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L'autrice, che di arte e di storia se ne intende, tratta temi spinosi districandosi al meglio nel groviglio di antichi misteri.» Il Sole 24 Ore «Palov mescola antichi.
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Un film, questo, che canta l'amore, ricordando il vero, non banale, significato dell'innamorarsi. A heartwarming biopic about the country music singer-songwriter Blaze Foley — so beautiful, making you laugh and cry at the same time — directed in a beautiful retro Americana style by Ethan Hawke. Because everything came together at once on the Piazza: Closing Time combines two important elements I value most in cinema: Temporada is an authentic and uplifting story about a woman making her way into a new life. My favorite film of this edition is Coincoin et les Z'inhumains. With exquisite poise, two narratives coincide on a snowy riverbank.
Much is left unsaid, spoken instead by the tilt of a head and other, often very funny, intricacies of intergenerational etiquette. Alles ist gut convinced me with its strong protagonist that pretends to be well until she freezes in utter denial of the facts. Main navigation Toggle navigation. News from the Locarno Festival. Il verdetto dei media e della Critics Academy Aspettando il Pardo d'oro Il verdetto dei media e della Critics Academy Share: Peter Claus, dpa — Deutsche Presse-Agentur, Germany M The sensitive documentary tackles a highly complicated subject most intelligently and without raving for sensation.
Francisco Ferreira, Expresso, Portugal Gangbyun Hotel Hotel by the River Two human beings who don't know each other touched by the snow and the same unfathomable feeling. Jiao qu de niao Suburban Birds Jiao qu de niao Suburban Birds creates a poetic space-time, which draws you in a slow, but steady pace. An Introduction This is a movie which is about life as much as it is about art. Gangbyun Hotel by Hong Sangsoo who, suddenly, has made a film with a twilight vision. Andrea Chimento, Il Sole 24 Ore, Italy Menocchio Voto Menocchio di Alberto Fasulo, per me il migliore per il sorprendente apparato visivo, l'uso della luce e i perfetti tempi di montaggio.
Giampiero Raganelli, Quinlan, Italy Gangbyun Hotel Hotel by the River Contemplando un fiume d'inverno, in bianco e nero, Hong Sangsoo supera le schermaglie tra i sessi per approdare alla poesia, alla vita e alla morte. Sebastiano Caroni, Cinemany, Switzerland Seymour: Christian Jungen, NZZ am Sonntag, Switzerland Blaze A heartwarming biopic about the country music singer-songwriter Blaze Foley — so beautiful, making you laugh and cry at the same time — directed in a beautiful retro Americana style by Ethan Hawke.
Thrilling, modern and self-deprecating. I slowly, slowly stroked her hair. 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. 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.
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. 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.
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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.
Letteratura artistica: giugno
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.
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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. I am scorched earth. Rain kisses on me now: She has published articles on Fenoglio and Pavese as well as on popular culture and language pedagogy. Taccuino Americano edited by Michelangelo LaLuna.
A pediatrician, an artist, and a poet, he has not received the large-scale attention given to Pound, Yeats, and Eliot since he had neither love for the American academy, nor for the academic critic. His most consist- ent principle in sixty years of writing was the use of natural speech rhythms: A poem, he said, is not made of thoughts, but of words like pigments, and the poet is a word-user who depicts the artistry of language.
Words in a poem cease to represent symbols for ideas, and become the real matter of actuality — exorcising the word in its relation with things. Words are, for Williams, a semantic revelation born hic et nunc, free voices of his American contemporary reality. Color of flower, Blood-bright berry none, nor flame-rust On leaf, nor pink gall-sting on stem, nor Staring stone, Ay de mi! Bed, book-backs, walls, floor, Flat pictures, desk, clothes-box, litter Of paper scrawls. So sit I here, So stand, so walk about. Beside The flower-white tree not so lonely I: Torn petals, dew-wet, yellowed my bared ankles.
