Come, I call you constantly, and my moon melts the ice of solitude. Walls, men lined up and prostitutes standing. Walls, hermits suspended condoned by pimps that have placed under the head the corrupt stone of my hand, my trembling hands in the march specter of poetry. Nella notte dicendo il grazioso sogno silente, seduta in quarantena. Tu, profeta analogo dal grido soffocante nella gola, lo sguardo fisso sulle porte chiuse spezza le ostinate barriere del cielo.
Questo tempo che io ho preso solo per gioco. Nella notte seduta, leggera, le mie mani si allontanano dal sibilo della frusta, e come si trascinano il lucchetto e la catena dietro di me! Quando con un voto alla stella di fronte alla finestra vuota io danzo. Mi getto coraggiosa nella vita. In the night saying the charming silent dream, seated in quarantine. Ah, but how heavy beats here the stroke of the clock!
This time that I took only for a game. In the night seated, light, my hands move away from the hissing of the whip, and how they drag the padlock and the chain behind me! When with a vow to the star in front of the empty window I dance. My reckless enthusiasm at the beginning of the trip. Ah, this autumn, vain cypress of your four seasons! I throw myself courageously into life. Tu resta, che non manchi la tua ombra dalla mia testa di girasole. Stay, that your shadows will not be absent from my sunflower head.
For friendship the tree knocks at the window. I know when I throw the noose, before the trip, the tree strangles me. The tree promised to your skeleton. And when I wait for death that the condemned from aligned trees know, the command that frees the space is the wind in the air. E la luce tremante, nel tempo del mio sonno, guarda la mia veglia. Avevo gli occhi negli occhi del vino per poterti bere. Ah, my heart, you so soft playmate of the moon with wings bright and dark you delayed the entrance of the moon.
And the light trembling, in the time of my dream, watches my wakefulness. From the tree no sign, all of a sudden the vase of color breaks in the middle of the sky. I had eyes in the eyes of the wine so I could drink you.
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The measured chalice of my age and the bittersweet slash of a rebellious love. He works in Milan as a professional educator in the area of drug addiction and intercultural affiars. He is on the editorial board of the online trimonthly of literature of migrationEl Ghibli and contributes to many journals, among which Internazionale, il manifesto and Caposud. His work has appeared in several anthologies of short stories and poetry.
You leave a reality, an equilibrium, and enter in a new dimension, thus discovering analogies and differences, light and shadow, new noises, new sounds, new words. Feeling itself generates the need to communicate and make ones own emotions comprehensive for the listener. Words are thought, emotions just exist.
What is really important for me is communication, the possibility to tell and de scribe to others what I am living, without appealing to a bilingual dictionary. On the other hand, in the experience of migration words have the same power of notes: even if so few, one is still capable of composing a world of melodies, with infinite vibrations in the musician as well as in the listener.
He lives in Trent. Gianmario Lucini has written about him in Arnold de Vos. I am a small fish not easy to take in, and this is not my home sea. Distance is reckoned to be the breeding ground of desire, a stimulus to authors. So, I succeded for the first time to write real Italian poetry my migrant voice, born in Holland, was accustomed to the use of the Italian language since , while staying with my Dutch wife as archaeologists in the loneliness of the Tunisian countryside near the Algerian border, and then by myself in Tunis.
Forse ho preso da lui. Ricaduta a distanza di tempo volente o nolente la raccolgo, una forma contorta che mi brucia tra le mani: La mano non data. Maybe I take after him. From the blast furnaces of our silence some residue has flown. Fallen again in due time willingly or unwillingly I pick it up, distorted shape burning my hands: The hand not given. The moth-eaten sweater reveals with delight a body that wrinkles. Leaning against the front wall the new door is ready: you will leave the farm all in order, beauty composed for a museum exhibit. Not happiness however.
La rosa della rugiada spina la voce che espettora gli struggimenti della notte e la lena della luce che torna. The rose of dew bone chips the voice coughing up nocturnal heartaches and the force of turning light. Uno si affeziona al male per la bellezza, la vigoria e il rigoglio. One is drawn to sickness because of beauty, vigor and growth. Even water is a gift and I carry the fertilizer which I eat from my garden. What is mine of botanical arts I gladly husband to a lovely plant. And if you have given me eyes to see beware, if it was to poison my life.
Sono davanti al tavolo come davanti al muro. La parola mi inchioda, minchia. Essa ferisce e guarisce, nel mentre la vita va avanti e intristisce. I am in front of the table; as if in front of the wall.
