbling stones — upon her village divided by the road at the bottom of the valley, upon all the old houses with their white-washed walls except for hers and a few others glowing in the sun.

But, she regained her composure — she had quietly accepted this new force growing in her; it was almost as if she had discovered that she was pregnant again. And without answering the children, filled with a profound sense of calm, she took them back to the place of her self-imposed exile over the stable in Casanova.

And looking at those planks, with cracks as wide as a finger letting the sour stink of the animals waft up, looking at her children who were so vulnerable, she wanted to explain to them the thing that she could not explain even to herself—she would have liked to instill in them at least a little of the immense hot tide that was in her, that thing that she seemed no longer able to contain. But she could say only this to her children, who had probably forgotten their question anyway: Right now they are there, and our house is no longer our own.

She laid them gently on the planks, in the pungent warm air that came up from the barn, and as soon as they had fallen asleep, she had drifted back into her thoughts. In her mind, she was climbing up the ridge and staring one-by-one JIT Un uomo, pensava Rina, simile alla gente nostra — un uomo con le nostre parole liguri sulle labbra ma incomprensibile per il significato diverso che in lui prendevano le stesse parole usate da lei o dette dalla sua gente a lei. E le pareva proprio di sentirsi ancora una volta incinta ripensando alla sera in cui il tenente con un libro in mano era disceso in cucina dalla camera a lei usurpata.

Io ammirerei suo marito se fosse qui con noi. Li ripeteva lenti — erano versi penetrati in lei lentamente, una nostalgia di lui, non ligure, per lei e i monti della Liguria di lei. Li aveva scritti suo marito in guerra e cosa poteva capire del loro lamento il tenente fascista? She saw the lieutenant in her most private room sleeping in her bed, with a machine gun on her pillow.

He is a man, thought Rina, not unlike our people — a man who speaks our Ligurian dialect, but is somehow incomprehensible; he spoke the same words that she used and that others spoke to her, but their meanings were twisted and distorted coming from his lips.

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She saw again in her mind the lieutenant entering her house for the first time with his men, and she finally concluded this: Because this is what she had felt: And now the warm and infinite wave that was in her grew as she replayed in her mind the Fascist officer in the semi-dark kitchen giving her orders with a voice that had tried in vain to be kind, while his men were taking over her rooms and her kitchen utensils. Rooms and utensils that they had stolen, just as they had stolen the Ligurian words — stolen, not in the sense that those things belonged to her the partisans had also used those rooms and things, except that in that case, it was natural and right, as if she herself had used them , but rather, she recognized, because the Fascists had used those very things against her, by making her an instrument in their scheme, and thus turning her against every true thing.

And it felt again as if she were pregnant, thinking of the night when the lieutenant had come down to the kitchen, down from the bedroom he had stolen from her, with a book in his hand. I would admire him if he were here with us. In any case, here is a truly beautiful poem, with words that even I understand.

Now Rina repeated the verses to herself from memory, just to make them real again. She recited them slowly — they were verses that entered her slowly: E la paura le era venuta la notte, dormendo con la madre vecchia e i bambini in cucina. Cui essi risposero una sola cosa: E allora mentalmente disse: He had written these words in war. What of their lament could this Fascist lieutenant possibly understand? But it was exactly this that infuriated her: And because of this, she felt him now, with those intimate words coming from his mouth, more than ever her enemy over there in her bed; he was clearly a wrong that must be righted at all cost.

And now I can say that we will go back tomorrow. The woman had fallen sound asleep in front of the JIT Volle lei stessa chiudere gli occhi ai morti e prima che ad ogni altro a Sardegna morto col pugno chiuso. When the first firing began, she told the children, who had been startled awake, that a show had begun. The October nights were becoming quite cold, so Rina hurried quickly to the house that was finally hers again.

There were still fresh droppings from mules and horses on the road through Loco, and in the house an unbearable musty smell of strangers. But why had that hot wave inside her not cooled? She had heard that four partisans had been killed, finished off by the lieutenant just before he left, each with a shot to the neck, and that was foremost in her mind — more than the intense joy that her house was her own again. Really, and she felt quite sincere thinking this she would have preferred to lose the house than to have these men lose their lives.

Because she felt vaguely that they had died for her, so that she could take back her house—for herself, for her children, and also for her husband, whenever he might return. She left her children with her mother, saying: Il Natale diceva Pablo Ma il Natale non era sotto quegli alberi vetrificati di gelo e di luna.

She wanted to close the eyes of the dead herself, and first among them, Sardegna who lay with fist clenched. A fist, even when abandoned on the cement that way, that before was truly hard and Ligurian, despite his assumed name of Sardegna. And at last, without a tear, she knew that she had found a match for that immense, almost living thing in her belly: Per- haps it was one of the last chestnut husks, weighed down by the snow.

All four of them were focusing on those soft thuds each clump fell, echo- ing the distant muffled rumble of mortar fire. If they were pleased that Pablo continued talking, it was only to see the cloud of vapor coming out of his mouth in the glimmer of the moonlit: It was not even down in the valley where the Trebbia River, choked with enormous ice floes, bottle-green under the moon, no longer flowed along the village that kept all its lights extinguished; and it was not even in the city: With almost every blast — maybe while someone a child, a little girl, a mother died because of that strike, under the rubble of a wall -- another clump of snow slid from the trees, and fell softly as Pablo continued talk- ing, and someone died.

But while the bells were silent, and not one single light was on, why did Pablo, continue to speak on that night between the 24th and 25th of December of Christmas that was no longer there, either, a few kilometers away from the village? The clumps of snow continued to fall softly, echoing the distant mortars. It was a night, this is certain: Le traduzio- ni sono comparse sulla rivista El Ghibli - e su altre riviste online e cartacee. Le sue raccolte poetiche sono state tradotte in varie lingue, tra cui francese, spagnolo, norvegese, finlandese, sloveno e afrikaans.

Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in oltre 50 antologie e libri di testo. Libri e tascabili Prairie Pub Poems tascabile, poesia. Wind Songs tascabile, poesia Thistledown Press, Saskatoon, Prairie Pub Poems poesia. Thistledown Press, Saskatoon, Pear Seeds in My Mouth tascabile, poesia. Sesame Press, Windsor, Jan Lake Poems poesia. Harbour Publishing, Madeira Park, Hold the Rain in Your Hands: Coteau Books, Regina, Poems Across Borders poesia.