Love Song from Al que quiere! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves, smears with saffron the horned branches that lean heavily against a smooth purple sky! There is no light only a honey-thick stain that drips from leaf to leaf and limb to limb spoiling the colors of the whole world — you far off there under the wine-red selvage of the west!
Letto, dorsi di libri, pareti, suolo, Immagini stese, scrittoio, cassoni, groviglio Di scarabocchi. Petali lacerati, umidi, ingiallivano le mie nude caviglie. Giallo, giallo, giallo corrode nelle foglie, chiazza con zafferano i bicorni rami che pendono pesanti contro un liscio cielo porporino! It is this that rouses a tumult in my breast. At mere sight of you my voice falters, my tongue is broken. Straightway, a delicate fire runs in my limbs; my eyes are blinded and my ears thunder. I grow paler than grass and lack little of dying.
The Hard Listener from The Wedge The powerless emperor makes himself dull writing poems in a garden while his armies kill and burn. Al solo mirarti la mia voce vacilla, la mia lingua si disfa. Immediatamente, un fuoco delicato corre per le mie membra; i miei occhi si oscurano e le mie orechie tuonano.
Di rado una canzone. Dovrebbe essere una canzone — fatta di dettagli, vespe, una genziana — qualcosa di immediato, cesoie aperte, occhi di donna — risveglio centrifugo, centripeto JIT Good Christ what is a poet — if any exists? He is on the editorial board for the second tome of Those Who From Afar Look Like Flies University of Toronto Press, forthcoming , a bilingual anthology of contemporary Italian poetry, and his most recent translations have been published in the Journal of Italian Translation. Damiano Gurisatti is a high school teacher in Italy. His primary research interests concern ancient Greek literature and philosophy, with a particular focus on ancient Christian literature.
He also has a strong interest in the language, literature, and culture of his native Friuli. His main research interests lie in twentieth-century Italian literature and cultural history, with a particular focus on representations of the Holocaust, antifascist exiles in the United States, and Italian dialect poetry. Pierluigi Cappello was born in Gemona del Friuli in In , the Friuli earthquake forced his family to relocate from Chi- usaforte, a little village in the Fella valley at the foot of the Carnic Alps, to another small town, Tricesimo, closer to the larger city of Udine.
It is in this area that he lived for most of his life, first in a prefabricated building donated by the Austrian government, and then — for only a few years before his premature death in — in De Thomasis, Gurisatti, Maglianti-Cappello. In , a motor accident put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
Writing from the Edge: On a personal level, as a resistance to the severe disability caused by a motor accident in his youth; secondly, De Thomasis, Gurisatti, Maglianti-Cappello. In Italian and especially in Friulian, Cappello prefers fairly common and yet evocative words, that are decontextualized from their original pragmatic use and given a new, poetic meaning. As a result, his language is refined but not pedantic. Who he sings to — other than to his own doubles — remains an open question, but certainly his verses are not directed JIT More than a loner, Cappello presents himself as an exile, living at the periphery of Italy as well as at the outer limits of lan- guage, particularly when writing in Friulian.
Despite the phisical hindrance that forced him to remain sedentary, he was in exile from his native Chiusaforte, the village abandoned after the earth- quake. Indeed, he experienced exile within his own land, Friuli, a land historically prone to emigration: Estrangement is a characteristic technique of Cap- pello, who in his later poems see Parole povere, written in Italian describes Chiusaforte and its former inhabitants from a detached, peripheral perspective as well as from a position of profound sympathy. They are the result of a year-long process of discussion and exchange between Sandro-Angelo de Thomasis and myself.
Our work on the Friulian verses which constitute the major part of the lyrics anthologized here would not have been possible without the invaluable linguistic expertise and cultural advice of Damiano Gurisatti. I wish to thank both Damiano and Sandro for their friendship and for this adventure between three languages, Friulian, Italian, and English. And I sing simply to console myself. Stanza from a traditional Friulian song, documented since Giovanni Gortani, Saggio di canti popolari friulani and popularized throughout the last century by the widespread practice of choruses and, more recently, by folk music revival.
