tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83622115684891461282024-03-18T20:14:20.863-07:00OTHER LINESPoetry BlogAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-84305903906375252016-07-28T22:21:00.005-07:002016-07-28T22:36:19.662-07:00No longer possible<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">No longer possible</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">To be what I was</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">To do what I did</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Imagining has changed</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">The morning hour</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">That of death</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Thinking</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">That of which</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Is the thinking</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"> New York, June 30, 2016</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-47826721090764631992013-04-25T22:54:00.000-07:002013-05-19T16:47:19.981-07:00o earth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
(Dzhokhar)<br />
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Your spinal injury</div>
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is that</div>
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of the spine of the earth</div>
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in its solitude,</div>
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your loneliness</div>
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your fear</div>
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<br /></div>
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A city frightened </div>
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by the most frightened</div>
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hidden in the belly</div>
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of a boat</div>
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in the night of gunshots</div>
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helicopters</div>
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and ghosts</div>
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<br /></div>
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The ghosts at <st1:city w:st="on">Guantanamo</st1:city></div>
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pale shadows</div>
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of what they were,</div>
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full human beings</div>
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their humanity denied</div>
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<br /></div>
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The action</div>
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that cannot be undone</div>
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on that fateful</div>
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mid-April afternoon</div>
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the blasts</div>
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the dead</div>
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the maimed</div>
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Bodies dismembered</div>
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and a little child’s</div>
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limpid eyes</div>
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beautiful smile</div>
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smiling no more</div>
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or doing it forever</div>
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<br /></div>
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All’s on the screens</div>
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all over</div>
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yet there is no return</div>
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another dead,</div>
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then yet another</div>
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your own brother falls</div>
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and it’s he,</div>
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his dying body,</div>
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cracking under the tires</div>
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The thought of his strong manners</div>
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is now the cold uneasy</div>
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intimacy of death</div>
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of all gone wrong</div>
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trembling inside the boat,</div>
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a trapped bloody animal</div>
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even as you keep fighting</div>
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shooting to the end</div>
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A nation frightened </div>
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by the most frightened</div>
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too easily forgetting</div>
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the prisoners on hunger strike</div>
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at Guantanamo</div>
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force-fed,</div>
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the ultimate insult </div>
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to human dignity,</div>
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the ultimate violence</div>
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<br /></div>
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Forgetting the children</div>
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of Yemen and Waziristan</div>
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killed and dismembered</div>
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in aerial strikes,</div>
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whose eyes were also clear</div>
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whose smiles were honest</div>
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and those who remain</div>
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forever terrorized</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then perhaps a plea</div>
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is in order</div>
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dictated by logic, not ideology:</div>
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no nation is best and greatest,</div>
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no life more or less worthy,</div>
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there is nothing to celebrate</div>
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until dignity is restored.</div>
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O earth, until then</div>
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all wounds stay</div>
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<st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state>, April 21, 2013</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-38417501983000336172011-04-26T19:24:00.000-07:002011-04-26T23:01:59.978-07:00Il campo di Guantanamo<em>Per Mohammed Sadiq</em><br /><br />Hai vissuto quasi tutta una vita,<br />Ottantanove anni, quasi novanta,<br />Un secolo quasi,<br />Di lavoro e sacrifici,<br />Nel verde più denso dei monti,<br />Di amore e rabbia, di compassione,<br />E infine di malessere mentale.<br />Vita quotidiana delle cose più comuni,<br />I cieli azzurri, quelli rossi di fuoco,<br />Le pioggie torrenziali e le inondazioni,<br />Le notti stellate, la divina<br />Minaccia sopra la sofferenza umana,<br />E, blasfema, la crudeltà della continua<br />Occupazione straniera. Sono venuti i figli,<br />Nuove fatiche, ancora amore e rabbia,<br />Ed i nipoti. Infine l’incapacità <br />Di pensare in modo adeguato e distinguere il vero<br />Dal falso, una debolezza della mente,<br />Il sorriso a volte di chi s’è smarrito,<br />Solo, inconsapevole, e la pretesa della felicità.<br /><br />Immaginate un giorno vostro padre<br />Seduto sulla porta di casa, un bastone fra le mani,<br />A godersi il calore del sole,<br />Meravigliarsi del canto degli uccelli,<br />Del movimento veloce delle lucertole, gli anni<br />Della memoria, la memoria degli anni,<br />I dolorosi vuoti dell’immaginazione,<br />Il rabbuiarsi di un pensiero che si spezza,<br />E la fine stessa del pensiero. Uno squarcio nell’anima,<br />Doloroso come un’ulcera improvvisa,<br />Una ferita che non guarisce, ma ritorna.<br />E tuttavia il sorriso pure ritorna<br />A volte, e gli occhi vuoti<br />Si riempiono di nuova gioia e saggezza.<br /><br />Poi il blasfemo, immaginate, il blasfemo<br />Frastuono di aerei e bombe,<br />La sconsiderata macchina di guerra, l’odioso<br />Plotone, troppo giovani, lontani<br />Dalla conoscenza delle cose, della vita, i soldati,<br />Mandati dagli uomini più brutti della terra,<br />Uomini potenti, <em>i peggiori fra i peggiori</em>, (1)<br />A colpire e battere chiunque<br />Per ottenere informazioni – <br /><em>Intelligence</em> dicono, <em>intelligence</em> le chiamano.<br />Arrestano anche lui. Ottantanove anni d’età.