Air Canada Owls poesia. Nightwood Editions, Madeira Park. West Into Night poesia. Jan Lake Sharing poetry chapbook. Privately printed, Saskatoon, with Jim Harris. Birchbark Meditations poetry chapbook. Writers of the Plains, New Mexico, Icons of Flesh poesia. Ekstasis Editions, Victoria, Today I Belong to Agnes poesia. Leaving Holds Me Here: Selected Poems poetry. Frog Hollow Press, Victoria, Smoky Peace Press, Grande Prairie, Halo of Morning tascabile, poesia. Leaf Press, Lantzville, Language of Horse poesia online; tascabile, poesia Coracle Press, Montreal, Road Apples tascabile, poesia Rubicon Press, Edmonton, What We Miss poesia.

Looking Back Sometimes I am shaken by a desire to return to that child I was- endless days under a vast sky, sun omnipresent as the mongrel that dogged my footsteps. A half-century and more removed, I remember each day bloomed wonder. Never bored, I did not realize how poor we were, having so much. Perhaps it is our nature to hold hard to what causes least pain? To indulge moments of nostalgia is no act of foolishness. Sguardo sul passato A volte sono scosso da un desiderio di ritornare il bambino che ero — giorni infiniti sotto un cielo immenso sole onnipresente come il cane bastardo che mi tallonava.

La raccolta si articola in cinque parti: Suspension of Belief Cables, ropes and wooden slats create a seemingly fragile sagging arc high above the crash and dash of Capilano Canyon. In my eyes this is not a bridge — but rather, some adult deceit designated to instill fear in a small boy. Father takes my hand, envelops it in warmth, strength and security a child comes to accept as truth. Beneath my feet faith and trust teeter and sway side to side, nothing beneath me but a void my fear has filled. Mio padre mi prende la mano, la avvolge col calore, la forza e la sicurezza che un bambino riconosce come veri.

Sotto i miei piedi fede e fiducia traballano e oscillano fianco a fianco, niente sotto di me se non un vuoto colmato dalla mia paura. The Thief Reflects Tell me, what have I stolen from you that you have missed? Surely you know I have taken only inessential fragments you would have shed without my help. I can in no way be dismissed as common thief, nor as cheap trickster. You must agree I am a thief of impeccable taste: I did choose you. Night is never dark enough for some.

There will always be things to hide. Cold speaks its own language. The deafest ear will hear something. Fear not the night, the dark, the cold. It is ourselves that we need to fear. An open heart will always be hurt. Close it if you must. Di sicuro sai che ho preso solo frammenti inessenziali li avresti sperperati senza il mio aiuto. Non posso proprio essere liquidato come ladro comune, o dozzinale truffatore. Devi convenire che sono un ladro di gusto ineccepibile: Sempre ci saranno cose da celare.

Il freddo parla la sua propria lingua. Paura non avere di notte, freddo, buio. Di noi stessi che dobbiamo aver paura. Tutti i cuori muoiono. Closed hearts only the pain of no. Only a fool tries to stop the wind. The same fool tries to stop hurt. The open hand feels good about itself. The closed hand always wonders why. Hourglass The evidence lies everywhere. We ignore the image — the bottom half, its increasing sand. It is funerals we attend with growing frequency that give us pause, make us feel the measure, the urgency, the anticipatory snare drum roll. Beat by beat, grain by grain.

I cuori chiusi solo la pena del no. Solo un folle tenta di fermare il vento. Lo stesso folle tenta di fermare il male. Clessidra Le prove sono ovunque. Make it Last A flash of orange and black through sun-splattered aspen leaves, the faintest glimpse of baltimore oriole; or the brilliant scarlet shoulder sheen as a red-winged blackbird warbles from its wind-bent cat-tail perch; or a high-above dissonant clamour of a passing startle of snow geese etched white on unmarred blue: Beauty surrounds us — no charge, no previous experience needed.

Beauty is Where You Find It Why deny Beauty can illuminate a January day when wind has taken a break and the air is a hush, a blanket of expectation? Even that miserly sun, that furtive fox creeping ever southward, bounces brilliant diamond facets off sculpted snow, mauve with shadow.

This winter postcard pleases me, even though I do not stand long admiring the chill wonder of glistening snow, caught JIT Nature dies with such flamboyance, such acrylic outbursts. I gaze at this flaunting of fiery hues and unbidden names flash into my mind. I have seen too many friends too soon to the grave.

La natura muore con tale fastoso sfolgorio, tali deflagrazioni acriliche. Io fisso questo sfoggio di sfumature fiammeggianti e spontanei i nomi nella mente mi saettano. Ho accompagnato troppi amici, troppo presto alla tomba. I loro elogi funebri rammentano come ogni foglia del verde acero deve flambare e cadere. March Musing Alone with my thoughts I reflect on so many themes, but so often these musings return to you, the centre of my world and the wonder of it all, the serendipity, if indeed such matters ever are, that we managed somehow, with all the infinite permutations and random rolls of the dice, to found each other.

For we have saved each other and we have both been saved. In the finding, lay the saving; in the saving, lay the finding. Nel trovarsi, sta il salvarsi; nel salvarsi, sta il trovarsi. Sei motivi per cui scrivo poesie Biagio Marin was born in in Grado, a fishing village on the coast between Venice and Trieste, in a region under Austrian rule until He studied in Florence and Vienna before the First World War, and then, after service in the Italian army during the war, also in Rome.

He spent his working life in Northern Italy as a schoolteacher, schools inspector and finally as a librarian in Trieste. He published his first collection of poetry in More than thirty further volumes followed, almost all in the dialect of Grado, where he lived in retirement from until his death in From the s onwards he was recognised as an important and distinctive voice, a poet writing with apparent simplicity in traditional rhym- ing forms in a quite unprovincial way, whose dialectal colouring was in fact not a serious barrier for readers from other parts of Italy.

His rate of publication increased rather than diminished in old age, which saw him produce some of his best work. El corpo mio el gera una biondura de gran al vento ne la grande istae e ne le vene el veva la frescura de le rogie che score trasognae. Me son in paradiso! No one sees it. My death has been maturing for so long, the sickle only flashing at the wheat. I look at it and think that I feel strong and then I shiver walking down the street.

My body was a blonding field of grain on which the wind of a great summer played, and it had coolness in its every vein from little streams that flowed by half-asleep. I am in paradise! Poplars still tremble in the light enraptured with the breeze, and the world is at ease in this hour before night. Stirred I turn round and mark how the blue turns to gold, JIT Tra sera e note, Carne, carne tu geri JIT Gera quela la vita mia: Profumi persi e prumitinti de cu sa quale ignote fioridure: Flesh wants children to come the full moon and the sun, wants every crust and crumb to take on fleshly form.

