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That silence away down there— is it the edge of a field? I wobble in mist; you, my arm, take me to the light! Conta le olive sulla tavola. Make me bitter, moon, count me with the olives. The only leaf-quake that I see are these sheets of mine in gold-stained shadows. Translated by Dino Fabris Cu la lenghe crevade Con la lingua crepata.
Rosis grivis di gjambe sutile ti fasin murae intal siump, si fasin presinsis Recitativo del vagabondo. Schema for thought— pleated gold over trees, dying moon throbbing on necessary steps Anticipation filled with faces; shrouds like flags unfurled whitening the horizon; all around glass-imbedded walls lying in wait, fashioned to hew hands, exposed knuckles Will you, knight without ensigns, knowing yourself unsure, carry your acrid figure to where acid meats and tough solitudes pulverize teeth? Is forgetfulness your end? Serious, slender-stemmed roses form a wall in dreams, make themselves felt Give over to these respites?
Drown in the honey of these tropes? She published two books of poetry in Italian: La porta dipinta and Interrogatorio Tore Barbina and A. Ciceri Nicoloso, eds. The texts anthologized here are previously unpublished. For the latter, so distant by now, can do us no harm. I repeat, these women are recreating Friulan poetry—not as a male-female dialectic, but as the truth of all human consciousness es.
This is my point: Cantarutti first and foremost, then Maria Forte, Buiese and Vallerugo, have all contributed, via their heightened sensibility, to the reshaping of our poetic language. Ultimately, they have made it the language of a people. Ciceri Nicoloso, Scrittrici contemporanee in Friuli , cit. Colonnello, G. Mariuz and G. Pauletto, eds. Ultimo luogo. Cosa lo ha spinto? Last Place The last place in the world, the world a station if it has a station, however small, the name vanished, two tracks, the service track aside with cars sealed for centuries that, more from precaution than fear, no one opens.
An eternity like this. One day he got lost in the desert going just beyond that bend where the tracks are burnished gold in the setting sun. What drove him? Who brought him back and laid him across the tracks? Yes, it was plain the desert moved, the tracks were covered again as quickly as the sand was swept away.
A cola. Il sogno. Il marito si accorse in tempo. The Dream Maybe by now the snow outside has buried the earth melancholy Hiroshima landscape. On the Sydney bridge the wind lifts your black hair loose from its pins. The ships pass slowly by, sounding their horns they head for open sea, gone already. Your pensive mother passes by in deep water.
From that window the bridge is a single arc, a flight Before you my Regina stops her rush. She falls. She awakened among the dead. Her husband realized it in time. Veniva e viene ancora appeso alle travi del soffitto. Il suo nome varia da zona a zona e non ha un nome corrispondente in italiano.
Being with you who are no longer with us is so much more than living among the busy lives who take away my breath that peace I need for being cursed the way I am. Being with you always grape by grape my aurec hung on my slender rafter in this room with the painted outside door where a famished child has not eaten the bunch clenched in his hands because the grapes are numbered It was and still is hung from the rafters in the attic.
The dried grapes were eaten in winter. Its name varies from place to place and has no equivalent in Italian. Here, the Aurec is my deceased grandmother. He teaches elementary school. Then, in collaboration with L. Vit writes in southern Friulan, the language of Bagnarola.
But his insights herein transcend the socio-political causes of this oppression. His alliterations develop in relief: e. Walter Belardi and G. No sta vignimi dongia cuntralus. And that rivulet of light along the knee! When the sun ensnares itself in the thorns of the darkness, then whose will be the face that I caress? There are those who learn how to suckle from the white of the page, to whistle from a wind hidden deep within. And how you can command, condemn, cudgel all humanity, right from there, from that white room, perched like a king on the throne of the latrine.
He studied at the University of Bologna and now teaches in a lycaeum in Pordenone. He has published numerous critical essays on literature and aesthetics in journals such as Testo a fronte , Studi di estetica , Diverse Lingue , and Baldus which he also edits. The following essays of his have appeared in book format s : Diritto alla poesia , with A. De Biasio and A. Lettura della trilogia di A. Publishing a few chap-books in Italian—e. His most important dialect works are Altro che storie! The texts anthologized come from Vose de vose. He has comprehended and assimilated European Symbolism and Surrealism.