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It wounds and heals, meanwhile life goes on and gets uglier. Solitudine divina, screzi buio e luce del pensiero. Salvati con il frutto della mente se in previsione non hai il frutto del ventre. Heavenly solitude, you tinge the dark and light of thought. The seven days of the week are entirely for you: giving and taking is your advantage, giving and receiving reasons from the creations of your own genius. They seek refuge where there is no refuge. Fra i due tramonti giorno e notte sgrottano il grande occhio della creazione.
Dawn opens up to hope. Between the two sunsets day and night unwrinkles the great eye of creation. We have been created but not completed: the music is perfectible in the reed-pipe, necessary the sickle and the distance and the desire to dance on its foot. A varcare stretti clandestini anche se non sappiamo nuotare: i cammelli delle onde ci portano veloci, a predare oltre. To cross clandestine straits even when unable to swim: the humps of waves carrying us swiftly to prey beyond. The ancient tribe of the desert blocked by frontiers, shuttered in cities flies at the height of the skyscraper on carpets woven inside the tent in the image and likeness of the rare heavens of prosperity, God willing.
They shatter on marble pavements already cracked, because the place is in shambles. I would have done better to cloister myself, but what clause is enclosure? Suffering for the beauty of creation is our tribute to the body that we rent. Insieme, e mai insieme. E lo hai fatto. Together and never together. And you did. A crooked love was born that I pay off in solitude.
My love is a basket weave with broken wickerwork everywhere: the wear and tear does its best but usage has broken the bottom. Composizione per la decomposizione. The old man stares at his useless clean poems, when cleanliness is no longer desired. Composing for the decomposing. Penso alla mia lontana figura sulla luna che il bosco si riprende. I stagger among the tree trunks, an old bark my feet ambushed by the thick under-bush. I think of my distant image on the moon that the forest reclaims.
Dew, what moist carpet you have put down on the mad planet where chipmunks rain down egg-shaped nuts while a church bell invites the spirited mob of this world to come to mass. He received a degree in Albanian literature at Elbasan and in modern literature from La Sapienza in Rome. In he published in Albania his first collection of poetry, Antologia e shiut Anthology of the Rain , which came out after five years of censorhip with the editor N.
Also his second book, Il diario del bosco The Forest Diary , suffered the same fate at the hands of the censors, but this time it was never published. In Hajdari founded with other intellectuals the newspaper Il momento della parola The Moment of the Word , for which he now works as associate editor, writing at the same time for the local daily Republika, and has taught literature in the high school of his city.
In Italy he won several prizes, including the Montale Prize for unpublished works , and the Dario Bellezza prize , and has been included in numerous anthologies, among which Ai confini del verso. Diario in nero Muzungu. A Black Diary, Lecce, Besa Mi senti, tu, terra mia incurvata? In questa dimora di pioggia un filo sottile ci separa Quelli che ancora restano portano i volti di quelli che partono.
Are you listening to me, my curved earth? In this abode of rain a fine line separates us Those of us who stay wear the faces of those who go away. Procedo nel verde consumato e non porto niente oltre il mio corpo. I make my way through the worn greenery carrying nothing other than my body. I will leave nothing behind! Immobile e forestiera in uno spazio imperfetto, mai ospitale aspettando che il silenzio uniforme della sabbia ti parli del segreto.
Immobile and a foreigner in a place imperfect, always inhospitable where you are waiting for the monotonous silence of the sand to speak to you of the secret. And all around it will go on, the frailty of things the vanishing of poets who connect the earth and heaven. They say that we will die in opposing lands. My years: a flight through the unknown and dreadful awakenings in the middle of the night. In Italy since , he lives in Milan where he has cultivated his interests in literature and culture through his involvement in many activities and experiences. For twelve years he traveled throughout Italy giving lessons on African history and culture in a variety of schools, as well as discussing the themes of multi-culturalism.
At the request of School Systems Officials, he has given courses on integration to teachers and, for three years he has taught Italian to foreigners as part of the literacy program sponsored by the city of Milan. He has participated in many national and international conferences, held in some of the most prestigious Italian universities Milan, Rome, Bologna on the topics of immigration, culture and literature.
In he was invited to present a cycle of conferences in the U. Almost every year since he has been involved in research, sponsored by centers for studies, by non governmental agencies, and by local as well as provincial administrations, in the fields mentioned above. He has published Io, venditore di elefanti I, Elephant Vendor, in collaboration with Oreste Pivetta, Milan, Garzanti, , which has reached its eighth printing and is being used as a textbook in many schools.