You were rich black earth wanting to make corn, you were solid stone from which a house is born. I was born to stand watching on one side life which is just a cloud for the wind to unwind. It has unwound your hair, your breast it has undone, and your beauty is now where such things with God have gone. All faded All faded and nothing was there: That was the life I led: Lost fragrances that came JIT The light, the light, the wicked light seducing with its playfulness, above, below, and anywhere it liked, and lasting just an hour, or less. Wondrous the tricks Wondrous the tricks put on by flowers that are not made to last, by clouds in the blue air above sailing untroubled past.

Never shall I turn you down, for you I always thirst, loving you with infirm mind much more than solid earth. Those parties of the apple trees drunk on the open sky, till the fine petals founder when a windy witch storms by! You, spring, are just crazy, summer, you burn the heart, and sun, you shine into the blood that revels in your heat. I want to stay in your abyss in any of its ways. Lassa la vita a largo e che la vaga a pico; el to barco xe cargo del to nemico. E ninte mai more nel mondo: La mutassion origina el canto; JIT Let life sail the seas, let it go and capsize, you have in your hold your foe and your prize.

Nothing has passed Nothing has passed and died, and all is present and alive: My life has been an act of love, which light fed with its food, and now light carries it away down a more silent road. It was a sunny dawn when one late June into the world I came in joy. He held the sun in his heart and fist, that naked laughing little boy. Silence calls to me Silence calls to me, and I obey. The ancient yearning of the heart is summoned from its deep hideaway. Thus it melts into the shadows, becoming rhythm, then words that make lasting music and then fly, JIT It is painful, the secret that the silence sets free.

The night has icy hands; it lays them on my heart; there are no more faraway comets on which to depart. Rime spirituali sopra i Misteri del Santissimo Rosario Roma: Molinelli, ; enlarged During the next twelve years, Turini Bufalini continued to write and revise this work, which she describes in two sonnets3 as providing her with an outlet for her creativity as well as with much-needed consolation throughout her dificult life.

At the time of her death in , however, the poem remained unpublished. Over the centuries, the text of Il Florio was believed lost until, in the s, a manuscript was located among the family archives at the Bufalini castle in San Giustino Umbria. I am greatly indebted to Professor Antonio Lanza, Director of Letteratura Italiana Antica, for permission to reproduce the original, as well as for translation permissions. I extend my heartfelt thanks to Professor Natalia Costa-Zalessow San Fran- cisco State University , for her unlagging generosity in sharing her knowledge of Italian literary history with me.

Comment on the translation In Il Florio, Turini Bufalini utilizes ottava rima,6 the traditional stanza form of Italian narrative poetry, to recreate the story of two young innamorati, Florio and Biancoiore, as they labor to overcome obstacles to their love. I was, however, labbergasted at her extensive use of text-within-text technique in the selection that follows. The two letters between the lovers, inserted verbatim into the narrative frame, heighten the realism and the emotional charge of the exchange and allow for close reader involvement. Ariosto does not show a response letter from Bradamante.

Turini Bufalini, moreover, shows a response letter from Biancoiore comprising an additional fourteen stanzas nos. The two letters in Il Florio thus total an astonishing lines of text-within-text. Although Turini Bufalini may not have been the irst to employ the technique, we are nonetheless seeing in her Canto XVI an early and signiicant use of meta-narration. On the one hand, I wanted my target language to capture the emotional spontaneity expressed in the letters of the young lovers. On the other hand, I vowed to keep faith with the formal metrics of the ottava and its elegant tone.

The exciting atmo- sphere of a medieval tale—replete with chivalric knights, distressed damsels, court intrigues and feats of derring-do—demanded a broad action vocabulary. To parallel the hendecasyllabic lines of the original with stanzas that gallop forward, I charged ahead with iambic pentameter, the preferred meter of narrative verse in English.

To run the end-rhyme gauntlet, I relied on my anglophone steed, well equipped with slant rhyme, to echo the musical ring of the original when I did not have a full rhyme sound at the ready. To capture spontaneity, I reached for idiomatic expressions. Conversely, by inverting word order and pinning down a few archaisms here and there, I hoped to render some historical atmosphere and to move the translation closer to the source text. To pay homage to the prosodic features of the original, I matched consonance and internal rhyme wherever I could. We come upon the scene with Florio in the distant city of Montorio, where he has been sent by his parents, the king and queen, in an effort to separate the lovers.

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

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

At age sixty-one, because of family discord, she left Umbria for Rome to take a post in the Colonna household as lady- in-waiting to the duchess, Lucrezia Tomacelli Colonna. She returned to Umbria only upon the death of Tomacelli in Directed by Antonio Lanza. This international journal is dedicated to texts and studies on Italian literature and is available for purchase on the internet.

For a discussion of the form, see: Casa Editrice Le Lettere, For a short synopsis of the Filocolo, see: Giovanni Boccaccio, Antologia delle opere minori volgari, a cura di Giuseppe Gigli. Nuova presentazione di Vittore Branca Firenze: Revered for his narrative poems, principally Gerusalemme Liberata pub. Turini Bufalini may have known Tasso personally during her residency in Rome at the Colonna household.

My thanks go again to Professor Costa-Zalessow for indicating these passages to me. In Greek myth, the souls of the newly dead were required to drink from the waters of Lethe a river of Hades , which aided them to achieve complete forgetfulness of their mortal past before entering the underworld. In Greek myth, the god of dreams who, as a son of Hyp- nos Sleep , assumes the form of humans when visiting mortals during sleep.

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

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

But like a shield, hope lent him fortitude. Without you I am good for naught, and neither would I live on: Io solo odio e disamo, per te, me stesso: Nothing can alter my desire—not fate, place, time, Fortune; neither can Love nor Death! Oh stars, you witnesses of my hard plight, reveal how I so fail and furthermore may die of keeping faith to cruel degrees with those nocturnal trysts and mournful cries! I alone hate and eschew myself for you, though death I would receive!

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

Hand her this envelope and wait, and then with her response hurry back here again! Bending to the importance of the charge, the servant swiftly takes leave of his lord and gets there on the double, for his passage and pace with loyalty and trust he spurred. Soon as the damsel spies the messenger, who of their love was entirely aware , she brightens, summons sweet words to inquire: From me, the reason for his pain is hidden, and why he leads a life so sorrow-laden. Soon as she learned of all he would infer in what he wrote and what he left untold , and of his indignation and his anger— that his heart was by Jealousy controlled— cold fear, martyring anguish to endure, gripped her at heart and instantly took hold.

Those pages would have burned from sighs so searing, had not her tears kept them from disappearing! Repeatedly between choked sobs and tears, having read what he wrote, and read again, seeing fault of lovers ingenuous! As long as breath and life in me be found, let not Love pierce me with another wound! As this, my soul, within my lesh so frail, is spoil to dart diverse. Love cannot slay my breast that loves and prizes you alone , lest with your beauty his darts he would hone.