For him, they are overcome by their ineluctable fragility in an atmosphere of indistinct contours, all in suspension and expectancy. Searching for his own voice, he eschews his noble poetic tradition. He writes viva voce , in dialogue, retracing old terms, introducing innovation, finding points where the old and the new meet. Brevini, Le parole perdute, cit. Colonnello, Mariuz and Pauletto, eds. Geno Pampaloni, I giorni in fuga Milan: Garzanti, For the Autumn Left I.
For the autumn and animals left under the crystal of hours culling branches and earth for a den in a nook of the head. For the autumn metal sheet and the man who wakes up calling with hands full of fingers, with hair coiled on the brain, of the breed of autumn gulls in eternal earthward flight. Translated by Dino Fabris II.
Translated by DinoFabris X. A rain eroding clay shoulders and finding us in the jaw of a November forever open in an lotus with luggage to manage the night, filled with leaves, peelings, signed papers. If we fall asleep. Translated by Dino Fabris XI. A nylon cloth the clouds, and the man of glass takes on a hue of tar and rusty wire that binds the hours around his ribs.
Spadoni and Luciano Benini Sforza are presently assembling an anthology of poetry written in Romagnol in the second half of the twentieth century. Visionary and descriptive passages alternate. His variegated repertoire of images is characterized by subtlety in design and by a cyclical sense of melody. Notwithstanding traces of his literary tradition, Spadoni gives new life to his dialect that is virtually biological for its instinctive immediacy.
Its affinities are clear from its settings everyday, humble objects and human types and its versification. The latter is characterized by a warm, colloquial vocality that lightens the sombre tone and mollifies the harshness of vision. Cesare Vivaldi, in Il lettore di provincia , 79 Vivaldi, in Poesia dialettale dal Rinascimento a oggi Milan: Garzanti, Pietro Civitareale, in Abruzzo letterario , Prima che si faccia buio. All clocks have stopped. People refuse to grasp that the moon doesnt know what to do about us. Le voglie. Shadows play hide-and-seek and the street-lights perforate the aura of squandered hours.
Puoi fare di meno. That day comes when you grow weary, lace up your best shoes and go Come fili di tela di ragno. Nadiani and Cipriani also collaborated with Andrea Foschi on the essays in La parola ritrovata: la poesia contemporanea fra lingua e dialetto Ravenna: Long Editore, In , Nadiani co-founded the literary review Tratti. He is now its editor-in-chief. The poems anthologized here come from Tir. This marginality, however, allows him to focus his lens sharply. Creaks, collapses, fissures, crashes of beams in the dust, cracks, cuts, splinters—all reverberate.
These poems do an x-ray of an inexorably progressive landslide, an extraordinary yet oblique vision of cycles and seasons. His new emphasis is on an accumulative narration of data, objects, daily and work situations. His new instruments are parataxis and asyndeton or polyasyndata —i. Everyday prose speech, the brutality of history in the making, the infamous and the banal—that is to say, the terms of contemporary threats to the very act of writing poetry—are all here, center stage. The shattering of verse in Nadiani conveys his interaction with lived, transcribed prose. This idiom is lived to the extremes of chaotic enumeration where his dexterous and resourceful rhythms overcome the flat, monodical flow of apparently run-on phrases.
In our heads we say no to North Africans with languid eyes Sleep is what wakes us and we dont buy Automat Today after swats that lit up the night the flies are unsure of themselves For one, over-long moment we stop to hear the thud on the pavement of an over-ripe fig, the putrid splash of the wheels The sparrows wallowing in their puddles seem amused and, in the murk, we envy their chirping.