<br />Vuoti, i suoi occhi sono specchio dell’abisso del mondo,<br />Poi tornano a rilucere,<br />Del verde, del giallo e dell’azzurro dei monti,<br />Del rosso e del nero della storia, della memoria,<br />E dell’orrore che sta per venire.<br /><br />New York, 26 aprile 2011<br />(traduzione dell’originale Guantanamo Camp)<br /><br />(1) Questa è la frase detta da Donald Rumsfeld a proposito dei detenuti di Guantanamo.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-17231650876999555972011-04-26T18:05:00.000-07:002011-04-27T12:18:16.044-07:00Guantanamo Camp<em>For Mohammed Sadiq</em><br /><br />You’ve lived almost a full life<br />Eighty-nine years, almost ninety,<br />Almost a century,<br />Of work and sacrifice,<br />In the darkest green of mountains,<br />Of love and anger, compassion<br />And finally insanity.<br />The daily life of common tasks,<br />The blue skies, the red fiery ones,<br />The heavy rains and the floods,<br />The starry nights, the godly<br />Menace above human suffering,<br />And, ungodly, the cruelty of continuous<br />Foreign occupation. The children came,<br />More hard work, more love and anger,<br />And the grandchildren. Finally the inability<br />To think properly and distinguish the true<br />From the false, a weakness in the mind,<br />The smile at times of someone who’s lost,<br />Alone, unaware, and the pretense of happiness.<br /><br />Imagine one day your own father <br />Sitting by the door, a cane in his hands,<br />Enjoying the warmth of the sun,<br />Wondering about the sound of birds,<br />The quick movement of lizards, the years<br />Of memory, the memory of years,<br />The painful voids of the imagination,<br />The darkening of a thought, which breaks down,<br />And the end of thinking. A rift in the soul,<br />As painful as a sudden ulcer, <br />A wound that doesn’t heal, but comes back.<br />And yet the smile also <br />Comes back at times, and the empty eyes<br />Are filled again with joy and wisdom.<br /><br />Then the ungodly, imagine, the ungodly<br />Noise of aircrafts and bombs,<br />The unthinking machine of war, the odious<br />Platoon, all-too-young, removed from the knowledge<br />Of things and life, the soldiers,<br />Sent by the most despicable people on earth,<br />Powerful people, <em>the worst of the worst</em>, (1)<br />Hitting and thrashing everybody, <br />To gather intelligence – <br />Intelligence they say, intelligence they call it.<br />They arrest him, too. Eighty-nine years of age.<br />His empty eyes mirror the abyss of the world,<br />Then they are filled with light again,<br />Filled with the green, the yellow, the blue of the mountains,<br />The red and black of history, memory,<br />And the horror of what lies ahead.<br /><br />New York, April 26, 2011<br /><br />(1) This is Donald Rumsfeld's description of the Guantanamo detainees.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-17914511336326030932010-11-30T21:44:00.000-08:002010-12-01T02:05:47.551-08:00Il mercato della morte_______________<br /><br />Cos’hanno distrutto<br />Rumsfeld e Bush e Blair?<br />La felicità?<br /><br />Sì, la felicità<br />Hanno distrutto.<br />Eravamo al mercato<br />A giocare<br />Con gli altri bambini<br />Nonostante le sirene e le bombe.<br /><br />Cos’hanno distrutto<br />Rumsfeld e Bush e Blair?<br />Hanno distrutto Bagdad?<br /><br />Sì, Bagdad l’hanno distrutta.<br />Sui viali, lungo le rive del Tigri,<br />Regna sola la morte.<br />A nord, eravamo al mercato,<br />A giocare con gli altri bambini.<br />Un cratere di oltre due metri<br />Profondo ci ha presi.<br /><br />Cos’hanno distrutto<br />Rumsfeld e Bush e Blair?<br />Hanno distrutto la libertà?<br /><br />Sì, quella l’hanno distrutta.<br />Hanno distrutto la libertà e la pace.<br />Non solo a Bagdad, a Basra,<br />E per tutta la terra irachena.<br />Nel mondo intero<br />Hanno portato<br />Un vento di guerra,<br />Su tutte le città<br />Hanno sparso<br />Il veleno<br />Di missili e bombe.<br /><br />Cos’hanno distrutto<br />Rumsfeld e Bush e Blair?<br />Hanno distrutto il pensiero?<br /><br />Sì, anche quello<br />Hanno provato a distruggere,<br />Il pensiero, la nostra intelligenza.<br />Come la libertà e la pace,<br />Li hanno deturpati,<br />Sfigurati.<br />Per le strade del centro di Bagdad<br />Ci guardiamo atterriti, arrabbiati.<br />A nord, al mercato colpito<br />Dai missili<br />Si piangono i morti,<br />Si cercano i pezzi<br />Dei corpi smembrati.<br /><br /><br />Sì, hanno cercato di distruggere,<br />Rumsfeld e Bush e Blair,<br />Il pensiero, la libertà, la pace<br />E la vita.<br /><br />Che mostrino i loro visi,<br />Che si facciano fissare<br />Bene negli occhi,<br />Rumsfeld e Bush e Blair.<br /><br />Oh canaglie! Vigliacchi!<br />Venite qui fuori nel mondo.<br />Non abbiate paura<br />Di chi ha ancora a cuore<br />Il fragile senso delle cose umane.<br />Venite a vedere<br />Cosa avete fatto<br />Sui bordi di questo cratere,<br />Fra le macerie di queste case.<br /><br /><br />New York, 28 marzo 2003Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-19510079160929727802010-11-03T23:29:00.001-07:002010-11-03T23:29:48.231-07:00Lucrezio===============<br />Taciti elementi<br />nelle vene nei nervi<br />nei libri,<br />cose quotidiane.<br />Nascoste paure<br />compagne della<br />solitudine.<br />Capaci di tanto?<br />Seguire su malferme<br />gambe<br />l’aperto, l’infinito<br />un tremore che ha la forza<br />dell’essere<br />inatteso.<br /><br />Un pensiero.<br /><br />Cresca lento<br />allora e forte<br />nell’addome, un eccesso<br />d’ira, di tarda accettazione<br />delle cose, una pace,<br />un sapere (che non serve<br />temere la morte)<br />fino al limite ultimo<br />e oltre.<br /><br /><br /> (New York, Nov. 2007 – Nov. 2010)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-306436726740275852010-09-27T14:02:00.001-07:002011-04-25T20:22:25.823-07:00Vita Cieca___________________<br /><br /><em>la lucertola corre<br /></em>-Pedro Canó<br /><br />Ecco, la terra trasforma<br />il rosso casolare, il cuore<br />gli aranci imbruniscono.<br />Lontano, sdegnata dal sole<br />la collina incuspisce sola.<br />E a quelle tra voi che ancora attendono mute<br />Chiedo: cos’è che ascoltate?<br />Silenzi si levano di vento<br />che avete negli occhi:<br />di che palpitate?<br /><br />-bruno gullì<br />(ca. 1987)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-26463356550209651652010-02-10T14:50:00.000-08:002010-02-10T15:12:35.914-08:00NO REFUND NO RETURN_____________________________________________<br /><br />Tuesday was the day of the week there was more of a hurry to open up, more of a longing to see people about and sweep away the silence and enduring boredom of the nights before. Because on Mondays we were closed, and to the two previous nights of silence was added still another whole day, more boring and restless than the nights themselves. Because, obviously, throughout the night everyone slept, while when the sun was up and shining, at least there was always someone walking by, talking, shouting. And the door and windows would be opened wide, as usual. But Mondays were a day of rest and you had to grin and bear it. And then someone would always, and this was the worst, draw near and stare in through the window. Lingering there, in disbelief. He would huddle close upon himself, as if he’d hoped to grow small enough to slip right through the window and find himself within. And so we hoped as well. We lived through such moments of infinite waiting. He’d cup his hands about his eyes, against the glass, like binoculars, and this act was like a cry for help. What anxiety! What palpitations of the heart! And the shape would draw back a bit from the window and let his hands fall to his sides and go away, resigned or bankrupt of belief. We were left, inheriting the new true solitude of the room. A desolation that laid its hand on every object; upon each glass in every row segregated according to form, on all the bottles, the little tables and on the chairs, on the countertop, and even on the espresso machine. I myself stayed in my little corner where I had been put, glimpsing what comings-and-goings of people I could, and watched the cars drift by, with an indefinable sense of impotence that, as I would later understand, was the key to my existence.<br /><br />***<br /><br />It was at ten in the morning on the second Tuesday in June that my life changed. We had opened the café at seven, as per usual. The day started off slow, as did every Tuesday. Those previous days off would weigh upon business more than you could imagine.<br />The exacting clean-up of Sunday nights gave a new sense of order to things, to which one had to adjust oneself, as is natural, and as is the case with all new orders. Things would frequently get shifted about according to a plan it was difficult to foresee or even comprehend afterwards. When the café opened up again everything seemed to be clearly situated, fresh and acceptable. As the scandal of novelty wore off, things appeared normal again. But throughout the whole of Monday we endured in the shadows of ineluctable uncertainty. Enormous boxes were dumped in the midst of us, containing who knows what and going who knows where. Things that didn’t seem necessarily related to the life of the place, given the rush with which it all came and went, those Tuesday mornings before seven.<br />The last person we saw Sunday evenings was the cleaning-boy. A youth who, contrary to his depressed and taciturn appearance, would talk quite a bit after a couple of hours of work, and would even sing, after drinking here and there from the various bottles. When he’d finish his job and go off in the night, we knew that for more than twenty-four hours we wouldn’t see a single living soul.