To unravel our love she made provision and wove with craft, and perhaps proited. So cruel is she! By her I was betrayed, and by you, too, falling for traps she laid! Heaven well sees that when you sought your leave from me, my life turned hard, for I without a heart remained!

You plucked it from my person when you abandoned me to pain, cruel one! By calling me ungrateful you then ind aire anew a means to skirt my blame! Prendi pur qual tu vuoi dubbiosa strada: Mancar si sente in tal dolor la vita e la faccia ha tutta di pianto aspersa. Constant I know you; know, too, that a love constant for you does Biancoiore have! To live and die with you do I aspire! Let not that crude steel blade to you lay claim and cover you with an eternal shame!

Go follow any dubious path you will: So pained, she felt that life itself receded, her face wholly awash in tearful sprays. Her pages folded, she expertly brought together and entwined the wax and knot. Those crimson lips now parched from such distress, with her plentiful tears did she, the damsel, moisten the gem in order to impress her image, lovely, proud, upon the seal. Then, perturbed by an anger amorous, to carry back her answer does she call the messenger.

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

Non ne capii molto, ma tre parole strane, belle, incomprensibili mi affascinarono: Leo Spitzer, Martin de Riquer, T. Bergin, Salvatore Battaglia e, ultimamente, Robert Lafont. Il Lafont, che basa il suo studio sul testo manoscritto C della Biblioteca Nazionale di Parigi, che io seguo, ne fa una panoramica: Die Melodien der Troubadours. Fernandez de la Cuesta, Ismael. New Haven and London, Studi in onore di Angelo Monteverdi. La lingua dei trovatori. In Praise of Love. Van der Werf, Hendrik. Et ella lo fetz a gran honor sepeillir en la maison del Temple; e poi en aqel dia ella se rendet monga, per la dolor qe ella ac de la soa mort.

A cura di Robert Lafont. Casa Editrice Le Let- tere, Firenze , p. Io mi avvalgo per convalida e guida del Vo- cabolario ragionato del dialetto di Casacalenda, di Antonio Vincelli, Edizioni Enne, Campobasso, Her compendium, On Prejudice: Also a novelist and literary critic, she founded and directs the only poetry prize for bilingual book publication for Italian American poets with Italian poet, Alfredo dePalchi.

Ned Condini is a native-born Italian who has lived in the United States for many years, a fact that makes him thoroughly bi-lingual. After all, it is a plant and I do love greenery. Other plants wait for death to give lesh to roots. I resolve to become a vegetarian. But this Venus Fly Trap is too much for me. It will have to die tossed into the waste can with the bright red lipstick, the blood red nail polish.

I no longer wear. She nods at us knowing we are lovers returning from paradise. Ho cercato di ricordare di darle acqua. Altre piante aspettano che la morte dia polpa alle radici. Propendo a farmi vegetariana. Questa dionea non fotosintetizza in pace. Sta cercando di diventare un animale e io che cerco tanto di essere un albero non lo sopporto. Ci accenna sapendo che siamo amanti che tornano dal paradiso. Each falls asleep and wakes alone in a dream on a cold shore far from home, without shelter from wind, sun dark, cold, heat.

I feel as a tiny breathing thing alone in a vast night no hand anywhere to hold mine. We wake into life sure of dying under the frozen sky and mute stars, glistening with winter light. We hold hands into new [years, knowing all new years turn old, and listen to the night, snow creaking in mounds, and the air iced from the [Northwind For the sake of the other, we do not say how each together is alone returning from paradise. Ciascuno si addormenta e si sveglia solo in sogno su una spiaggia fredda lontano da casa, senza riparo da vento, sole, buio, freddo, calore.

Mi sento un minuscolo oggetto che respira solo in una notte [immensa da nessuna parte una mano a tenere la mia. Ci destiamo alla vita sicuri di morire sotto il gelido cielo e stelle mute, che brillano di luce invernale. A few bleeding leaves fall amidst wilting greenery.

Poison ivy turns red with warning. My ninety-year-old mother still argues with my father, twenty years dead. Their hatred reverberates in a back room of my head, rattling recollections of a lonely childhood. Their loathing for each other colors all my days. I loved him, because he loved me best, but I look like her. My face and spirit tear at each other. I am the child of hate. A weed sprouts from watery depths, uncultivated, lowers, white and purple, bloom, even in these days of dying leaves. Beyond winter, no one grieves.

Italy, — d. America, ] written in Edna St. You died in spring, father, and now the autumn dies. Bright with ripe youth, dulled by time, plums of feeling leaked red juices from your eyes, blood hemorrhaged in pools to still your quivering mind. Alcune foglie sanguinanti cadono sul verde che langue.

Il loro reciproco disgusto colora tutti i miei giorni. Il mio volto e il mio spirito fanno a pugni. Sonetti americani per mio padre —per Donato Giosefi: Vincent Millay Steepletop, N. Vivido di compiuta giovinezza, opacato dal tempo, prugne di affetto gocciavano dai tuoi occhi rosse essenze, sangue emorragiato in polle a calmare la tua trepida mente. In this russet November woods of Millay, I wear your old hat, Dear Italian patriarch, to see if I can think you out of your American grave to sing your unwritten song with me.

I carry your silenced poetry with your spirit. I take off your old black hat and sniff at it to smell the still living vapor of your sweat. You wore your heart and soles sore. At forty, not climbing autumn hills like me, you lay with lung [disease strapped down with morphine, hearing your breath rattle in your throat like keys at the gates of hell. Your body was always a iend perplexing your mascu [line will. You illed me with pride, and immigrant tenacity.

You are done, unfulilled by song [except in me. If your dreams are mine, live again, breathe in me and [be. In questi boschi di Millay, novembrini, rugginosi, sfoggio il tuo vecchio cappello, caro patriarca Italiano, per vedere se posso pensarti fuori della tua tomba americana a cantare con me la tua mai scritta canzone. Col tuo spirito reco la tua poesia fatta muta. Mi tolgo il tuo vecchio cappello e lo annuso per odorare il sudore che esala, ancora vivo.

Lavoravi come un mulo, il maggiore di troppi igli, un [magrolino in zuava frusta che negli Anni Ruggenti zoppicava su per i gradini della city, di porta in porta con carichi di giornali del mattino e serali, ciascuno contato un misero soldo sudato per mantenere la famiglia. Ti logorasti il cuore e le suole. Il tuo corpo fu sempre un briccone impastoiante il tuo [volere di maschio. Mi riempisti di orgoglio e tenacia di immigrante. Hai concluso, adempiuto nel canto [solo in me. Se i tuoi sogni sono miei, vivi di nuovo, respira e esisti in [me. Tu non capisti mai la trama americana.