That of the vendor is a difficult occupation. Hard, sad, full of humiliations. It has taken some time and a few adventures before I arrived in Milan, where I was an inventor, because I was the one who put up the first small markets in the subway stations with three friends. By selling we earned enough money to eat and sleep inside.
Not always, but often. By selling I also learned Italian. Someone tries to change his job, hoping for a quiet life, to find a house, to reunite a family. There is no shame in it. This is the life of a Senegalese, the life I have known for a time that seems extremely long, but all considered fortunate because, as they say in my country, if you can recount something it means it brought you luck. A lot of guys rip up their staying permits and return to Senegal, because they have had it with Italy, the police, the carabinieri, the selling, the elephants, the ivory eagles, the necklaces, the Lacoste, the Vuitton purses, the hotel rooms, the expulsion orders, the seizures, the cold.
This cold I will never get used to. Many stay and meet Italian girls. They fall in love. There are marriages, and then even separations and divorces. And then more marriages. Children are born. E presto, presto, i vostri cavalli, e spronateli a sangue. Suonate le vostre trombe, eccitate e liberate le vostre mute di cani assassini. Cavalcate, gridate, urlate, attaccate, massacrate alle spalle questo sporco negro che ha il torto di assomigliarvi. And quickly, quickly, your horses, and whip them until they bleed.
Blow your trumpets, stir up and set free your hordes of killer dogs. The nigger hunt is open. Ride, yell, scream, attack, shoot in the back this filthy nigger whose sin is that he looks like you. Justice is done, here in Rwanda.
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Riempi il tuo cuore di odio prendi il tuo coltello e il tuo manganello. Organizza la tua muta, armala, di fucili, di solide sbarre di ferro, di grosse catene in acciaio temprato. Brucia i semafori clacsona ai quattro venti Fill your heart with hate take along your knife and your nightstick. Organize your pack, arm them with guns, with solid bars of steel, with thick chains of tempered steel. Step on your cool machine and quickly, quickly ride it at full speed like a damned fool.
Ignore the stoplights blow your horn to the four winds… The hunt for the nigger is on. Get him out in the open, and above all show no pity for this intruding filthy nigger who dares to step on your flowerbeds. A Berlino Indossa i tuoi anfibi, la tua redingote, la tua croce uncinata. Gott ist mit euch. Eccetera, eccetera Fai come a Roma. E non sta mai a casa sua. Fate come a Berlino anche se siete a Parigi. Fate come a Parigi anche se siete a Bruxelles. Milano, Ginevra, anche se siete sul tram, o sul marciapiede. Fate come in Algeria! In Berlin Put on your army boots, your frock coat, your Nazi cross.
Et cetera, et cetera… Do as in Rome. But quickly because you could miss the best part of the nigger hunt knife in the back and with no pity this dirty Italian nigger who stinks too much of macaroni and never stays in his own place. God is with you. Do it as in Berlin even if you are in Paris. Do it as in Paris even if you are in Bruxelles. Milan, Geneva, even if you are on a bus, or on the sidewalk. Do it as in Algeria! Uccidete, uccidete alle spalle. Dio grazie. To the Indian because is neither black nor white. To the Polack because he is too white.
To the one from Bosnia because especially he must not be white. To the homosexual… and why not? Shoot, shoot in the back. That is how justice is done. Thank God. Ainsi justice est encore faite! Sonnez vos trombes, excitez et liberez votre meute de chiens tueurs Justice est faite. Suonate le trombe e applaudite! Puntate: fuoco Blow the horns and applause! Aim: fire… fire. In his country he has published short stories and poems in opposition journals; he also has contributed to Al Karmil, a monthly journal of culture in Arabic published in Cyprus.
Exiled in Italy in as a political refugee, he lived in Rome for an extensive period of time, and worked from to as a correspondent for Al Watan, a Kuwaiti weekly dealing with contemporary Italian literature. He contributed to the daily il manifesto and he also published a novel, Lontano da Baghdad Far from Baghdad, Rome, Sensibili alle foglie Obviously without my knowledge. They tell me that among other things there were some writings. I lacked the spirit and strength. All I could do was to laugh. Thinking about it calmly, I have to be doubly grateful to that doctor and his nurses.