But dont talk to the computer about it! Stressed, we punch the keys to forget the impotent rage of our disguises Weariness The full moon plumb over the trailers that extend the night. We masters of the dark, hushed Feet sodden with dew we slither back home to shut the blinds, light a lamp, look each other in the eye: no one dares speak of going to bed. In an ample anthology of works in print was published by Scheiwiller, with the addition of the section Laudario , which assembles the texts subsequent to Carta laniena , and an unpublished poem written in The volume is edited and prefaced by Franco Brevini.
He died suddenly in Numana in the summer of Mondadori published posthumously the book of poems El sol. In this sense dialect is seen as a metaplasm of language, alien to any aesthetics of the untranslatable. The model for this operation was presumably offered to him by a popular sixteenth-century poet of the Marche, Olimpio da Sassoferrato Franco Brevini, in Poeti dialettali del Novecento , Einaudi, Scataglini has a very personal ability to cross the boundaries of reality without escaping it, forcing to the utmost the contours of the image, expanding them, and at the same time corroding its core, its inner center, so that it may open to the air and burn in the air.
Towards her I lean through an ancient obedience with the gloomy mien of one becoming immanence. Essentially, sex is a seeming allegory: you can find a nexus only with deathly misery. Look at me hit the ground: breathless, I agonize like a reeling bloodhound lost amid the ice. Raso: abbattuto. Translated by Luigi Bonaffini El cardo sui grepi o cavedane! Cavedane: strade campestri.
Translated by Luigi Bonaffini Su la neve De gravi rami in schianto luntani soprasalti. From buckling heavy branches faraway anxieties. Is this, my love, the way one dies of completion broken, side by side, inside their own windbreakers? Strama: lacera da Laudario The Whip On the spent docks the rusted whip of a tackle rips the silence vapors in the distant whir of motors.
Translated by Luigi Bonaffini El sol I. Svetava soverchiante come una torre altera la grande ciminiera fino a luntane piante. Trebiatrici per aie, da longo, colonie, barconi in mezo a scie de svolazate paie. Piccola fabbrica non lungi da Chiaravalle, in aperta campagna. Smantellata dai tedeschi nel , ne restano desolate vestigia. The long shiver of the call runs through the people inside the waiting room.
On the side, a few countenances, all of submissive lives wearing clean clothes contrite farmers in reticent shadows wives in the corner of the waiting room outside, the calash with puppets painted on its flanks, desolate in their vilified happy bloom. Local whistle trains. The great chimney soared high like another lofty proud tower up to the distant trees.
Water down in the gorge the attending murmur flees beyond the patch of elm trees that came out clean and purged from the cast iron gratings of the Sol the whine of black factories, turbines. Unshared, outlying was a large villa the swallows fell in swarms on the white hawthorns. A Small factory not far from Chiaravalle, in the open countryside.
Dismantled by the Germans in , only desolate traces of it remain. The text recalls a summer spent by the author in those places as a boy. Leonardo Mancino Born in Camerino Macerata in Leonardo Mancino Essential Critical Bibliography. Paglia, in AA. E che ce pensi E ci pensi E ci pensi che qualcuno - come si vorrebbe - ci ha preceduto sulla strada che andiamo percorrendo con tutta la fatica necessaria.
Su questo palco ormai fradicio e vecchio che non si regge in piedi sempre ti ci devi muovere. Anche morire se necessario. And Do You Think And do you think how someone preceded us on the road that we keep walking on with all the strain it takes. On this rickety stage barely standing now rotted and old you must make your way. Even die.
People look at you with baleful eyes, the clothes are as torn as the years, as the little heart we still have left. At the corner of the eye tangled fears when you ask yourself why. Nel giardino. In the Garden In the flower garden the poison of sea fragrance grows like a ghost in the night the eye fixes the pupil seems a throbbing dilated abyss on the realm of sweet bewildered dreams the word constantly invoked keeps saying like a chant a verse Lettera del figlio. Vedi la casa. Vedi la casa nascondersi dietro le braccia degli alberi alla campagna. Dal ballatoio sulle scale sembra di vedere una figura che si allontana e poi sfuma: se ci fai caso attentamente somiglia alla sagoma di una madre eguale alle altre, a tutte, che di riflesso spia il destino nella sua stessa immagine.