Good night, go gently, tired immigrant father full of pride and propriety. We, your three daughters, all grew to be healthier, stronger, more American than you. The wound that will not heal in me is the ache of dead sensibility. Once full of history, philosophy, poetry, physics, astronomy, your bright, high-lying psyche is now dispersed, set free from your tormented body, but the theme you offered, often forlorn, sheer luminescent soul, glistened with enough light to carry us all full-grown.

The sky was falling. When they laughed, I learned I had a pen for a tongue that could please. Buona notte, viaggia remissivo, stanco padre immigrante pieno di correttezza e orgoglio. Autobiograia incompiuta per mia iglia scritta nel , durante la prima Guerra del Golfo Nacqui nel Il cielo stava precipitando. Dio benedica la pasta! Quando risero seppi che per lingua avevo una penna che dava piacere. Are you wearing one? Twenty and virginal when raped one midnight in a jail cell by an angry Klansman, Deputy Sheriff of Montgomery County, Alabama—only law for miles around Selma. Ebreo, Polacco, Romania, omosessuale Ventenne e vergine fui stuprata una mezzanotte in una cella di prigione da un rabido Klansman, il vice sceriffo della Contea Montgomery, Alabama—unica legge per miglia nei dintorni di Selma.

My greatest moment of joy came in a near death—not when jailed by the Klans- man, but when giving birth to you who came by emergency Cesarean, bright with hope, lovely daughter; do you hear the ambulance of guilt, grieving in your near death birth, the re- birth of your mother, your moment of almost not being new life greeting me in your eyes, my eyes peering back at me, questioning, after the fever [subsided. Are they yours, Daughter? I edit a book, On Prejudice: A Global Perspective, of xenophobia, ethnocentrism, sexism, racism, and hate the nuclear and oil barons who are your enemy.

We cannot love without enemies who bond us together in love—Freud said— unless we see that avarice pours our own garbage and debris back upon us— Smothering us with mutual enemy. Our oil, nuclear, chemical, and germ warfare proiteers hold us all hostage, you, me, and them, to the screams of skulls with their forever gold teeth, lampshades of skin, their ears are ours illed with a siren of guilt from the history book of corpses. It talks to autumn, Daughter. Its splendor makes us sing. Un sottile ilo di vita goccia sulla pagina mentre i miei occhi diventano gli occhi di un altro: Sono i tuoi, Figlia?

Metto insieme un libro, Sul Pregiudizio: Una Prospettiva [Globale, di xenofobia, etnocentrismo, sexismo, razzismo, e odio i baroni nucleari e del petrolio che sono i tuoi nemici. Il suo splendore ci fa cantare. Only middle age girth makes me look maternal. Menopause has left not one kernel of hope in my old ovaries. Oggi, non vengo o spero di divenire incinta, nessun bimbetto scalpicciante in arrivo. La menopausa non ha lasciato un briciolo di speranza nelle mie vecchie ovaie.

It, too, possesses a navel for seeing the world through the skin, has rounded buttocks, good to place against the hand the way earth reminds lesh of its being. Through the eye of the needle, death is a country where people wonder and worry what it is like to live. The sullen wish to live and live soon, to be done with death and the happy want to stay dead forever wondering: Near Bari and Brindisi where the ferry has travelled the Adriatico, to and from Greece for centuries. Il cupo desiderio di vivere e vivere presto, di farla inita con la morte e la voglia appagata di stare morti per sempre chiedendoci: How strange to view you, piccolo villaggio, with ladybugs, my talisman, landed on my shirt.

Ladybugs rest on me at the dig of stone sculptures the Belgian professor shows me. You never returned to your ancient land where now the [natives, simpatici pisani, wine and dine me in their best ristorante. I insist on paying the bill. They give me jars of funghi and pimento preserved in olive oil—their prize produce to take back home with me. They nod knowingly, when in talking of you, I must leave the table to weep— alone in the restroom, looking into the mirror at the eyes you gave me, the hands so like yours that turn the brass faucet and splash cold water over my face. For an instant, in this foreign place, I have met you again, Father, and have understood better, your labors, your struggle, your pride, your humility, the peasantry from which you came to cross the wide sea, to make me a poet of New York City.

Which is truly my home? Mi mostrano il tuo certiicato di nascita— Donato Giosefi, nato nel — scarabocchiato a penna, su carta che ingiallisce. Quando gli dico che sono una scrittrice, prima della [famiglia americana a ritornare alla casa paterna, di colpo sono nobile! Coccinelle riposano su di me allo scavo di sculture in pietra che il professore belga mi mostra. Non ritornasti mai alla tua terra vetusta dove i nativi, simpatici paesani, mi dan da mangiare e bere nel loro ristorante migliore. Insisto a pagare il conto. This home where you would have [been happier and better understood than in torturous Newark tenements [of your youth.

This land of sunlight, blue sky, pink and white lowers, [white stucco houses, and poverty, mezzogiorno, this warmth you left to make me a poet from New York City, indifferent place, mixed of every race, so that I am more cosmopolitan than these, your villagers, or you could ever dream of being. This paradoxical journey back to a lost generation gone forever paving the way into a New World from the Old. Maria Lisella has been an editor and journalist for most of her life and has covered the travel industry, a profession that has taken her to dozens of countries. Her work appears online at FOXNews.

Bound; Bible and silk thread. To bring poetry to people is her mission: In , when the blood of the U. She opened the microphone to the city inviting poets, non-poets, ordinary citizens to share their voices on the airwaves. Best known for The Poet and the Poem, which is celebrating its 36th year on the air as an hour-long radio program, Cavalieri con- tinues to produce and host the show on public radio. Her programs include every Poet Laureate since and a signiicant collection of African-American poets.

Cavalieri has written 16 books of poems and 26 produced plays. She lives in Annapolis, Maryland, and was married to metal sculptor, Kenneth C. Flynn who recently passed away. She has four children and four grandchildren. I suoi programmi hanno proposto tutti i Poeti Laureati a partire dal e una notevole raccolta di poeti Afro-Americani. La Cavalieri ha scritto 16 libri di poesie e ha prodotto 26 opere teatrali. Vive ad Annapolis, nel Maryland, ed era sposata con lo scultore Kenneth C.

Ha quattro igli e quattro nipoti. But the African-American link came through poetry rather than cultural or political afiliations. When I heard a new radio station was being planned to go on-air in Washington, D. I had the love and history on my side I worked three years fundraising and sweeping loors to get a radio station on the air, to establish a platform for poetry. Although I was making poetry available in a way that had not been done before, I still had to prove myself.