They not only treated me, they also unintentionally forced me to face a decisive battle. An inevitable encounter I had always postponed. It is a vital struggle with language. Slowly, and with difficulty, I rebuilt my memory and wrote the new manuscript. This time in Italian, although still rough. For an exile, it means to tear the baggage of incommunicability. A source of mistrust, isolation, aversion. For the poet and the narrator becoming the mediator of Consciousness. Del blu della notte un fuoco accendiamo. In the blue of the night we light a fire. There, near the inlet of the river, over the stones, rests the dust of battles; a memory of smoke lights in the heart.
O, ships of this morning that have given to the sea that which united the two extremities. At the beginning it had been down there, under a tent of shining grief then, the conflagration raged. Let Sawsan ask the divinity for mercy, following the changes of the seasons and let her steal one from summer to bring it over to us later. Ossessioni trasparenti appesantiscono ora questa aria.
Obsessions, transparent, make this air weigh heavy now. Love that labors beings and non-beings, a sad love that oscillates between hope and prison. In the horrible songs that are my soul, sorrow is song: labyrinth, extinction. A labyrinth haunts the prison of this love, a love that unfurls wings of flame like the wheel that moves events.
Love has remained paralyzed between passion and patience: a happy song, they tell me to sing this evening. My step has swerved from the storm during the halt, I have ordered the harnessing of the horses and with a cry I have filled my throat. Lottavano contro il terrore della giustizia maltrattandomi nella malasorte sgranando cumuli di sabbia si disperavano, si disperavano They fought against the terror of justice, abusing me in my bad luck husking heaps of sand they dispaired, they dispaired… They will not hold the water between the cracks.
Their appointed time was before ours, like the desert of Lot, a crushed summit a land collapsed in the water of a fountain. My deepest culture is marked by the Guarani language of my native ancestors. That of my origin, that allows me to filter other cultures without fear. I feel a great strength coming from my culture, and the others can only enrich me because they take nothing away, they only add something. I have realized a cultural synthesis, not a symbiosis.
Alle due del pomeriggio. After the rest and the remains. Otto mesi a subire la prepotenza dei tuoi muri di pietra ad assordarmi nel tuo silenzio assordante ad annientarmi ad appartenere a te, al tuo spazio io, piccolo piccolissimo Davide in pugno a Golia basta! Eight months suffering the Power of your walls of stone growing deaf in your deafening silence, becoming nothing to be yours, in your space, me, small, miniscule, David in the grip of Goliath enough!
To scream against the echo of my own screams, kick and punch at you every day, stain myself with my own blood on your walls, lave myself inside with my tears enough! Io stesso ho camminato a lungo per i lunghi corridoi del buio, spesso colpevolmente smarrito in facili labirinti Frutti di cocco appesi alle finestre dello stanzone vuoto di bambini ridenti. On the other: coconut flowers in an angle of the hall full of people that wait.
Coconut fruit hanging at the windows of the hall void of laughing children. A guitar plays, melancholic, as a harp slowly strokes its impetuous rivers. Fiori di cocco, a Natale. Non basta! Coconut flowers, for Christmas. Mi occorre ricrearmi. Questo mestiere di vivere rovesciato del tutto verso fuori, in avanti, a momenti parrebbe che mi vuoti che mi dissangui.
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Non cercarmi oggi. Sono in ripiego. Sono in ripiego, ma impegnato molto impegnato premeditando un salto. Non reclamarmi. Non saprei dire che non ci sono, ho bisogno di rovesciarmi sulla mia propria urgenza. I need ricreation. This task of living completely overturned, committed outward, always forward, at moments might seem to empty me and drain my blood.
I must learn to live not forgetting myself. I must overturn myself in the face of my urgency. Guess who got caught? His poems have appeared in several journals and in the anthologies Ai confini del verso. Then came emigration, and all my essences began the journey toward the exodus, but did not arrive together at their destinations. Only part of the promised man arrived punctually. But one day the music, reaching its maturity, gained volume again, poetry became again a possible way to communicate, and was reborn elsewhere. The essence is now whole and complete again, it exists fully, it joyfully expresses everything it wants and must express, it therefore became attuned to the century again.
So it was with language; it gained a new voice, with which it will say those indispensable things that existed before the poet and lay silently in wait for the promised voice. Il vento che soffiava dal mare, balsamo per un sole spietato, portava via le parole con le quali tu volevi parlarmi di linfe e di radici. Of your father immobile on a wheel chair: thirty years ago he was a soldier in the dirtiest war of Araguaia. Hunter of men, he brought his Sergeant the severed heads of guerilla soldiers strung by the hair along a pole, like crabs ripped from the bottom of the swamp.