<br />Around ten in the morning on the second Tuesday in June I was purchased by two young people, a couple, recently married, who happened to be passing through Bologna. I can’t say if this made me happy or sad. It was my fate to be sold, this much I knew. I had been in the café too long. And not through any will of my own, but as a result of the laziness of the hired help. No one took responsibility for properly adjusting the cans of soda. No one, that is to say, moved the colder cans to the front of the refrigerator, to make room for hot newcomers in the rear. I saw a friend of mine, quite close to me, get taken away, and it could have very well been me, on one of those rare occasions when a customer would ask for a really cold can of Aranciata. But that Tuesday I came to understand that it was just about all over anyway, for I had inexplicably been moved up, to the front line.<br />The newlyweds paid and put me in one of their traveling-bags. Ah, liberty! Ah, fate! Nevermore to look upon the light blue walls of the café, the shades ever pulled high at the windows, -- and beyond, the sidewalk, with its colonnaded porch along the street. Never again to be set out upon the countertop because I had become too cold, nor then again to be refrigerated because I had become too warm. Not another Monday would I spend in the languid shadows of the closed café, nor tremble with anxiety to feel the first grinding rhythms of another Tuesday shifting into gear.<br />From the darkness of the traveling-bag I said my goodbyes to the bottles of Campari and Cabernet, and to my fellow cans of soda, who watched me go off, and who wondered uneasily, thinking about their own destinies.<br /><br />***<br /><br />We walked the block to the train station. At 11:20 the train departed, destined to take us to Florence. Around noon the couple decided that it was time to eat lunch. I felt a hand reach in for me, then retreat from my extreme coldness. I thought: it’s all over! But in fact it wasn’t. The couple shared a sandwich and washed it down with some mineral water from a plastic bottle, a bottle that had been in the same bag with me. And the Aranciata?, the husband asked. We can drink it later, was the response.<br />I still had time. But what was the use? I didn’t know then (nor do I know now) if it was better for a can of soda to be empty or full. What my value indubitably consisted in was the liquid that I contained. For that, people dug down in their pockets. For that reason these two newlyweds bore me about in their bag. And yet I was more than simply juice. My vicissitudes continued once it was gone. Instead, left to my own devices, I understood the violence and tragedy of life, of which I had been innocent.<br />I was not consumed. And it’s useless to ask oneself what possible fates might have befallen me if the couple had left me on the train. Any can could ask itself that very question at any time.<br />When we got to Florence we looked for a hotel. And I remained there for two days, even in the same bag, for, as I realized later, I had been forgotten.<br /><br />***<br /><br />And again we departed. Trudging onward, this time to Rome, where we thereby arrived at lunchtime and, as for me, no one said a thing about it. However, once we got to the hotel room, she, the wife, looking for a handkerchief in the traveling-bag, stumbled upon my presence and said to her husband: “Hey! Look at this, it’s the can of Aranciata we bought in Bologna.” It seemed, from the surprised tone with which her voice remarked my presence, that I had unbeknownst to them hidden myself in their bag. But the very meaning the words expressed obviated that possibility: they remembered in fact having purchased me in Bologna, a word that suddenly filled me with nostalgia.<br />The woman said: “We can drink it this afternoon.” “But it’s so warm!” he retorted. And I was transferred from the traveling- to the young woman’s shoulder-bag which was, anyway, big enough for me.<br />So there I am, making the rounds of the Roman sights. The couple had lunch in a trattoria in Trastevere. I could see the sunlight each time she reached in her bag for a cigarette. We spent the afternoon going hither and thither, without my ever knowing where. We’d take walks, we’d sit down, we’d take more walks. At a certain point the man said: “Let’s go over to the Spanish Steps.” And I sensed that my end was drawing near.<br /><br />The Spanish Steps. Four o’clock in the afternoon.<br />“Hey, why don’t we get into that Aranciata now?”<br />“I don’t feel like it, it’s gotta be too hot.”<br />“Come on, a little sip. Enough so that we don’t find ourselves dragging it around forever.”<br />“No, I don’t want any, really. If you like, you drink it. Drink what you want, and just leave the rest.”<br /><br />***<br /><br />And so I was popped open. I was partially emptied of my contents and then just left there on a step, amid a throng of people about as feeling as a log.<br /><br />***<br /><br />I have no idea how much time had passed, when a kick, given by chance or by caprice, sent me rolling along. People grazed me passing by from each and every direction. And then there were shoes that just barely missed kicking me, at the very last moment changing directions. Then one indeed hit the mark directly, and so commenced my descent to the piazza at the bottom of the Steps.<br />If at first my position was upright –so the young couple had left me, out of kindness or simply not to waste me—now I found myself on my side at the bottom of my fall. A young man who was reading a book started to roll me under his foot. That is, he put me to work as a wheel. After a while, he tired of it, not only of his routine with me, but of reading and remaining seated. He got up, and left me a few inches from where he had found me.<br />How I finally got down to the street I can’t say. At a certain moment I grew confused and started to roll out of control. I was kicked more than once and I believe by more than one person. I lost almost all my remaining liquid. I got dented. I landed in front of a group of boys, one of whom came forward and stood beside me in a menacing way. “Paolo, catch!” he said. And I was rolled a few yards ahead. There I was caught and sent flying back in the direction from which I’d come, then forward and to the left and to the right and forward again and again back.<br />To have oneself turned into a wheel is stupefying, but to be sent flying here and then there like a ball was thrilling, but it filled me with fear as well. It was now a question of having to deal with being free in this way. And I don’t mean free to do as I pleased, but rather free from the protection which, as a wheel, the foot had given me. No longer mine was the warm coziness of the shoulder-bag, no longer mine that sense of belonging. Now it was a question of not even knowing what direction I would be taking. Now everything depended totally on the whim of these would be soccer-stars. Something which, while in one way thrilling, was definitely terrifying.<br /><br />***<br /><br />When the boys grew tired of the game, I was again abandoned and left to my own devices. Again I tasted that strange, anguished sense of freedom. I was useless. My condition had deteriorated. I would never again be purchased in a bar by a couple of newlyweds, never again realize such a condition of socio-economic relationship, nor bear a tantamount responsibility. I could no longer even play the wheel, being dented as I was. The past was over and done with, and I could not tell what future awaited me. It began to grow dark. A sense of solitude, similar to that which I would feel at night in the café, manifested itself. But now, in addition to being alone, I was in the open. A dog came by that took a sniff at everything, then took a sniff at me.<br /><br />***<br /><br />I should not have anything else to say at this point had not a rag-man then picked me up, come along shouldering his sacks and a mess of clothing. He examined me carefully, turning me over and over again in his hands. He shook me, and then drank the last sip of soda I still somehow contained. Then he put me into one of his sacks, amid the rags and other cans.<br /><br /><br />==============================================<br />By Bruno Gullì<br />Translated from the Italian by Ronald F Sauer<br />(San Francisco, 1988)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-31637449602648684042010-02-08T20:18:00.000-08:002010-02-10T14:55:12.906-08:00VUOTO A PERDERE_______________________________________________<br /><br />Il martedì era il giorno in cui si aveva sempre più fretta di aprire, più voglia di vedere gente e spazzare il silenzio e la noia troppo grandi della notte. Perché il lunedì si rimaneva chiusi, e alle due notti di quiete si aggiungeva quest’altra intera giornata, delle notti più noiosa e snervante. Perché si sa, la notte ognuno dorme, mentre col sole c’è sempre chi passa, chi parla, chi grida. E si aprirebbero porte e finestre, come d’abitudine. Ma il lunedì era giorno di riposo e bisognava pazientare. Poi qualcuno, ed era il peggio, si avvicinava e spiava dai vetri. Indugiava, incredulo. Si faceva più piccolo come se sperasse di attraversare il vetro e ritrovarsi in sala. E noi pure speravamo. Vivevamo momenti di attesa infiniti. Si metteva la mano sopra gli occhi, ed era quasi un richiamo, una richiesta d’aiuto. Che ansia! Che battiti al cuore! Ma la figura si staccava dal vetro, lasciava cadere la mano e si allontanava, rassegnata o spazientita. A noi restava la nuova solitudine vera della sala. Una desolazione che rattristava ogni cosa: i singoli bicchieri allineati secondo la forma, le bottiglie, i tavolini, le sedie, il bancone, la macchina dell’espresso. Io stessa me ne stavo nel cantuccio dove mi avevano messa, spiavo come potevo quel viavai di gente e di macchine con un senso d’impotenza che, come capii più tardi, era la chiave della mia esistenza.