Gwendolyn Brooks was wary of me, but became a friend; Allen Ginsberg insulted me but eventually respected my work. My most profound memories were of truck drivers, prize-ighters, drunks, grandmothers, who called in to read their own poems. Nel periodo tra il e il aiutavo ad avviare ed insegnare la scrittura presso i campus universitari della costa orientale del College di Antioch, a Washington D. Quando venni a sapere che una nuova stazione radio sarebbe stata fondata, con trasmissioni a Washington D. Lavorai tre anni raccogliendo fondi e pulendo pavimenti pur di far partire le trasmissioni radiofoniche, per fondare un programma per la poesia.

Ricorda dei momenti signiicativi di The Poet and the Poem? My heritage is an ongoing theme I have only begun to explore, there is so much richness wait- ing, the past has so many stories, but I cannot be objective about its effect on me yet. I have yet to make enough use of it. But the past is all still in my future. Poetry is the way we rinse off language. If it were not for po- etry, we would all talk in slogans and TV commercials. We would use the language of politicians — words with no meaning.

Poetry is, as Allan Grossman once said, the way we preserve the beloved. I see it as the great equalizer, the democratic ideal, the way every person can speak with an inimitable voice, the miracle that each one of us has our own breath and cadence that cannot be sto- len. Poets document what it is to be alive at this moment in history. What would you like readers to come away with from po- etry? I wish and hope they think: I feel less alone now. E devo ancora utilizzarlo appieno. Useremmo il linguaggio dei politici — parole senza signiicato.

Cosa vorrebbe che la poesia lasciasse ai suoi lettori? Desidero e spero che pensino: Ora mi sento meno sola. Thompson is a full time writer and translator and lives outside Oxford, UK. His latest book of poetry is Letter to Auden Smokestack, a verse epistle in rime royal. Pier Paolo Pasolini Although he achieved inter- national fame as a ilm director, Pasolini was irst and foremost a poet and played an important part in Italian literary life as editor, critic and novelist. While pursuing these many different paths, he continued to write and publish verse throughout his life, including poetry in the Friulan dialect.

But it was his novels and screenplays of Roman low life that led to his success in the cinema as director: His collected poetry came out as Bestemmia: Non puoi, lo vedi? You were young then in that May when error Was still alive2… in that Italian May That gave at least the beneit of ardour, That careless, less immorally healthy Time of our fathers, when you — humble brother, Not a father — were ready with a stealthy Hand, ready to sketch out an ideal other But not for us now, as dead here as you In this dank garden bringing light to bear On silence. II Tra i due mondi, la tregua, in cui non siamo.

Nei cerchi dei sarcofaghi non fanno che mostrare la superstite sorte di gente laica le laiche iscrizioni in queste grigie pietre, corte e imponenti. Now the wind blows bringing in intermittent drops of rain. II Between two worlds, this is the respite where We have no life. Choices and sacriices… Make no sound in this garden now so bare, If noble. But all the obstinate lies That deaden life are here for death to know. And in these circles of sarcophagi, Banal inscriptions of these banal folk Show nothing but a lasting transition Set in the graveness of this greyish stone, Brief and imposing.

With unbridled passion But no longer any scandal, the burnt Remains of millionaires who came from nations Much grander; as if they were here, the hum Of irony from prince and pederast Whose ashes lie in scattered burial urns And, although turned to cinders, still not chaste. The silence of the dead here is witness To cultivated silence of these last Remains of men still men, of weariness The weary garden tactfully disguises, The city that surrounds it making less Its splendour in between the pieties Of makeshift shacks and churches.

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

And so I come across you quite by chance With hope and old mistrust still on my tongue And ind you in this makeshift lean-to placed Around your grave, your spirit resting here Along with these free spirits. Ed ecco qui me stesso I feel here — in this quietness where your tomb is Laid, in this country where your tension had No place in this unstable fate of ours, — How right and wrong you were, before the sad Day of your murder, writing the supreme notes3 You did.

And bearing witness to the seed Of power with its old traditions not Displaced, these dead attached to ownership That founders in the centuries with its pot Of evil and its grandeur. But the taps Heard from that hammered anvil, heartrending, Obsessive, if faint, coming from the traps Of poverty, bear witness to its ending. And here I ind myself, poor, in the kind Of clothes the poor admire in window dressing Of garish splendour, but have lost the grime Picked up in long forgotten streets and seats Of trams that give my day a dizzying time.

Vivo nel non volere del tramontato dopoguerra: Come i poveri povero, mi attacco come loro a umilianti speranze, come loro per vivere mi batto ogni giorno. Ma nella desolante mia condizione di diseredato, io possiedo: Poor as the poor, like them I pit myself Against humiliating hopes, like them I struggle every day to keep one step Ahead in my life. Ma come io possiedo la storia, essa mi possiede; ne sono illuminato: Ma in esso impastati quali comuni, prenatali vizi, e quale oggettivo peccato!

But how can I own history When it owns me, has me illuminated: And what use is its light? And so his deeds, Internal and external — all that go To give some body to his life — must needs Be subject to religions, there is no Escape, they take a mortgage out on death To trick the light and light this trick they do. Ciecamente fragranti nelle asciutte curve della Versilia, che sul mare aggrovigliato, cieco, i tersi stucchi, le tarsie lievi della sua pasquale campagna interamente umana, espone, incupita sul Cinquale, dipanata sotto le torride Apuane, i blu vitrei sul rosa E intorno ronza di lietezza lo sterminato strumento a percussione del sesso e della luce: VI I have to go… and leave you in the sad Time evening brings as it falls softly on The living in the sunlight that turns pallid As it thickens above this part of Rome Turning dark and stirring it, making it Look large and empty.

And the eager longing For life lights up in the distance, split With the harsh rasp of the trams, the raucous And distant shouts in dialect that knit To form a concerto. In those far-off souls That laugh and shout as they drive off, you feel The life in those impoverished houses Where they fritter away the fruitless, real But expansive gift of life: Diademi di lumi che si perdono, smaglianti, e freddi di tristezza quasi marina You feel that any true faith is missing, Life is not life, only survival makes sense — which is happier than life perhaps — in being Akin to the animal world, they mumble Arcane orgasms, the only passion Is for daily existence, whose humble Fervour gives a sense of festival To humble corruption.