Ti sbagli, Yolanda. Ma ora devi restituirlo controvoglia tirandolo per il muso al nuovo proprietario. You are wrong, Yolanda you are full of history, and I instead am outside your book: I am the elegant wrapping paper in pastel hues, and I carry your book inside of me elsewhere, far from here, as a gift for other friends that you will never know. But now you must return him unwillingly pulling him by the muzzle to his new owner. Temo che metteranno niente meno di un oceano tra i due ritagli di me.
Eternamente, Yolanda. There is an Araguaia of defeats inside my chest and I do not quite know where they carry my head after they detach it from my body. I am afraid they will put nothing less than an ocean between the two cuts of me. Eternally, Yolanda. Ore montate su una tazza di nebbia. Hours whipped up onto a cup of fog. On the dresser there was a map of Brazil made of foam-rubber where every state was a colored ticket: my lost country was up above nothing more than a puzzle.
Un Olimpo umido e inutile per atei e monoteisti come noi. Che strano pensiero! There are mountains there too tall and deserted always covered by the fog that rises up from the jungle: the Pico da Neblina. An humid and useless Olympus for atheists and monotheists like we are. I was looking at the map on the dresser through the tiny hole of the little metal spring in the paper weight. I targeted Guanabara bay and from there I targeted my home.
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What a strange thought! Ma cosa avrei dovuto fare? Lasciar dormire il frigo tutta la notte con la porta aperta? Since this morning I knew I was on the edge of a cold. Then it happened that the door to the refrigerator refused to close because there was too much ice in the freezer. I turned it off and let it defrost.
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I cleaned and dried it and with that the cold hit me as well it wanted to for some time. Well, what should I have done? Let the fridge sleep all night with the door open? What has the refrigerator to do with the mound of fogs? Vuoi vedere? Yeah well, everything has to do with everything and poetry is everywhere dear friend. Everything has to do with everything.
Want to see? The cold in me is like the water dripping in the shut-off fridge. It has everything to do with the mound of fogs or with a door that refuses to close. Yes, because the fact is that everything has to do with everything. As the ass to the pants. As honey with fat, and our path with our calluses. In silenzio ho ringraziato non-so-chi che mi ha permesso di vivere abbastanza per conoscere il mio.
There is the desire for big things and the pleasure of the small ones. I saw a film tonight on TV in which a man dies and leaves his lover pregnant with their first child, whom he will never see. The Eskimos of Alaska, do they also get colds and drink tea? The Eskimos of Alaska can be no less wise than the Yanomami, I think.
Almeno ci provo. But who ever said that poetry is worth more than a cup of tea? Even Elliot ran into this doubt before the taking of the toast and tea. And so I also take life. At least I try. Tardy love is the anti-repose it is losing the inspiration, getting scraped in the enjoyment and sand sweating. It is getting torn like a scarecrow it is stinking of garlic and trampling mines. It is drinking it all up and exploding with urine. It is searching the woods for a marine animal. It is stealing from the other what is unwanted: this distance of miles this skimming of keels this passion of cliffs in any old ocean.
Ex-quasi-qualche cosa. Non posso valutare il risultato di questa mistura singolare. E se non sono stato quello che si dice felice fu per eccesso di precisione nella coscienza delle cose. All that concerns me decomposes. It is necessary to begin again it is necessary but not possible. This incarnation is lost and maybe there will not be another. It is necessary to trace future origins even if one will not bear them witness. I can not evaluate the result of this singular mixture. It was so. And if I was not what they call happy it was for excess of precision in the awareness of things. Because I knew too much every day while I knew nothing.
Sono stanco, solo, e tutte queste cose. I am tired, alone, and all these things. The being less exists in the quotidian sandpaper. Inside the being is the being all the physical metaphysical the act of returning to the initial being. Mia madre ha sempre avuto diciassette anni. Sono stato io ad invecchiare al posto suo. My mother has always been seventeen. I was the one who aged in her place. She was never so much my mother, so herself, very beautiful, essential, uncontaminated as she was at seventeen, long before I was born. My silhouette today, the shadow on the wall, by now makes of me, strangely, the father of my mother at seventeen.
Mia madre. Mia madre a diciassette anni. E io, che non ho mai avuto diciassette anni But something of my spark will continue to sparkle in sepia and ivory in the eyes of the girl who grew up so quickly. And who discovered herself beautiful in the gasping glance of the photographer, in the inverted image of the lens that made the camera a cage for the prettiest and most songful bird he had ever heard. My mother. My mother at seventeen.
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