According to musicologist Roberto Frisano, the original context of these lines is probably to be sought in the realm of concealed love, but to date they are commonly deemed to embody a sort of motto of Friulian philosophy and lifestyle. X Today that is cold winter cold mirror on the leaf and my heart quakes like a bare branch; today that to speak is to leave and love of myself drowns itself between the word spoken and that one yet to speak; listen to me well, for well I know how to die for myself, Donzel, figure of love: XIII On the hill with light grass of January as long as the ray that fizzles out in it to be able to rest, to rest And then setting forth once again with the soul as a path that is bitter bitter bitter vivarium for verses.
Loves II Yours is my mouth, love, upon your taste my shame for being alive now that I touch you that I caress you and I stride you like a cat at night along the walls I stride you like a cat along the walls albeit I know that in the calculus of love two minus one gives less than zero and one plus one should give one, albeit it remains now that you go my tasting you on your skin on mine the dripping of your hair inside yours is my fear of forgetting myself. Within the circle of green of your eyes from tired that it was, deeper denser the world will be born.
X I taste the air that you ruffle with your hands this giving and withdrawing of yourself shining in the dark here the hunger, there the bread of my hunger you flowery in the midst and a flower the rock that ceases to flourish in me; I taste this air and it would be enough if for living the fear of living were not less far than yourself. Nowhere To Write Moon If less bitter at the awakening were the enchantment here would be your living, where it shines a little farther away.
Within the shining of the moon that I see shining as if perfect on the leaf now that I have written it. Without earth and without sky JIT Una sarchia la terra magra di un orto in salita la vestaglia a fiori tenui la sottoveste che si vede quando si piega. Uno impugna la motosega e sa di segatura e stelle. Uno cade dalla bicicletta legata e quando si alza ha la manica della giacca strappata e prova a rincorrerci. Uno manda via i bambini e le cornacchie con il fucile caricato a sale. Uno bussa la mattina di Natale con una scatola di scarpe sottobraccio aprite, aprite.
One hoes the poor soil of a slanting garden the nightgown with faint flowers the underskirt visible when she leans over. One holds the chainsaw and he smells of sawdust and stars. One breaks the air with his yell because timber crushed his arm it went crack like a great branch breaking and I was there, I was little. One falls from the tied bicycle and when he gets up his sleeve is ripped and he tries to run after us.
One sends away kids and crows with his gun loaded with salt. One all muscles and stains on his undershirt Isolina bring me some coffee, he says. One knocks on Christmas morning with a shoebox under his arm open, open. Uncle has arrived, he has arrived hush-hush from France, he says, loudly. One leaves home covering an eye with her palm while from the uncovered eye she cries. One laughs and has a big gap in her front teeth another also laughs, but she has neither gaps nor front [teeth. Una perde la testa quando viene la sera dopo una bottiglia di Vov.
Una ha la gobba grande e trova sempre le monete per strada.
One kicks a cat and loses her slipper while doing it. One loses her mind when the night comes after a bottle of Vov. One has a huge hump on her back and always finds money on the street. One with his own words there and then sets up a strike destined to fail you always say you gotta work but you never say come and get paid mister, he said. And it is already the remembrance of a remembering.
One reads Mickey Mouse he likes Tarzan movies and Laurel and Hardy and he made himself a canoe at home which is too big to go through the door. One says to me, at this point you should put the word amen because this would be a prayer, as you made it. And I say that I like the word amen because it smells of prayer and of rain inside the earth and of pity inside the silence but I would not put the word amen because I have no pity for you all because I only have my eyes in yours and the joy of the vanquished and a great sadness. In this column from October, , Pasolini addresses the problem of the mass migration of impoverished southern Italians to the north, and in particular the issue of the absence of decent housing in and around the city of Rome.
In doing so he criticizes a newly released film by the director Luchino Visconti, Rocco and His Brothers, about a family of farmers that leaves its native Lucania in search of a better life in the northern industrialized city of Milan. Paola Bonifazi, of the University of Texas at Austin, who encouraged this project, and whose course on postwar Italian films inspired it.
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