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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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(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
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