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Fu alle dieci del mattino del secondo martedì di giugno che la mia vita cambiò. Avevamo aperto alle sette, come ogni mattina lavorativa. All’inizio fu lento, come ogni martedì. Una giornata di chiusura pesa su di un esercizio più di quanto si possa immaginare.<br />La pulizia più accurata della domenica notte dava un ordine nuovo alle cose, a cui bisognava abituarsi, com’è naturale, come a ogni nuovo ordine. Gli oggetti venivano spesso cambiati di posto, secondo un piano che era difficile prevedere o capire in seguito. Con la riapertura del locale tutto appariva di nuovo chiaro, accettabile. Cessato lo scandalo della novità, tutto ridimensionato. Ma durante l’intera giornata del lunedì si viveva nell’ombra di un’indicibile incertezza. Grosse scatole venivano messe in mezzo alla sala, che contenevano chissà cosa e andavano chissà dove. Roba che non doveva avere alcuna relazione con la vita del locale, vista la fretta con cui veniva fatta sparire il martedì mattina prima delle sette. L’ultima persona che vedevamo la domenica sera era il ragazzo delle pulizie. Un giovane che contrariamente all’aspetto taciturno e depresso, parlava molto dopo un paio d’ore di lavoro, e cantava, dopo aver bevuto dalle varie bottiglie. Quando andava via sapevamo che per più di ventiquattr’ore non avremmo visto anima viva.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Verso le dieci del mattino del secondo martedì di giugno fui acquistata da due giovani, una coppia di sposi che si trovava a passare per Bologna. Non so dire se fossi felice o triste. Il mio destino era di essere venduta, questo sapevo. Ero rimasta troppo a lungo in negozio. Non per mia volontà, ma per la svogliatezza con cui i lavoranti facevano il loro lavoro. Nessuno infatti si preoccupava del ricambio. Nessuno, cioè, sistemava dietro nel frigo le lattine nuove così da vendere prima quelle che prima avevano fatto ingresso in negozio. Ho visto andare via una compagna, e avrei potuto essere io, solo le rare volte che un cliente aveva chiesto un’aranciata molto fredda. Ma quel martedì avevo capito che era tutto finito perché, preso da non so che capriccio, il ragazzo di turno mi aveva cambiata di posto.<br />La coppia di sposi pagò e mi mise in borsa. Ahi, libertà! Ahi, destino! No avrei mai più visto le pareti azzurrine del bar, le tendine sempre aperte alle finestre, fuori il marciapede e il portico. Mai più mi avrebbero messa sul banco perché ero troppro fredda per essere venduta, né di nuovo in fondo al frigo perché mi ero ormai troppo riscaldata. Non avrei più trascorso un lunedì nell’ombra languida della chiusura, né più tremato d’ansia ai primi colpi del martedì mattina.<br />Dal chiuso della borsa dovetti dire addio alle bottiglie del Campari e del Cabernet, alle altre lattine che mi vedevano andare e s’interrogavano inquiete sul proprio destino.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Facemmo a piedi la strada fino in stazione. Alle 11.20 partì il treno che doveva portarci a Firenze. Verso mezzogiorno la coppia decise che era ora di pranzare. Sentii una mano che mi toccava e si ritraeva gelata. Pensai: è finita!, ma non era così. Gli sposi mangiarono un panino e bevvero dell’acqua minerale da una bottiglia di plastica, che si trovava in effetti nella stessa borsa in cui io mi trovavo. E l’aranciata?, chiese lui. Possiamo berla più tardi, fu la risposta.<br />Avevo ancora del tempo. Ma a che mi serviva? Non sapevo (né lo so ora) se per una lattina sia meglio essere piena o vuota. Ciò che mi valorizzava era indubbiamente il liquido che contenevo. Per quello era stato versato del denaro, per quello questi due ragazzi mi tenevano nella borsa. Eppure io non ero solo quel succo. Le mie vicissitudini non terminarono una volta che ne venni svuotata. Anzi, abbandonata a me stessa conobbi la violenza e la tragedia della vita che prima ignoravo.<br />Non venni bevuta. Ed è inutile chiedersi che sorte diversa avrei avuto se la coppia mi avesse lasciata sul treno. Ogni lattina potrebbe chiedersi simili cose.<br />Arrivati a Firenze cercammo un albergo. E io vi rimasi per due giorni, sempre nella stessa borsa perché, come avrei saputo in seguito, ero stata dimenticata.<br /><br />***<br /><br />E di nuovo partimmo. Un’altra sfacchinata fino a Roma, dove arrivammo però prima dell’ora di pranzo e per me di essere bevuta non se ne parlò. Solo che, una volta in albergo, lei la sposa, cercando un fazzoletto nella borsa, si accorse della mia presenza e disse al marito, Ehi guarda, qui c’è l’aranciata che avevamo comprato a Bologna. Sembrava, dal tono sorpreso di voce con cui la mia presenza veniva resa manifesta, che io a loro insaputa mi fossi cacciata nella borsa. Ma il senso delle parole dette negava questa interpretazione: ricordavano infatti che ero stata acquistata a Bologna, pensiero che mi riempì di nostalgia.<br />La donna disse, Possiamo berla nel pomeriggio. Ma è calda!, provò a dire lui. E fui trasferita dalla borsa da viaggio nella borsetta, pur sempre capiente, della giovane signora.<br />Eccomi in giro per Roma. La coppia pranzò in una trattoria di Trastevere. Vedevo il sole ogni volta che la signora apriva la borsa per fumare una sigaretta. Nel pomeriggio mi portarono di qua e di là, senza che io sapessi dove. Si camminava, ci si sedeva, si camminava. A un certo punto l’uomo disse, Andiamo a piazza di Spagna. E io sentii che la mia fine si faceva vicina.<br /><br />Piazza di Spagna. Le quattro del pomeriggio.<br />Ehi! Perché non ci beviamo l’aranciata?<br />A me non va, dev’essere caldissima.<br />Dài! Solo un goccio! Tanto per non doversela portare sempre appresso.<br />No, non ne voglio, veramente. Se ti va, bevila tu. Bevi quella che vuoi, il resto lascialo.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Così mi stapparono. Venni svuotata in parte del mio contenuto, poi abbandonata su un gradino, in mezzo a una moltitudine di gente insensibile come cose.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Non so quanto tempo passò prima che un calcio, dato per capriccio o per caso, non mi fece rotolare. La gente mi sfiorava da tutte le parti. Quante scarpe sembravano colpirmi e poi cambiavano direzione! Ma quel calcio colpì in pieno il bersaglio, ed ebbe inizio la mia discesa verso la piazza vera e propria.<br />Se prima ero in posizione eretta, così mi avevano lasciata gli sposi, non so se per grazia o per economia, mi ritrovai dopo la caduta coricata. Un ragazzo che leggeva un libro prese a farmi rotolare avanti e indietro sotto il piede, proprio come una ruota. Dopo un pò si stancò, non solo di quell’esercizio, ma di leggere e stare seduto. Si alzò, lasciandomi a pochi centimetri di distanza da dove mi aveva trovata.<br />Come arrivai sulla strada non so dire. A un certo punto tutto si confuse e presi a rotolare senza freno. Fui colpita più di una volta, e credo da più di una persona. Persi quasi tutto il liquido che mi era rimasto dentro. Ero tutta ammaccata. Mi fermai davanti a un gruppo di ragazzi dal quale uno si staccò venendomi incontro minaccioso. Prendi, Paolo!, disse. E venni fatta volare qualche metro più in là. Fui ricevuta da un altro di quei ragazzi e rilanciata indietro, e poi avanti e a sinistra e a destra, e di nuovo avanti e di nuovo indietro.<br />Se fare la ruota mi aveva stupito, volare di qua e di là come una palla mi emozionava e mi faceva paura. Adesso si trattava di essere libera. E qui non intendo libera di fare qualunque cosa volessi, piuttosto libera dalla protezione che, ruota, il piede mi dava. Non più la calda ovattata tranquillità della borsa, non più le spalle coperte. Adesso si trattava di non sapere più nemmeno che direzione avrei preso. Tutto dipendeva dal libero capriccio dei giocatori. Cosa che, emozionante da un lato, era dall’altro terribile appunto.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Quando i ragazzi si stancarono di quel gioco fui di nuovo abbandonata a me stessa. Di nuovo assaporai il senso strano, angoscioso della libertà. Ero inutile. Le mie condizioni erano peggiorate. Non sarei mai più stata acquistata in un bar da una coppia di giovani sposi, mai più fatta tramite di un rapporto economico, mai più carica di un progetto. Non potevo nemmeno più fare da ruota, ammaccata com’ero. Il passato era passato, e non sapevo che futuro aspettarmi. Rabbuiava. Un senso di solitudine, simile a quello che provavo a sera nel bar, si fece sentire. Ma adesso, oltre a essere sola, ero all’aperto. Passò un cane che annusava ogni cosa e mi annusò.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Non dovrei aggiungere una sola parola se un disgraziato, carico di borse e vari indumenti, non mi avesse raccolta. Mi esaminò minuziosamente, facendomi girare tra le mani. Mi agitò e bevve quel goccio di liquido che nonostante tutto mi era rimasto dentro. Poi mi mise in una delle sue borse, fra stracci e altre lattine.<br />_____________________________________________________<br /><br />(Pubblicato su <em>Frigidaire</em>, novembre 1988, #96, 45-47; versione leggermente modificata)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-43057460932739784572009-07-13T21:57:00.000-07:002016-05-03T22:57:52.174-07:00To the moon <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
----------------------------------<br />
<br />
Graceful moon, I remember<br />
<br />
That – it’s been almost a year now – I would come,<br />
<br />
Filled with anguish, to this hill to gaze at you:<br />
<br />