Senti un lamento di un cane vecchio che muore. He lives in Perugia. Ponti , by Giuseppe Giacalone , ; Idillio e catastrofe. Poesie , and is interested in art criticism he has edited at least twenty exhibits. Mazzamuto, Palermo, As a dialect poet since , he appears in Umbria by P. Some of his poems were included in the anthology Fiori di San Valentino.
The poems here included are unpublished. Ponti the man has a serious notion of life, a pessimistic conception of the world, but Ponti the poet almost always succeeds in transcribing his inner feelings into a cold and calculated style, as if it were a defense mechanism against his suffering. A way of writing cold what one feels hot, a way of laughing at his own pain, as a way of overcoming the pain. But in reality he holds man responsible for his pain, because humanity, from a social point of view, does nothing to make life less miserable.
Vivaldi, Poesia dialettale dal Rinascimento ad oggi , cit. Follia paesana. But what have you got inside your head? To drive me crazy? E caloia de fantignole e merolla sdirinate. Cuore dolce. And flashes of fits and wornout marrow. Sowing pegs and reaping puddles. Never feeling quite right your whole life long. Nevica da mille ore. And I am dozing off in a needle shaft of moonlight that colors all it touches like a crayon made of sun.
Quando rischiara. Holding a literature degree, he taught in secondary schools. Prose: Un regno e un regno Milan, ; Apologhi a Pietro Foggia, ; Le piccole patrie Pescara, ; Viva la guerra Bari, ; Concerto sul colle Chieti, ; He also wrote a few small volumes of essays and satirical and parodic verse : Poesia in forma di cosa?
Pescara, ; Un uomo sfinito Lanciano, ; Minime della notte Chieti, Ha published books of narrative for secondary schools and edited anthologies. He was the editor of Dimensioni and Questar te He is the general secretary for the international prize Ennio Flaiano. The texts that follow are unpublished. The dialect of Giuseppe Rosato, as is the case with the content of the poems and the themes developed, displays totally unconventional registers and cadences, which arise from remote, intimate, personal echoes, and establish him not as the bard of a people, but as the voice of a contemporary consciousness that utilizes dialect for its discrete charm, for its exclusive resources and for the malleability and expressiveness of certain extraordinary structures.
The selection of poems does not exceed the number of fingers of both hands, yet it permits a discourse that is worth carrying out and it refers to the use of dialect in poetry Rosato goes back to a precise condition of poetry consecrated by dialect. Yet she goes to meet the sun: what death could be more beautiful?
To be able to believe there is a rising east that waits for us as well as for the last moon of September, a morning filled with light in another world that lies behind the night The dark will swallow us, and afterwards there is no striving and there is no need, there is no curve of moon or spread of stars, there is no sky, there is no anything. E finalmente, dice. Ma le pinze? Mi riposo But what are you really thinking? And where is all such contentment after all?
E ti stai zitto. Now you can cry oh mamma all you like but who will listen, who will pity you? So you keep quiet. Hi has been living in Florence since His work has been translated into various languages and he has in turn translated La muerte a Beverly Hills by P. The poems presented here are unpublished. I received his small book Come nu suonne with a sense of happy wonderment. His poems are pleasing and precious, and are written in that beautiful language of central Italy that awakens so many echoes of the poetry from which our Italian language was born.
A very tender poetry, that employs to great effect a simple, limpid way of approaching things. Franco Loi I read with great interest his poems of Vecchie parole. It seems to me that a magic lyricism makes perfect use of dialect in order to reinvent occasions of places and moments of days and seasons, achieving an extraordinary intensity and originality.
Giorgio Barberi Squarotti I thank you for the gift of Vecchie parole that I read with great pleasure: reconciliation and harmony of religious spirit and natural elements imbued with a similar soul; profound, age-old language that you execute with great skill and restraint, but that above all you do not betray by deforming it with thoughts and sentiments which do not belong to it, as is customary nowadays.
