Emotion and Magic in Words

by Silvia Colombini

Poetry by Roberto Pazzi and Gabriele Via.

Wishes for a new year: let it be full of words and poetry.
Every day, when we are happy or when we feel in low spirits, when we are bombarded by images and sounds, let us follow the more profound voice than what we hear around us.
Just like this moment that are offering us poets Roberto Pazzi and Gabriele Via to make us dream, to teach us to listen.
Roberto Pazzi: Italian poet, narrator and journalist, lives in Ferrara.
His works has been translated into twenty-two languages, he published numerous novels in the historical and fantastic genre, and he is considered among the most original Italian narrators.
Gabriele Via: born in Bologna in 1969, seventh of 10 brothers, theologian, teacher, poet, pupil of Roberto Roversi, pen pal of Roberto Pazzi; he goes through various artistic and existential experiences with a unique certainty:
to him, writing is like breathing.

Foto - Il poeta Roberto Pazzi

(Freely translated)

Towards a new year
How many times did I get the idea
to kill the bird in flight, waiting
shooting the words
one after the other.
This way, the sound bursts into a sound
which then dies into another one,
chasing the silence
raising the glory of the poem.
Each word runs towards its end
without respite, it escapes silence,
and the pause is the wait in a station
where delays accumulate
as announced in the loudspeaker.
This precise voice
announcing delays,
precised in reciting the emptiness
of missing arrivals,
filling your soul
and it seems like the angel's trumpet
awakening Judgment Day.
I pause again,
I immediately feel guilty
as though I had crushed,
walking, a city of ants.
There is
no place for emptiness,
no life welcomes it,
they will say to you
that you will regret not to have taken advantage
of your time
when it will all be over!
But, no one is waiting for me
to reprimand me about it,
as I am not expecting any praise
to have frozen in time this moment
hitting the centre of words
with the aim of the hand.
Roberto Pazzi
Ferrara, December 12-13, 2004


Continents of unheeded words
Continents of unheeded words
they are the broken sea they are edges
clumps of sponges laughing echo
eyes mine if I return don't you see
that I don't see like you
as though dreaming were
a game of calibres and scores
manuals of international protocols
meters markets weights measures
pure objects to contest flavours
and who like me sees only with the heart
you say it alike for loss
on the contrary it is twice as different
that from time to time I don't have the words
because my word is blind
not me... you can't

Once I knew a wise man
who had stopped seeing
with his eyes, as people
usually say, the world, the human tradition
A blind wise man.
Examples are wasted, from Homer
up to the musical phenomena of today

And he said to me
that there was
no other way
to define you exactly
your remarkably different way
to skate the world of the bright
placenta called sight
and he said, you, you who are a unique
throe with your noisy dream
that keeps coming back inside your head and between the hands
and spontaneous in the pneumothorax
and still like children you are
all absorbed
and you don't see its soul
... I too dream, but I know.
and he laughed, and laughed and laughed
and said
who will be able to overshadow my freedom
my way of seeing does not need proofs
I know that senses are pleasant,
but limited
and to see is a matter of touch
not sight

But then, once the pique is shown,
once the silence
the silence that remains in a room
when people have left
blind behind their steps
here is his child's voice
thrown into middle air
like a child calling his mother
upon awakening, immediate

The most profound nostalgia
from when I could see, as you say
is not a sunset or the light behing the shutters
but my lover's face
with life in her
pouring out on my face
worlds and worlds and worlds
with a look of intimate truthfulness
in vision, the first vision
with their silence so sweet
a movement becoming a dance
on the person's features
when recognition takes place
And the skin and the voice and the words
are the most dangerous and sweet things
And all general things in the world
are spingboards for the
to be the season of spring with live explosions
and she took my face, in this song
and taught me forever
the diadem of the embrace
she taught me the voice of a kiss
and she caressed me
knowing still
my glance soon to be impelled
by nostalgia
and it was as if God
an archaeologist of truth
possessed the truth
on my face of earth and thirst of light
and now I could really see
that I was blind, I
I who could see him not see
for the
crual task of the staircases
and I cried
understanding moreover
what else could obviously mean
the word cry
when the
eye has nothing else
to do
Continents of unheeded words
they are the broken sea they are edges
clumps of sponges laughing echo

And who like me sees only with the heart
you say it alike for loss
On the contrary it is twice as different

When the eye has nothing else
to do
maybe, then
on appearances of abyss
it is possible to learn to love.

Gabriele Via 18/05/2006