And you were leaning over that forest<br />
<br />
As you are doing now, lighting up all of it.<br />
<br />
Yet your face appeared nebulous and trembling<br />
<br />
To my lights, due to the tears wetting<br />
<br />
My eyelashes, for troubled<br />
<br />
Was my life: as it still is, nor will it change,<br />
<br />
My dear moon. Yet that time’s memory<br />
<br />
Helps me, and so does the recalling<br />
<br />
Of my pain. Oh! How grateful does<br />
<br />
The remembrance of past things occur<br />
<br />
In the years of youth, when the course of<br />
<br />
Hope is still long, whereas short is the course of memory,<br />
<br />
Although the things remembered are painful, and the trouble continues!<br />
<br />
<br />
A translation of Giacomo Leopardi’s <i>Alla luna</i><br />
(by Bruno Gullì)</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-91806512853372958872009-07-03T21:40:00.000-07:002009-07-04T11:14:23.886-07:00U blues da giuvanaVaiu o' campusantu<br />Arretu da signora Rosalía.<br />Vaiu o' campusantu<br />Arretu d'amica mia bella Rosalía<br />Ca quandu ieu su morta u vogghiu<br />A 'ncarcunu arretu i mia.<br /><br />Vaiu all'ospiziu<br />Mu viiu a chidru vecchiu du zi' Brunu.<br />Vaiu all'ospiziu<br />Mu viiu a chidru vecchiu du zi' Brunu.<br />Quandu ieu mi fazzu vecchia e brutta<br />Volarría puru u viiu a 'ncarcunu.<br /><br />L'ospiziu è tristi<br />E u marmu è friddu.<br />Ahi, l'ospiziu è tristi,<br />U marmu è friddu o' campusantu.<br />Pe 'mmia mu moru<br />Ca vecchia e brutta mu campu.<br /><br />Chi po' fari na giuvana<br />Si no 'ndavi cchiù amuri?<br />Ahi, chi po' fari na giuvana<br />Si no 'ndavi cchiù amuri?<br />Vommi beni, papà, ca non bogghiu<br />U su nira i duluri.<br /><br />traduzione di Young Gal's Blues, di Langston Hughes<br />-Bruno GullíAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-57912805680245022192009-07-03T21:24:00.000-07:002009-07-03T21:38:58.194-07:00U blues du menzu du 'mbernu'Nto menzu du 'mbernu<br />Tutta a nivi 'nta terra.<br />'Nto menzu du 'mbernu<br />Tutta a nivi 'nta terra.<br />A viggilia i Notali<br />Mi faci sta guerra.<br /><br />Non sacciu si rociu pecchì si 'ndi iiu<br />Ma mi dassau senza carvuna.<br />Non sacciu si rociu pecchì si 'ndi iiu<br />Ma mi dassau senza carvuna.<br />Mo, si 'nn'omu a 'na fimmana 'nci voli beni addaveru<br />N'a dassa i sti tempi, n'a faci u 'mpuzzuna.<br /><br />Icía ca m'amava<br />Ma quant'è trapularu.<br />Icía ca m'amava<br />Ma quant'è trapularu.<br />Ma ieu vogghiu a idru<br />o pemmu mi sparu.<br /><br />Vaiu u m'accattu nu bocciolu i rosa<br />E u chiantu arretu a porta,<br />Accattatimi nu bocciolu i rosa<br />Chiantatimmillu arretu a porta,<br />Nommu 'ndannu u vannu pe' hiuri<br />a putiha quandu su morta.<br /><br /><br />traduzione di Midwinter Blues, Langston Hughes<br />- Bruno GullìAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-53775217233466183372009-07-03T14:58:00.000-07:002009-07-03T15:00:35.303-07:00(mediterranea)Dissolta la notte che grave<br />l'aveva nel grembo<br />trasale, sorpreso in un intimo sogno,<br />il chiaro paese appuntato<br />tra ulivi sul mare<br /><br />E pare dirupi<br /><br />San Francisco, circa 1987Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-21905652479359335862009-06-21T04:43:00.000-07:002009-06-21T05:13:27.462-07:00ResurrectionNow I understand<br />When I left for Paris<br />With sadness in my heart<br />And pain all over my body,<br />With dead eyes<br />And pain in my soul,<br />Got there in the rain<br />And sun of September<br />Solitary and lonely<br />Got to rue Cels<br />And walked at night<br />To Montparnasse or Saint-Germain<br />And sometimes to the Seine.<br />I now understand<br />You had spoken to people,<br />Told everybody<br />To be gentle and brave<br />At the same time,<br />To let me feel<br />That it was still possible<br />The dream and the impossible<br />That life and love<br />And passion are stronger<br />Than the immense stupidity<br />Which kills us at times.<br />Then came the winter,<br />December and January,<br />As cold at rue Cels<br />As I had never felt before,<br />Yet I read, thought and dreamed<br />In the warmth of something<br />Only now I understand.<br />The red leaf that came through my window<br />In the middle of October.<br />Was it coming from you or was it you yourself<br />Coming in October and bringing into Paris<br />The benchless quiet of the Nevsky Prospect?<br />For it was then that I thought of Leningrad<br />As I now do of our child, still not around,<br />Yet already present, stretching her hands<br />Toward yours that hold the sun.<br />Child of war and light,<br />Of truth and darkness,<br />And of rebellion.<br />And you, streets of Paris,<br />You helped me too<br />As the voice that persuaded people<br />Also spoke to the walls<br />The gardens and sidewalks.<br />With the coming of Spring<br />We took walks from Porte de Vincennes<br />To the Bastille and sat in the sun<br />And looked at the water<br />Trying to open our souls.<br />I prepared myself<br />For the work in the fields,<br />Where I felt the infinite<br />Under my feet and the truth<br />Of thinking that<br /><em>Cuts furrows into the soil of Being</em>.<br />The ontological and cosmic change<br />We are conceiving,<br />Her hands, her being, her eyes<br />In the chiasm of our bodies,<br />The joy and the dance<br />Of its autonomous movement.<br />As I tell you of him<br />Who died early,<br />In your beautiful mountains,<br />Of his painful death,<br />I descend, fearless,<br />In the depths of your waters.<br />In your hands I become a rose,<br />And you, another rose<br />That I feel everywhere,<br />The finite and the infinite,<br />Our <em>potentia</em> and,<br />Of course, love.<br />I'm inside you<br />And he, whom you'd have loved,<br />Is inside me, and you are<br />Inside both of us.<br />For he came back,<br />His ashes have risen from the ocean,<br />Made a body of light<br />We've felt in our bed,<br />We've felt inside<br />As ground for her coming<br />Into the world.<br />When out of the ruins,<br />Out of the black soil,<br />He gave you his love,<br />He made possible<br />Your resurrection<br />And mine.<br /><br />New York, February/March 2000<br />from <em>Figures of a Foreign Land</em><br />San Francisco: Deep Forest, 2001Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-55298639629937277042009-05-06T21:32:00.000-07:002015-04-15T23:05:39.066-07:00Gonzalo Guerrero (1535)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
__________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
In the mountains of Honduras-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Higueras</span><br />
<br />
The body of Gonzalo Guerrero<br />
<br />
Tattooed the way of the Mayans.<br />
<br />
Francisco <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">de</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Montejo</span>, good<br />
<br />
Has prevailed over evil,<br />
<br />
Light over darkness.<br />
<br />
But what darkness and what light?<br />
<br />
Behind the coast and the forests<br />
<br />
Of Yucatan<br />
<br />
Strong sunsets were burning<br />
<br />
Of empty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">belonging</span>,<br />
<br />
Night fell<br />
<br />
Full of stars<br />
<br />
The sea roared and the forest<br />
<br />
Bowed down to its<br />
<br />
Destiny.<br />
<br />
You, too, Gonzalo,<br />
<br />
Bowed down. In the villages<br />
<br />
Overwhelming<br />
<br />
Your compatriots<br />
<br />
Who'd come with you<br />
<br />
In search of gold,<br />
<br />
In the green forests<br />
<br />
Marked by the hurricanes<br />
<br />
On the white beaches<br />
<br />
Of simple nocturnal light.<br />
<br />
Your body changed<br />
<br />
At the beat of the drums, the colors,<br />
<br />
The sounds of a new language<br />
<br />
You made your own.<br />
<br />
Your eyes changed,<br />
<br />
The way in which <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">your</span> hands,<br />
<br />
Used to firearms,<br />
<br />
Turned into weapons<br />
<br />
Came back to life<br />
<br />
At the contact with the bodies<br />
<br />
Of Mayan women and men.<br />
<br />
And your body<br />
<br />
By their hands<br />
<br />
Renewed, mutated.<br />
<br />
Thus told you the stars, the sky<br />
<br />
That was truly burning with stars,<br />
<br />
Limits of sovereignty and captivity<br />
<br />
The fire of the inquisition<br />
<br />
The underground cells<br />
<br />
The slaughter of freer peoples.<br />
<br />
Since then, the nights, sitting by the fire,<br />
<br />
With the drums the voices and the dances,<br />
<br />
Disclosed<br />
<br />
A new aspect of life.<br />
<br />
Nor did the blood braiding<br />
<br />
Their long hair,<br />
<br />
Then yours,<br />
<br />
Hurling against the sky a last<br />
<br />
Cry of war,<br />
<br />
Frighten your soul.<br />
<br />
And, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Montejo</span> back to beg you,<br />
<br />
You didn't follow him,<br />
<br />
To the good, money, and God.<br />
<br />
It was then when they found<br />
<br />
The body of a Spaniard<br />
<br />
In the mountains of Honduras<br />
<br />
A body covered with Mayan tattoos<br />
<br />
It was then that they ended their contempt,<br />
<br />
The fear and the hunt.<br />
<br />
Fugitive you'd chosen<br />
<br />
A solid and sylvan justice,<br />
<br />
Clear in the eyes<br />
<br />
Fixed<br />
<br />
To the still sky.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(Translated with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">André</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Cechinel</span>)<br />