I am more and more convinced that dialectality is an inner category. Uccelli di maggio. Fiori di neve. Snowflowers Snowflowers in the window and outside, stretching to the limits of the world, the bewildered field just yesterday a snarl of leaves a coating of rust on the sky now a glitter of glass tinted ashy January gray that on some nights brings a silence like a gnawing like an icy embittered moon in the heart. Ma ora so che non posso.
But Now I Know I Cannot Do it I used to believe that it was possible to come back to this height, where the giddiness of memory breathes life again into faraway dreams, and on that path I taste you once more as I did before, fragrant and hot, like bread fresh from the oven. And it is late, and always growing later, and narrow, and interminable, the way. Mi ha ucciso la luna. I Was Murdered by the Moon Heart in pieces and the years pressing like a packsaddle, I await the withering of the last rose on the hedges, blind to every hope, persuaded only by the nothingness there is.
His poems have appeared i various anthologies and in journals such as Paragone , Salvo imprevisti , Tracce , Gradiva , Lengua, Tratti e altre. These texts were born after a period of meager and uncertain practice with dialect. On the creative level, the speech of the Frentan area, and in particular that of Lanciano, paralyzed me: I passively felt its fascination, but was unable to go beyond a series of quotations — or at most of brief insertions — in an Italian context.
It was therefore inevitable that I would eventually dare to immerse myself totally in this language, which I felt was extremely expressive, rich with a remote music, dead to the world of modern communication but mysteriously alive as a biological event.
At this point I was obliged to give in to that semiconscious wave that was swelling, to recover its transgressive and atemporal force, to recreate it through archaic gulps, agglutinations and linguistic rasps, setting aside all constraints and false parallels with Italian. Where has it plunged us, what good does it blow this great wind rising over mouldy days this empty idle chattering of chickens this rolling of the intoxicated sky this mouth of petroleum that swallows up the sea: these putrid leaves, these leaves that gut the face of the scarred and disembowelled earth. You inflame me: who are you.
But to the bottom of a pan, to capsize like a wreck there, pours the devil of my revel and the levelled quickened oil. Che sa Emme? From the marbled marine mass we get our Em. The misty mantle round the moon? All Em. What does Em know? A mute and mysterious medley of months: she munches mu and moo, gives me mellowness of mauve, and oh how im- maculate is the magic land of Em. I theoretical essays are contained in the volume Le ragioni di una scrittura.
Vignuzzi and a note by G. The poems presented here are unpublished Moretti unfetters the dialect of Abruzzo from regional themes, using it as a language endowed with full semantic potential. His case is typical of neodialect poetry To mark this distance he no longer employs closed forms or the hendecasyllable, but a laisse of long lines, with the cadence of a recitative and a very personal, internalized rhythm, and a predilection for the discursive long poem His poetry is marked by strong reasons Franco Brevini, in le parole perdute , cit.
With respect to age, complexity of intellectual culture, literary experiences, Vito Moretti rightfully belongs to the new generations of dialect poets In his poetry metrical freedom does not mean lack of rhythm which, on the contrary, stems from careful research of the deepest rhythmical sources, of cadences that combine dialect words into well-connected groupings. Moretti gives unequivocal proof of this Moretti then starts from the instances of contemporary culture, of intellectual, philosophical culture, and from an ethical quest, from political and religious aporias, to look for the most appropriate expressive medium in the rhythmical cadence bound to dialect words.
Essential Critical Bibliography U. It Has Fallen Softly to Weigh Softly the darkness has fallen, softly the night with the black houses rooted about like wornout beasts of burden. It has fallen softly to weigh, with that round moon hung up by the hands of a hundred craftsmen, the thread of hours that my day brings back to the signs of the earth, and that now ready to close the blinds and to separate us from the joust of dreams I represent as a patient game of pardons. Will it suffice to whisper resolutions to repent?
