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.
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![Foto - Il poeta Roberto Pazzi](immagini/Roberto-Pazzi1.jpg)
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(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, breaking, 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 understand
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 dreamers...
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 eyes 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
emotion 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
![](immagini/Gabriele-Via.gif)
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