<br />
New York, May 2009</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-2093171398335701682009-04-29T20:52:00.000-07:002015-04-15T23:06:12.010-07:00Gonzalo Guerrero (1535)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
___________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
Nelle montagne di Honduras-Higueras<br />
<br />
Il corpo di Gonzalo Guerrero,<br />
<br />
Tatuato alla maniera dei Maya.<br />
<br />
Francisco de Montejo, è prevalso<br />
<br />
Il bene sul male,<br />
<br />
Sulle tenebre prevalsa è la luce.<br />
<br />
Ma che tenebre e che luce?<br />
<br />
Dietro le coste e le foreste<br />
<br />
Dello Yucatan<br />
<br />
Si accendevano forti tramonti<br />
<br />
Di vuota appartenenza,<br />
<br />
La notte veniva<br />
<br />
Carica di stelle<br />
<br />
Urlava il mare e la foresta<br />
<br />
Si piegava al suo<br />
<br />
Destino.<br />
<br />
Tu pure, Gonzalo,<br />
<br />
Ti piegasti. Nei villaggi<br />
<br />
Che stupivano<br />
<br />
I tuoi connazionali<br />
<br />
Venuti come te<br />
<br />
Alla ricerca dell'oro,<br />
<br />
Nelle verdi foreste<br />
<br />
Provate dagli uragani,<br />
<br />
Sulle bianche spiagge<br />
<br />
Di sola luce nella notte.<br />
<br />
Il tuo corpo cambiava<br />
<br />
Coi tamburi e i colori,<br />
<br />
Coi suoni di una lingua nuova<br />
<br />
Che facevi tua.<br />
<br />
Cambiavano i tuoi occhi,<br />
<br />
Il modo in cui le mani,<br />
<br />
Avvezze alle armi da fuoco,<br />
<br />
Divenivano armi<br />
<br />
Tornavano a vivere<br />
<br />
Al contatto coi corpi<br />
<br />
Di uomini e donne Maya.<br />
<br />
E il tuo corpo<br />
<br />
Dalle loro mani<br />
<br />
Rinnovato, mutato.<br />
<br />
Così ti narrarono le stelle,<br />
<br />
Quel cielo che davvero di stelle bruciava,<br />
<br />
Limiti di sovranità e prigionia<br />
<br />
Il fuoco dell'inquisizione<br />
<br />
Le celle sotterranee<br />
<br />
L'eccidio di popoli più liberi.<br />
<br />
D'allora le notti, seduti intorno al fuoco,<br />
<br />
Coi tamburi le voci e le danze,<br />
<br />
Schiudevano<br />
<br />
Un aspetto diverso della vita.<br />
<br />
Né il sangue che intrecciava<br />
<br />
I loro lunghi capelli,<br />
<br />
Poi i tuoi,<br />
<br />
Che al cielo scagliava un ultimo<br />
<br />
Urlo di guerra,<br />
<br />
Ti spaventò nell'anima,<br />
<br />
Che tornato Montejo a pregarti<br />
<br />
Lo seguissi,<br />
<br />
Per tornare al bene, al denaro, e a Dio.<br />
<br />
Fu poi quando trovarono<br />
<br />
Il corpo di uno spagnolo<br />
<br />
Nelle montagne dell'Honduras<br />
<br />
Un corpo ricoperto di tatuaggi Maya<br />
<br />
Fu allora che posero fine al disprezzo,<br />
<br />
La paura e la caccia.<br />
<br />
Fuggiasco avevi scelto<br />
<br />
Una giustizia salda e silvestre,<br />
<br />
Chiara negli occhi<br />
<br />
Fissi<br />
<br />
Al fermo cielo.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
New York, 2003-2009</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-84147830012204094972009-04-19T21:20:00.000-07:002009-05-07T03:19:54.166-07:00Preparazione e nascita___________________<br /><br />death is not this master.<br />-Emmanuel Levinas<br /><br />Ho imparato che spesso<br />È doloroso il ritorno<br />E deve esserlo<br />Di noi stessi a noi stessi<br />Del lavoro al lavoro<br />Della vita e del tempo<br />All’assente presenza<br />Dell’atomico moto<br />Di tumulto e di caos<br />Del tempo che siamo:<br />nunc stans.<br /><br />Ora assorto sedendo<br />Dentro i monti nei boschi<br />Di faggi e di pini<br />Che hanno visto i briganti<br />Contro stati nascenti<br />E signori oppressivi<br />Fra due mari chiarissimi<br />Spazio certo del nascere<br />Di violenza e tragedie<br />Ancora eterno<br />E sempre nuovo<br />Copre i tempi negati<br />Veloci e insieme lenti<br />Fra l’inizio e la fine.<br /><br />Dirompente fiato<br />Immenso fuoco –<br />E noi? Poter restare<br />Abbandonati e nudi<br />Su questa terra cruda<br />A sognare una vita diversa?<br />Tempo diverso del nascere<br />Pluriverso del fare comune<br />Nell’insolitudine vera<br />Di terrene plenitudini<br />Dentro l’essere che è<br />E non può non essere<br />(mentre il nulla non è<br />Ed è necessario che non sia) –<br />Sognare una vita diversa?<br />Costruirla ogni volta<br />Fuori da questo immenso<br />Silenzio, nel giusto mezzogiorno<br />Di apparente stasi<br />Nelle notti stellate<br />Del probabile ritorno.<br /><br /><br />bruno gullì<br />new york, 2003-2006Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-25901877709362609192009-04-15T04:54:00.000-07:002009-05-07T03:20:54.102-07:00Hölderlin’s Window____________________________<br /><br />“…and the philosophical light around my window is now my joy;<br />may I be able to keep on as I have thus far!”<br />-Friedrich Hölderlin<br />(letter to Boehlendorf, December 2, 1802)<br /><br /><br />Nothing but being remains<br />When<br />In the strong silence that doesn’t go<br />Unheard<br />The planes of time shift<br />And thought appears<br />In all its brightness:<br />The plane of memory<br />And the absent other, of the future.<br />But moments and modes<br />Of consolation are rare.<br />We anxiously seek<br />Thought on one side<br />The word on the other<br />In the void of time.<br />Quiet was earlier<br />Later there will be quiet.<br />Behind the window this new light<br />Exuberant with nature<br />In the warm evening<br />Finds us empty and cold<br />In the time of indifference<br />And revives us.<br />Perhaps a new thought<br />From the forest and mountains,<br />Perhaps in the crowded stations<br />Of forlorn cities<br />A young eternal face,<br />Ancient in its gaze,<br />Renews our passions, the fire<br />That lights the evening sky.<br />Yet simple are clothing and manners.<br />Here on the train going downtown<br />And losing itself into the woods<br />Set on fire by the new sun,<br />In the remote corners of the earth,<br />Talks are simple,<br />But high and real,<br />Conversations between pariahs and gods,<br />As to how war and blood and death<br />Reign allover.<br />The world sees no light.<br />Neither in the sweatshops in Pakistan<br />Or Thailand, nor those in New York<br />Or California does the void of time bring<br />New being. Laughter in Washington, London,<br />And the other capitals. Neither on the streets of La Paz,<br />Nor among the rubble in Baghdad is being nothing.<br />The laughter that calls itself democratic<br />Doesn’t see<br />The new coming freedom<br />That flows like lava down the mountains,<br />A river that breaks its banks.<br />The absolute and free being which is coming,<br />With a wide brow, comes from the future.<br />It carries with it immense spaces.<br />Like a new god, it crushes<br />Under its bare strong feet<br />Temples of a fake intelligence.<br />New cities arise everywhere in the world,<br />New centers of life. To the crescendo of festivity,<br />To the free coming and going of people<br />The unexpected gift of a genuine word<br />Adds itself, the presage, which is memory,<br />Of enlightenment.<br />To the usual window, tired, I return<br />Like he who due to a long absence<br />Through an exhausting journey<br />And a laborious search<br />Has lost his mental strength,<br />His bodily sense, to whom even rest<br />Appears to be action and effort.<br />Nor do you, thought, hide your presence.<br />Sleep is good in these circumstances.<br />It envelopes in the twilight the trembling walls<br />Of houses, the sound of our steps,<br />Solitude.<br />In this vortex<br />Of memory and of that which to equal status<br />Aspires, labor finds its elements.<br />Upon waking, the light of thought,<br />A new sun, floods eternal spaces.<br /><br />Bruno Gullì (New York, June 2003)<br />Translated with Rosemary Manno<br />San Francisco and New York, June 2005Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-39356811201473992262009-04-15T04:50:00.000-07:002009-05-07T03:21:23.304-07:00La finestra di Hölderlin___________________________<br /><br />Non c’è altro che l’essere<br />Quando<br />Nel silenzio che non passa inascoltato,<br />Tanto è forte,<br />Si spostano I piani del tempo<br />E il pensiero appare<br />In tutta la sua lucentezza.<br />Il piano della memoria<br />E l’altro assente del futuro.<br />Ma rari sono momenti e modi<br />Della consolazione.<br />Noi da un lato il pensiero<br />Dall’altro la parola<br />Nel vuoto del tempo<br />Con affanno cerchiamo.<br />La quiete era prima<br />Dopo sarà la quiete.<br />Dietro la finestra questa luce nuova<br />Esuberante della natura<br />Calda della sera<br />Vuoti e freddi ci trova<br />Nel tempo dell’indifferenza<br />E ci ravviva.<br /><br />Forse un pensiero nuovo<br />Dalle foreste e dai monti,<br />Forse dalle affollate stazioni<br />Delle grandi metropoli<br />Un viso eterno e giovane,<br />Ma nello sguardo antico,<br />Rinnova le passioni, il fuoco<br />Che il cielo della sera accende.<br />Eppure semplici sono abiti e modi.<br />Qui sul treno che va downtown<br />E si perde nei boschi infuocati<br />Dal nuovo sole,<br />Negli angoli remoti della terra,<br />Semplici sono i discorsi,<br />Ma alti e veri,<br />Discorsi tra paria e dei,<br />Di come guerra ovunque<br />E sangue e morte regni.<br />Luce non vede il mondo.<br />Né negli sweatshop del Pakistan<br />O della Thailandia, né in quelli di New York<br />O della California porta il vuoto del tempo<br />Essere nuovo. Ridono a Washington, Londra,<br />E nelle altre capitali. Né per le strade di La Paz,<br />Né tra le macerie a Bagdad l’essere è nulla.<br />Non si accorge quel riso<br />Che si dice democratico<br />Della nuova libertà che viene,<br />Scende come lava dai monti,<br />Fiume che rompe gli argini.