The house is a cave, you told me, a lump to swallow now the children have deserted, and the words--you laid them gently on my breast-- had an umbilicus of the world, like the weeping of the bulrushes with the priestly hallelujah. But ours is an old disquiet, and it makes you tired in the silence of the nights. And it may not be worth it to wear away the boundaries, or consciously to turn back to hailing yesterday. The cock may crow, even three times, or grow ill with dizziness on the sabbath that has aged us. All of us, with small steps, have the day for crouching on the glass, the red moon that every evening scales the fans of the soul.
Rimango a contare le veglie. Like a tree with hidden branches I stay here to calculate the vigils. Tomorrow perhaps, tomorrow I can tell you of my faith, the sour temper that wraps memories in paper and turns them into passions. Previously the principal of a middle school, he now is involved in the publishing industry via his collaboration with major dailies and literary reviews such as La Repubblica , La Fiera Letteraria , Critica Letteraria , and Produzione e Cultura.
Fiore Adriatica Ed. Enne, ; Profilo storico del Molise Venice: Ed. New York: Peter Lang, He transcends dialect verse by writing poetry in dialect. He does so with a sure-handed grasp of linguistico-cultural contamination reconfigured in totally contemporary language. Tracce, n. Orazio Tanelli, in Nuova Dimensione October Bonaffini, introduciton to The Peacock.
Chi arriva e chi parte! Quando parto.
See a Problem?
When I Leave When I leave and lay down my clothes inside my suitcase, the jacket with the shoulders on a hanger, its sleeves neatly crossed over on the chest, I feel like I am laying a dead man in his coffin. Always the same. Some people arrive and some leave. And on your final trip you bring one jacket underneath the ground and leave behind at home another jacket dangling on a hanger. A mio figlio. To My Son I am sorry, son, for having planted you in a sunless orchard, quiver of a flower in a guitar; huddled sparrow you wait to be fed with your mouth wide open and quietly flap your wings, but with every hour you grow in my heart like leavened bread, like a scream choking in my throat.
La parola. The Word The word on the lips of a peasant comes out among nettles and stones like a clod turned over by hoes. The word on the lips of a big shot is just like the scrawl of the topping on a cake all garnished with almonds and sugared candy of silver and gold. Adesso nemmeno mi riconosci. A look was all we needed, and like the north wind we destroyed the world, slier than a stone-marten or a fox. Se dipendesse da me. He writes in Italian, English and his native dialect.
As in the cases of Zanzotto, Noventa and Pierro, this journey promises the re-embracing of an archaic, maternal language. In this poetry, there abound dissonant rhythmic percussions, phonic analogies, pounding and obsessive reiterations of suffixes, enjambments breaking sound waves, internal rhymes, and phonico-visual synesthesia.
Bibliography Giuseppe Ravegnani, in Uomini visti , vol. II Milan: Leone Piccioni, in La narrativa italiana tra romanzo e racconti Milan: Egerton Bede, ed. Vineta Colby, ed. Jovine and Luigi Fontanella, in Novecento , 9, vol. Giambattista Faralli, in Poesia dialettale del Molise Isernia: Anthony J. Tamburri, in World Literature Today Summer Lazily in the shade passes the day and sleep is like the sleep of fledgling birds. You keep your eyes half-open and half-closed, because you want to see what you can do.
It gets lost in the valleys among stones: it no longer carries jugs, it has no cushion for the head. Desire to work is a small hole, because you want to know what we must do. Il vento del paese mio. He shoves you to and fro along with rocks, he presses, rips right through you, knocks you down. A wind like this you never will forget: He made of you a man who can bear mountains, stealing your seeds, your ears of corn, your wheat, ramming against you and strapping you down.
So many years have come and gone, today the wind is a good friend outside my door. The Song of Nothingness Nothing, said the hen, can make you happy. Nothing ever ends, and nothing is born. Nothing, there is nothing to bring outside, that in this world we have brought nothing at all. Nothing, there is nothing, I am also nothing. Only I know that what I know is really nothing. La via del molise. Slowly you start to count: the time gone by before your eyes, begins to waver. The road to Molise is sweet as honey, it stretches across mountains, over rivers.
Related Giovanni Episcopo (e-Meridiani Mondadori) (I Meridiani) (Italian Edition)
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