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.
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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Scheiwiller, with the addition of the section Laudario , which assembles the texts subsequent to Carta laniena , and an unpublished poem written in The volume is edited and prefaced by Franco Brevini.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.
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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.
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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.
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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. 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 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.
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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?
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