<br />Del futuro è l’essere che viene<br />Assoluto e libero, dalla fronte ampia.<br />Immensi spazi reca con sé.<br />Come un nuovo dio, schiaccia<br />Sotto i piedi nudi e forti<br />Tempie di falsa intelligenza.<br />Nuove città sorgono dappertutto nel mondo,<br />Nuovi centri di vita. Al crescente rumore<br />Di festa, al libero andirivieni di gente<br />Il dono della schietta parola inatteso<br />Si aggiunge, il presagio, che è memoria,<br />Dei lumi.<br />Alla solita finestra stanco ritorno<br />Come chi per lunga assenza<br />Per estenuante cammino<br />E laboriosa ricerca<br />Perduto della mente abbia la forza,<br />Del corpo il senso, a cui il riposo<br />Perfino sembri azione e sforzo.<br />Né celi tu la tua presenza, pensiero.<br />Il sonno è giusto in queste circostanze.<br />Avvolge nel crepuscolo i muri trepidanti<br />Delle case, il suono dei nostri passi,<br />La solitudine.<br />In questo vortice<br />Della memoria e di ciò che a eguale stato<br />Aspira trova i suoi elementi il lavoro.<br />Al risveglio, la luce del pensiero,<br />Un nuovo sole, inonda spazi eterni.<br /><br /><br />Bruno Gullì<br /><br />New York, June 2003Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-78779755689388975642009-04-14T15:43:00.000-07:002009-05-07T03:21:51.051-07:00Fire in Belgrade______________________<br /><br />Then choose the black<br />Of sorrow and blood<br />Of poverty that runs univocal<br />From El Alto to East Saint Louis,<br />From the mountains around La Paz in Bolivia<br />Where the Indian women stand still for hours<br />Waiting for nothing, for the saints or bandits,<br />For the return of Che,<br />And the children barefoot and hungry<br />Seek alms from the shadows and walls.<br />Up to the southern borders of industrialized<br />Illinois, along the waters of Mississippi,<br />To the gates of Missouri, not so far,<br />This time, from the World Bank headquarters.<br />There 90% of the population is black<br />And poor, often without water and electricity,<br />And the children, in the middle of capital,<br />Leave school early to help at home, dreaming<br />Of a better future as workers in a pizzeria, forgetting<br />Or completely unaware of the structural adjustment programs<br />That the Bank disseminates in the world<br />To impoverish them deeper, not only in their bodies,<br />But in their spirits also and in their minds.<br />This poverty runs univocal in the Americas and in the world.<br />Like the being of Duns Scotus, simply present, it’s concretized<br />In these feverish eyes, in these skinny arms, in this swollen<br />Stomach of air and worms, in this twisted, sad mouth<br />Without its beautiful teeth. Meanwhile, managers, in business<br />And in the academies, theorize and practice the law<br />Of the free market, the free flow of money,<br />This money of blood and labor. Even Marxists,<br />Turned ignorant by the plague of indifference,<br />That burns in universities and in the world,<br />Align themselves to the cruel law of surplus-value,<br />And become blind to the reality of exploitation,<br />That some eliminate as a simple mistake,<br />Others weaken with wit and sophistry.<br />Thus, they replace the destruction of the law of value,<br />The abolition of money and productive labor,<br />The liberation of time and creative doing<br />With a vague economy of desire,<br />A society more feverish with consumption<br />And the elitist right to appropriate the superfluous.<br />While the children of El Alto die,<br />And the children of East Saint Louis grow up without books.<br />They too grow in blindness, unable to see the wrong<br />That takes over the determinant motors of being,<br />Seen here and there in the fragments of a truth<br />Stronger than the homogenous, crushing thought<br />That negates it; in the papers, for instance,<br />The mouthpiece of Wall Street, that reported<br />On July 15, 1998, without comment, without shame,<br />The position of vulgar Madeleine Albright<br />On American Indians and other indigenous groups.<br />And I quote: “Secretary of State Albright<br />Assured American Indians and other indigenous<br />Groups that their rights would be protected under<br />An international treaty, signed by the US,<br />That is designed to protect the world’s disappearing<br />Plant and animal species.” This is why, Giorgio,<br />I address you, among others,<br />It’s impossible to believe the bombs were humanitarian<br />That the year after destroyed Belgrade. Because at the center<br />Of capital, and of the State that governs and is governed by it,<br />Posited is not freedom, nor is it joy, but negation, violence,<br />Necessity of bloodshed, immense sadness, and the rhetoric<br />That to imprisoned, tired eyes then renders<br />Everything different and weak.<br /><br /><br />New York, October 2000<br />Translated by Rosemary Manno<br />and the author<br />From Figures of a Foreign Land;<br />previously appeared in Left Curve.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-13102595126000164232009-04-14T15:39:00.000-07:002010-06-25T12:18:41.544-07:00Il fuoco di Belgrado__________________<br /><br />Poi il nero scegli<br />Del dolore e del sangue<br />Della povertà che corre univoca<br />Da El Alto a East Saint Louis.<br />Dalle montagne attorno a La Paz in Bolivia<br />Dove le donne indios stanno immobili per ore<br />Aspettando nessuno, i santi o i banditi,<br />Il ritorno del Che,<br />E I bambini scalzi e malnutriti chiedono<br />L’elemosina ad ombre e muri.<br />Fino ai confini meridionali dell’industrializzato<br />Illinois, lungo le rive del Mississippi,<br />Alle porte del Missouri, non lontanissimo,<br />Questa volta, dalla sede centrale della Banca Mondiale.<br />Lì il novanta percento della popolazione è nera<br />E povera, spesso senza acqua e luce, e i bambini,<br />Al centro del capitale, lasciano presto la scuola<br />Per andare a lavorare, e sognano un futuro più ricco<br />Come garzoni di pizzeria, dimentichi o del tutto ignari<br />Dei programmi di aggiustamento strutturale che la Banca<br />Dissemina nel mondo per impoverirli sempre più,<br />Non solo nel corpo,<br />Ma nello spirito anche e nella mente.<br />Questa povertà corre univoca nelle Americhe e nel mondo.<br />Come l’essere di Scoto, semplicemente presente,<br />Si concretizza in questi occhi accesi dalla febbre, in queste<br />Braccia magre, in questo ventre gonfio d’aria e vermi,<br />In questa bocca storta e triste senza i denti belli.<br />Intanto i managers, nel business e nelle accademie,<br />Teorizzano e praticano la regola del libero mercato,<br />Il libero corso del denaro, questo denaro che è sangue<br />E lavoro. Perfino i marxisti, resi imbecilli dal morbo dell’indifferenza,<br />Che avvampa nelle università e nel mondo, si aggrappano<br />Alla crudele legge del plusvalore, e ciechi diventano<br />Alla realtà dello sfruttamento, che alcuni tolgono come semplice<br />Errore, altri attenuano con arguzie e sofismi.<br />Per cui alla distruzione della legge del valore,<br />All’abolizione del denaro e del lavoro produttivo,<br />Alla liberazione del tempo e del fare creativo,<br />Sostituiscono una vaga economia del desiderio,<br />Una società più accesa dei consumi<br />E il diritto elitario di appropriarsi del superfluo.<br />Mentre muoiono i bambini di El Alto<br />E senza libri crescono quelli di East Saint Louis.<br />Crescono anch’essi alla cecità, tale da non vedere<br />Il torto che subentra nei motori determinanti<br />Dell’essere, evidente qua e là nei frammenti<br />Di una verità più forte del pensiero omogeneo<br />E schiacciante che la nega, nei giornali, per esempio,<br />L’organo di Wall Street, che il 15 luglio del 1998<br />Riportava senza commenti, dunque senza vergogna,<br />La posizione della grossolana Madeleine Albright<br />Sugli indiani d’America ed altri gruppi indigeni.<br />E cito: “Secretary of State Albright<br />Assured American Indians and other indigenous<br />Groups that their rights would be protected under<br />An international treaty, signed by the US,<br />That is designed to protect the world’s disappearing<br />Plant and animal species”. Ecco perché, Giorgio,<br />A te, fra gli altri mi rivolgo,<br />È impossibile credere che umanitarie fossero le bombe<br />Che l’anno dopo distruggevano Belgrado. Perché al centro<br />Del capitale, e dello Stato che lo governa e ne è governato,<br />Posta non è la libertà, né posta è gioia, ma negazione,<br />Violenza, necessità di sangue, tristezza immensa, e la retorica<br />Che agli occhi prigionieri e stanchi<br />Il tutto poi diverso e falso renda.<br /><br />New York, October 2000Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-59271318250979898162009-04-13T23:05:00.000-07:002009-05-07T03:23:06.262-07:00Pietra nera_____________<br /><br />Comincia dai colori,<br />complemento della luce,<br />della notte e del nulla<br />formidabile dominio.<br />E tra i colori il rosso<br />primo scegli del sangue,<br />testimone dei vinti,<br />del soggiogo e del supplizio.<br />Poi con gli occhi lucenti dimmi<br />se grave non sembri,<br />immeritato castigo, la caduta<br />dell'essere nel vuoto, alto<br />dell'esperienza il prezzo,<br />della ragione, ignobile l'oblio,<br />se alla ricerca di un coraggio piu' certo,<br />dove giustizia è fuoco grande e comune,<br />non sappia o voglia l'ira ora tacere.<br />Pero' grida Bagdad, e grida Gaza: questo fuoco,<br />di coraggio e giustizia misti ad ira,<br />calpesti e sfaccia le bandiere,<br />bruci le stelle tristi,<br />le stelle e strisce della bestia immonda.