In the rumble Of this empty space in history, all Pulsating pause in which life is silent — You feel the pointlessness of all ideals. Sul cippo si leggono solo le parole: Nearby, about the mound and piles of rubble, Illegal shanty housing and the blocks Of lats that almost look clean, young kids play out And in the tepid breeze dance light as socks Pinned out. Elsewhere, dark adolescents pout As well: But life is bustling here, Its folk lost in it like a bright kermes, A fair that leaves hearts full; and here they are Poor, but out for fun this evening; defenceless But empowered, the myth for them reborn… But having in my heart the consciousness Of those who know how history is the mover Will pure passion ever move me again When I know that our history is over?

It is now a protected archaeological site. She lived many years in Rome and now resides in Manhattan. As one critic, Luigi Picchi, succinctly put it, describing his poetry: Today, there are two main anthologies of his work, as well as many individual volumes to peruse, most of them issued by the Milanese publishing house Mondadori. The principal anthologies are: Poesie scelte with introduction by Giovanni Raboni and Di certe cose: Poems — which contains an Afterword by the author.

Risi is also well known for his extensive translation work, especially the many volumes of Pierre Jean Jouve, also selections from Supervielle, Jules Laforgue, Kavafy, and Radnoti. The titles alone indicate his engagement with social themes. Both as a poet and a ilm-maker, Risi is clearly heir to the traditions of Parini and Leopardi, predecessors whom he often evokes within the poems, along with other quite different inlu- ences such as Rimbaud. A progressive, neorealistic ilm-maker and author, his is a constant critique of hypocrisy, corruption, injus- tice, indeed every abuse of power in contemporary life.

Often he mimics the speech of the enemy—governmental meta-language, publicity slogans, etc. A unique, original civic stance is veined with sardonic bursts. If he reduces phenomena to the bones, however, he also expands our sense of a higher destiny for humankind with his noble reminders. I include one of the best of his early poems about the atomic threat that became our nuclear threat: Never tiring of telling us the harm we all have done, Risi seems to me right in step with the ecological-minded poets of today in America and in the world.

I include one poem, a fantasy about freeing birds, that, simple as it is structurally, relates to this theme. Both keep an eye out for the absurd, often domesticating the exotic. I give you a sampling of some poems about North Africa. A Flaubert piece is precious, a long poem about Leopardi a challenge. Lewis Carroll is in there. Often these poems are monologues faintly in the Browning tradition. I like them for their concreteness and the slight tilting of our perception of persons we thought we knew.

Alas, some of these are epitaphs as these persons gradually faded from view. One needs to read widely in his work to perceive the full range of his powers and the variety of subjects treated. I include in this selection some of my favorites from his early Counter-Memorial series, in itself a signiicant title. In preparing a volume of of Selected Poems, I would certainly look to some of his later work. There is consequently the question of how often where, and when to use punctuation at the end of lines.

I have taken a moderate approach, adding punctuation when absolutely necessary. That soldier who asked me the shortcut past Sempione— how much anxiety in those eyes! The Wolves A black wind invades my deserted city, city that suffers in the dawn of houses. My deserted city has eyes of ruins, already someone is gathering the roses in its blood. Pubblicamente io ti ringrazio. Tribes III And so in the regimented chaos of a circus exotic excrement and amber acts, mallets on metal rings resounding, tents come crashing down with their poles in a colorless morning.

Methodical, stubborn, deaf to others, they hold their ground. If only they knew how disarmed the heart can be where breastplates are highest, all bolts and screws, and how tender the hedgehog is underneath. The good guys take a nap in a cavern or write to mamma, crushing active isotopes under their nails ready for the assault: A Christmas light within a pine-tree of heat that my father, the general, already viewed at the celebration of Hiroshima bleaches the guinea pig city, and the ruined town fries and melts as a spurt of coca-cola. A center so urban with so many federal buildings and a little of the American ideal— a real center with a good view, Anabaptist, aseptic, endowed with a horizon but one that the shifting has decentralized.

You ought to see the town from high up, in one sweep of the eye— black palate veiled in mallow— all the way to the houses and formerly plaid Tartan, hard veins of streets twisting silently n an ashy Vesuvius where a lone remaining blackbird smoothes out its feathers now white in the nearly sweet, poisonous autumn.

Ecco la piena, non si contano gli anni urgono e rompono con tanta allegria musi di latte! One happiness is all happiness; if there were two, it would be as if none actually existed. I Sto imparando a disamare macchina indietro a tutto pudore. IX Lasciati guardare senza amore: Like the cuttleish in defense, squeezing, using itself up, I know the costly art of the fugue in darkness.

IX Go on, get stared at without love: XI Near the river, I watch lovely black-veiled sentences glide by— opium and poison in the whirlpools of our days. How much glue gelatine friable clay and saliva is needed to cement the incommunicable! Blanketing the horizon in one mass, rattling tent-posts, they came forth; everyone huddled beneath linens and curtains, only prayers broke the paralysis. I spotted one all jaws, all beak ready to snap and spring, its armored vest the perfect war machine.

Coming out into an eclipsed sun I held a pillow under my head and, like Pliny the Elder or a Ghetto chronicler, lost myself completely in the fascinating phenomenon. Ho imparato a disporre le parole Senza lasciarmi andare, soprattutto Senza idarmi troppo. Thus, each night, the violence of history is a theoretical issue. One Happy Family The worker greases the machine, the machine fattens up the owner.

Together in the evening they emerge onto a balcony overlooking a factory. Non uno che non abbia assaggiato la canna del padrone—noi siamo sangue inferiore inquadrato a consumo. The Deceased Held tightly in perfumed linen bands, beneath the fabric of my mask I experience ininite joys; inside me are only sand and barley, ballast for one who navigates through shadows.

III The Farmer The Nile God opens furrows in my ield, rakes and fertilizes, then with majestic macho, stealthy as a panther, withdraws. Not even a God can do everything. Harvesting down in the mud exhausts me while the agronomist in his white tunic stretched out in shade noshes his picnic.

A little Middle Eastern joke of my own. XII Il profeta portato dalle acque Sono un uomo dai vasti progetti che trova posto dietro i padri morti. Mi richiamo a un Dio solo impronunciabile. Ma io mi reputo egizio. He never sees his victims, has clean hands. Where thick grass grows, an Eastern city lashes. These local gods have animal faces and beaks, yet I consider myself Egyptian.

Coral barriers, submerged islands, beaches, forests, metropolises, galaxies; the world is not enough, fantasy navigates through muggy air. At dinner we joke about a promise unfulilled: Off with rings, off with shoes! We need to breathe deeply. Let others make plans. Clara la luminosa I Che secolo il nostro di padri severi! While time is at work, Nature remodels scenery, History takes the stage fragment by fragment across millenniums; new forms, new values.

Luminous Clara Excerpt I What a century of harsh fathers this is! How could I ight back? I belonged to him, his masterpiece, a baby cradled in praise, virtuoso whose hands traveled the whole planet, got kissed even by Chopin. I was spontaneous and changeable, for you always a distant entity. We battled, until inally united. Happiness seemed truly uneventful so luxuriously had life rewarded us. He holds a Ph.

His current projects include Microscope Gallery, an art space in Bushwick presenting monthly exhibitions combined with a regular event series www. Antonio Spagnuolo Napoli , poeta e saggista, vive a Napoli. Ha pubblicato numerose opere poetiche: Ha scritto anche un pezzo per il teatro, Il cofanetto Spagnuolo ha ricevuto diversi primi premi in concorsi letterari: Asor Rosa, e nel volume antologico Disordinate convivenze: Poeti di ine secolo, curato da G.

Nota sulle traduzioni In questi nuovi testi di Antonio Spagnuolo emerge un io poetico che spesso interviene come intermedario e osservatore intimo. Esiste come interlocutore, questo io; persiste di verso in verso. Questi componimenti sono astratti e abbastanza fragili, per cui abbiamo deciso—io e il mio collaboratore, Andrea Monti—di lasciar regnare la sottigliezza e la delicatezza.

Speriamo di esserci riusciti. Recupero occasioni rinverdite confondendo le crepe del passato e a doppia fonte, ora piena, o triste, spacco le mie giornate senza agganci. Dal tempo degli altari denudavo le lampade nel perimetro corto delle pene, lentamente alle braccia ora scolora la strada senza un ine, tra le congiunzioni di una fragile bacheca. From the time of the altars I denuded the lamps in the short perimeter of grief, now slowly the road without end fades into the arms, among the junctures of a brittle display case.

Illusion Even the trill of the void is an illusion of other times and lashes, of the last scaly fracture of repetitions, of a yet partially alterable beast. Ad incastonare cristalli sogno di essere altrove avvolgendo la vampa come frusta di luna sotto gli stridii dei gabbiani cambiando senza ine le rese del miracolo. Ecco i bagliori continuano a momenti. Quel giro preferito, ben disposto a silenzi, mormora sottintesi alle nebbie. Piegato allo specchio come un ladro offro bicchieri per custodire tristezze, igure deformate mi travolgono e non comprendo cosa mai circonda la mia casa nel vortice dei giorni che costringono al pianto, uno scherzo sprecato.

To be saved are the images of the matrices through the endothelium gathering tumors according to petit-bourgeois errors. Fever Now you tear off the fringes of the fever between unreachable strings and the heat-wave of memories, melancholies led through my unfulilled days. Thus the shabby triles where the couch is impressed with circles of ourselves deforming ingers. There continue the glares, at times. That favorite path, to which silence is welcome, murmurs unexpressed thoughts to the fog.

As the anger reemerges and reverberates, the ancient solitude, subdued, the determined, obscure fairy tale that every morning seeps through the tangle of past images, it is the irrational experiment that strangles. Peridi dubbi che svanivano per azzardare ore, evanescenze, un granello che divide le rovine delle stelle. I am the ardor in the pupils, already assigned by the touch, I seek coagulations and wounds and am distracted by fragrant rooms. When the sling calls up in the deep, an unnerving is certain, the heartbeat pressing on to confess prayers, only memory renews the laziness of spring.

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

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


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In a letter to Antonio Mezzabarba, he explains that he depicts Tullia as the nymph Tirrhenia, and — at her request — as Thalia, the comic muse. Twice ined, she had refused to wear the sign of the courtesan. The Cardinal and Giulia shared two residences: Luigi did not live to enjoy the fruits of his labors; his death in left Giulia and Tullia in a precarious social and inancial position.

Had clergymen been allowed to marry, Tullia might have been spared the poverty and loss of innocence she laments in the preface to her epic. Her life was marked by the tension between the label cortigiana courtesan and her aspiration to become a cor- tigiano courtier. She inally succeeded on the merits of her poetry and philosophy. Proicient in Latin, it was said that she could argue in that language. Muzio manages to skirt the issue of the family iction by em- phasizing the maternal nature of the bond. He does, however, portray his beloved Tullia as someone whose guidance beneits those creative souls who learn from her, himself included.

The selless care and diligent dedication that recall the highest calling of an educator are embodied in the highly original portrait and in this uncommon, early use of the word maestro in the feminine — maestra. In reinventing the classical idea of paideia, Muzio creates a subtle shift, from the Greek practice of the older male patron of a male pupil — to a familial, female, version of paideia.

This home- schooled family education brings us back to the Greek root paidi child. The pastoral eclogue is an archaic form that nevertheless resonates with emotional immediacy. All we have is her epitaph and this poem. Here she lies, until the resurrection of Christ. In the year of our Lord, , the 1st day of February. This she did at the age of thirteen years, ten months, and twenty days. For him, the earth-nymphs weave a broad crown on earth and in the water, and the sylvan gods surround him, silent and reverent. Et non sofferse ingiusto fato, Che pervenir potesse al mezo giorno; Anzi al primo apparir cadde dal cielo.

Et in un punto le nemiche stelle Posto han ine al piacere, al foco, al canto. O death, bitter unyielding death, how you have reduced us to shadows and to suffering. Would that she could reach midday, and not suffer so unjust a fate, that, at her irst blazing-forth, she should fall from the sky. How many unfulilled longings, how many bitter sighs you have bequeathed our souls, gracious Argia, who would ill every noble soul with sweet desire, and draw sweet sighs from every worthy heart.

Love, your face has lost all honor, for extinguished is the lame of those lovely eyes.

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Happiness is exiled from our hearts for the serene face is obscured from view; One hears only sounds of sorrow for silence has taken away the lovely voice. O dura rimembranza Del ben passato. Anchora il mio diletto Veder mi sembra. Envious, the greedy Fates have seized all richness, taking away the bright-white pearls and deep-red rubies of that beautiful mouth, where the softest Arabian perfumes used to respire. But how is it that I go remembering Our sorrows, one by one?

O, harsh remembrance of past joys. Ah, daughters, how often have we gathered, nude, in our river. Yet I seem to see even now. O lovely, beloved, and delicate members; one who does not see cannot imagine how beautiful they were, how dear and how delicate. Sitting on that rock, I have seen her, nude and shy, covering herself with her white hands enveloped in herself, Covered entirely by her beautiful hair.

I have seen her thus; alas, and do not hope to see again. O vain desires, and hopes in vain. I went away proud, and triumphant to have despoiled the Adria of a gem so rare — the dreadful Adria! And now my every joy has turned to lament. For on these secluded and fortunate shores the beautiful, delightful Argia was born; there, her lovely eyes opened to the golden stars; just so, her irst sounds were sent through the air.