<br />Poi con gli occhi lucenti e un sorriso<br />triste mezzo nascosto mi dici parole<br />che non posso capire, poiché una distanza<br />della parola vera il senso chiaro ci toglie,<br />e si rabbuia il cuore e l'aperto cammino<br />a quello della terra, nelle mani si fa sangue<br />il pensiero, e il sangue pietra nera.<br />Seneca, pazzo, è naturale l'ira e giusta<br />dei popoli negati,<br />che a pervenirvi calmi e lenti sono,<br />né loro quella col giudizio uccide,<br />ma vive e vivono negli occhi<br />e i denti belli di una bambina del Chiapas<br />che sullo Zocalo di San Cristobal de Las Casas,<br />o dentro le montagne fino a Simojovel,<br />dove si spinge per l'ambra il turista,<br />coi fratelli le sorelle e la nonna,<br />piedi scalzi pietra nera, ai margini<br />del mercato mondiale del sangue,<br />di una libertà parassita e assassina,<br />lei, la bambina, doppiamente negata,<br />che né il tempo antico della selva ritrova,<br />né la dignità di un essere nuovo,<br />per se stessa e la sua gente, costretta<br />a vendere per niente, preziose ombre<br />della fatica e della memoria.<br /><br />Bruno Gulli'<br />Parigi, dicembre '98<br />da Figures of a Foreign Land (San Francisco: Deep Forest, 2001)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-32142904706949054142009-04-13T23:03:00.000-07:002010-10-15T19:49:00.473-07:00Black Stone______________<br /><br />Begin with the colors,<br />Complement of the light,<br />Formidable dominion<br />Of the night and of nothingness.<br />And among the colors first<br />Choose the red of blood,<br />Testimony of the vanquished<br />To the subjugation and the torture.<br />Then with shining eyes tell me<br />If the fall of being into the void<br />Doesn't seem too serious, like undeserved<br />Punishment, if the price of experience<br />Doesn't seem too high, if the forgetfulness<br />Of reason doesn't seem ignoble;<br />If in the search for a more certain courage,<br />Where justice is a great communal fire,<br />Rage doesn't know or want to be silent.<br />For Baghdad cries out and Gaza cries out:<br />Make this fire, of courage and justice<br />Mixed with rage, stamp on and undo the flags,<br />Burn the sad stars,<br />The stars and stripes of the filthy beast.<br />Then you tell me, with shining eyes and<br />A half-hidden smile, words<br />I don't understand because a distance<br />Removes the clear sense of the true word<br />And makes our heart and the open road<br />To the heart of the earth grow dark,<br />And thought in the hands becomes blood,<br />And the blood, black stone.<br />Seneca, you madman, the rage of negated<br />People is natural and just,<br />For they arrive at it calmly,<br />Nor does it kill them with their judgment<br />But it lives and they live in the beautiful<br />Eyes and teeth of a little girl of Chiapas<br />Who in the Zocalo of San Cristobal de las Casas<br />Or behind the mountains clear up to Simojovel<br />Where the tourists go in search of amber,<br />With brothers and sisters and her grandmother<br />--bare feet, black stone-- at the edges<br />Of the global market of blood,<br />Of a parasitic and murderous liberty,<br />She, the little girl, doubly negated,<br />Who finds neither her ancient forest history<br />Nor the dignity of a new existence<br />For herself and her people, forced<br />To sweat for nothing, precious shadows<br />Of hard labor and memory.<br /><br />Bruno Gulli,<br />Paris, December 98<br />from Figures of a Foreign Land (San Francisco: Deep Forest, 2001)<br />Translated by Jack HirschmanAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-26951536464311207352009-04-13T17:25:00.000-07:002013-03-02T22:38:25.313-08:00Song of the Lost Self<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
___________<br />
<br />
Attention!<br />
<br />
This is not a poem, but a collage of advertisements. It means that I didn't work as a writer but as a jobless and almost desperate reader who, early in the morning, was looking at the Job Opportunity section of the Sunday Paper. It doesn't have anything to do with a piece of automatic writing, nor with the poem that André Breton once wrote using the page of the phone book in which his name and address were listed. This collage is but the satirical, repetitive monologue of the job-hunter who is forced to see reality in the terms publicity wants. But in each advertisement we read, there is, I believe, a precise political meaning. They (who?) tell us how to behave, to look, to think, in order to have a job and make a living. I know that the text is boring, but it was the only way to catch the immediate meaning of such a violent and coercive situation. Probably, I would have had a better inspiration if I had been reading Rimbaud.<br />
<br />
<em>O saisons, ô châteaux!</em><br />
<br />
I'm bright, I'm efficient,<br />
I have an energetic and friendly personality,<br />
I'm a highly qualified individual,<br />
I'm a highly motivated individual who is sincere & honest,<br />
I have strong written and verbal communication skills,<br />
I consider myself in the top 1% of my profession,<br />
I'm aware of the power in building close relationships<br />
with my associates,<br />
I always see things through to perfection,<br />
I do work at getting people to like me,<br />
I possess the discipline necessary to be responsible<br />
for the implementation of company policy and procedures.<br />
I'm willing to learn and grow in a business environment<br />
that promotes autonomous decision making,<br />
I perform well without direct supervision,<br />
I'm willing to work hard in friendly fast paced environments,<br />
and I also enjoy being underpaid,<br />
I'm willing to work flexible shifts,<br />
I do need extra hours,<br />
I have a degree w/3-5 yrs indus exp,<br />
I do need extra money,<br />
I will accept $4.25/hr, and/or $3.35/hr for P/T on call position,<br />
I'm willing to work F/T, P/T,<br />
I will call immediately to apply or discuss the possibility,<br />
I'll come in or call for an interview now!<br />
I will go w/my own bike,<br />
I will go w/my own car,<br />
I will go w/my own truck,<br />
I will walk, if it's necessary,<br />
I will send resume,<br />
I will Apply in Person.<br />
Yes, I want a success I can count on.<br />
I'm creative about using time,<br />
I have Gd knowledge of office support skills & general business<br />
and I am a motivated self-starter.<br />
I'm organized.<br />
<br />
I have strong problem solving, communication and management<br />
skills,<br />
I have the ability to motivate others,<br />
I have a direct, clear, pleasant voice.<br />
I'll tell you when I want to work,<br />
I'll tell you when I want to sing,<br />
I'll tell you when I want to drink,<br />
I'll tell you when I want to eat,<br />
I'll tell you when I want to piss,<br />
I'll tell you when I want to fuck.<br />
I'm flexible.<br />
And responsible.<br />
I'm self-motivated, enthusiastic, aggressive,<br />
I'm goal orientated, tenacious and dedicated,<br />
I'm looking for a challenging and financially rewarding position,<br />
I want $50,000, or more<br />
I want $100,000, or more<br />
I want $1,000,000, or more.<br />
I do have a strong desire to succeed.<br />
I want to enter the car wash field w/no exp,<br />
I'm an energetic career-minded person,<br />
I'm a top quality individual with the desire to succeed,<br />
I'm aggressive, a self-motivated individual with the desire<br />
and the experience to run a successful operation,<br />
I thank you for encouraging minorities and Spanish-speaking to<br />
apply,<br />
I'm creative,<br />
I'm mature,<br />
I'm enthusiastic, articulate, aggressive,<br />
I have a sales-orientated mind,<br />
I have the ability to follow complex oral and written directions,<br />
I'm capable of working independently,<br />
I like heavy phones and word processing,<br />
I love to wash dishes,<br />
I have the ability to work with minimal supervision,<br />
I have a strong phone manner, excellent skills,<br />
I have the ability to interact successfully with people<br />
and the desire to dig in and get things done,<br />
I enjoy working under pressure,<br />
and I also have a Gd sense of humor,<br />
I'm circumspect in handling personnel-related matters,<br />
I will respond in confidence,<br />
I do have a strong work ethic...<br />
<br />
WHAT ABOUT YOU, PIGS?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Bruno Gullì<br />
San Francisco, 1987</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362211568489146128.post-70807025274856281402009-04-13T16:55:00.000-07:002009-05-07T03:25:18.022-07:00It_________<br /><br />It's red<br /><br />like blood<br /><br />brown like<br /><br />the twilight's woods<br /><br />not merely blue<br /><br />like the waters of any<br /><br />writing<br /><br />not merely green<br /><br />like the hope of simple<br /><br />hope.<br /><br />It is black<br /><br />like the night which is<br /><br />ending<br /><br />that is, strong<br /><br />like the sun which is<br /><br />rising.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtcuIoI9niMNnLy8PdKKt1OjciPnL1pSnoYN_KJnysh1HYt4x6F7S8oY3DVHXcyj-b3qKWY8hlGwH-S4GXtWvpIIuMvcNaU2HoGGx0wzUz25DRWVdl1J5Xmc10fVDkQG4uE8ftWewbL6g/s1600-h/28A.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324330629607212034" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 227px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 155px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtcuIoI9niMNnLy8PdKKt1OjciPnL1pSnoYN_KJnysh1HYt4x6F7S8oY3DVHXcyj-b3qKWY8hlGwH-S4GXtWvpIIuMvcNaU2HoGGx0wzUz25DRWVdl1J5Xmc10fVDkQG4uE8ftWewbL6g/s320/28A.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Bruno Gullì<br /><br />New York, 3/28/98Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00926684747052533096noreply@blogger.com0