To parallel the hendecasyllabic lines of the original with stanzas that gallop forward, I charged ahead with iambic pentameter, the preferred meter of narrative verse in English. To run the end-rhyme gauntlet, I relied on my anglophone steed, well equipped with slant rhyme, to echo the musical ring of the original when I did not have a full rhyme sound at the ready.
To capture spontaneity, I reached for idiomatic expressions. Conversely, by inverting word order and pinning down a few archaisms here and there, I hoped to render some historical atmosphere and to move the translation closer to the source text. To pay homage to the prosodic features of the original, I matched consonance and internal rhyme wherever I could. We come upon the scene with Florio in the distant city of Montorio, where he has been sent by his parents, the king and queen, in an effort to separate the lovers.
Florio believes that Bian- coiore has jilted him for Fileno, an errant knight just arrived from Marmorina seat of the court where Biancoiore remains. The truth is that Biancoiore, against her will, was commanded by the queen to do so after Fileno won a tournament at court. Now alone, Florio denounces Biancoiore as unfaithful seeing the veil as proof of her betrayal , and threatens to turn his sword against himself. Translations by Joan E. In sonnets numbered and , Turini Bufalini directly addresses the title character, Florio, of her eponymous narrative work, declaring to him that writing has remained her only consolation refugio through years of grief.
Not quite twenty-one years old, she married Count Giulio Bufalini then seventy years of age. With professional military duties in Rome, Giulio was absent for long periods. She subsequently gave birth to two sons and a daughter but was widowed at age thirty. Her maternal love and devotion, evident throughout her poems, is later coupled with the lament of not enjoying a reciprocal affection. Her sons, upon reaching manhood, quarreled with her over money and litigated formally against her and against one another, as Giulio, the eldest, would retain future right of inheritance to the castle, whereas Ottavio, his younger brother, only the right to reside there.
At age sixty-one, because of family discord, she left Umbria for Rome to take a post in the Colonna household as lady- in-waiting to the duchess, Lucrezia Tomacelli Colonna. She returned to Umbria only upon the death of Tomacelli in Directed by Antonio Lanza. Rome: Moxedano Editrice. ISSN: electronic ; paper. This international journal is dedicated to texts and studies on Italian literature and is available for purchase on the internet. His Filostrato c.
See also: J. For a short synopsis of the Filocolo, see: Giovanni Boccaccio, Antologia delle opere minori volgari, a cura di Giuseppe Gigli. Nuova presentazione di Vittore Branca Firenze: Sansoni, : Torquato Tasso : Revered for his narrative poems, principally Gerusalemme Liberata pub. Turini Bufalini may have known Tasso personally during her residency in Rome at the Colonna household.
My thanks go again to Professor Costa-Zalessow for indicating these passages to me. He is often accompanied by his brothers Icelus who personiies beasts, birds, serpents and Phantasus who transforms himself into rocks, water, woods and inanimate objects along with 1, other male siblings in order to enact the dream. O mio dolore intenso, smisurato! O me infelice sopra gli altri amanti! O senza alcuna colpa abbandonato! O mia dura sventura! Oh wretched me, more so than other lovers! Oh guiltless, thrust aside upon no grounds! Oh thing yet unseen in this universe! Oh my hard luck!
Throughout his dream rested the unsheathed sword that he had drawn to run through his own breast, such was the reasoning so twisted, crude, against himself, its harm to manifest. But like a shield, hope lent him fortitude. Without you I am good for naught, and neither would I live on: further, this blazing pyre, alas, now so consumes me, dram by dram, I feel myself transformed into pure lame! Finge egli teco! Io solo odio e disamo, per te, me stesso: e ne ricevo morte! Nothing can alter my desire—not fate, place, time, Fortune; neither can Love nor Death! Oh stars, you witnesses of my hard plight, reveal how I so fail and furthermore may die of keeping faith to cruel degrees with those nocturnal trysts and mournful cries!
I alone hate and eschew myself for you, though death I would receive! Joan E. My right hand, poised for death to end my grief, clutches the sword. The hurt he felt so struck his heart, so rent, he thought his certain death drew very near. Within the paper, his complaints he folded and called a servant, one faithful and shrewd, Be there by dark, and seek out Biancoiore. Hand her this envelope and wait, and then with her response hurry back here again!
Bending to the importance of the charge, the servant swiftly takes leave of his lord and gets there on the double, for his passage and pace with loyalty and trust he spurred. From me, the reason for his pain is hidden, and why he leads a life so sorrow-laden. Soon as she learned of all he would infer in what he wrote and what he left untold , and of his indignation and his anger— that his heart was by Jealousy controlled— cold fear, martyring anguish to endure, gripped her at heart and instantly took hold.
Those pages would have burned from sighs so searing, had not her tears kept them from disappearing! Repeatedly between choked sobs and tears, having read what he wrote, and read again, seeing fault of lovers ingenuous! As long as breath and life in me be found, let not Love pierce me with another wound! As this, my soul, within my lesh so frail, is spoil to dart diverse. Love cannot slay my breast that loves and prizes you alone , lest with your beauty his darts he would hone.
To unravel our love she made provision and wove with craft, and perhaps proited.imap.manualcoursemarket.com/pihyd-plaquenil-vs-zithromax.php
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So cruel is she! By her I was betrayed, and by you, too, falling for traps she laid! Heaven well sees that when you sought your leave from me, my life turned hard, for I without a heart remained! You plucked it from my person when you abandoned me to pain, cruel one! By calling me ungrateful you then ind aire anew a means to skirt my blame! Mancar si sente in tal dolor la vita e la faccia ha tutta di pianto aspersa. Constant I know you; know, too, that a love constant for you does Biancoiore have! To live and die with you do I aspire! Let not that crude steel blade to you lay claim and cover you with an eternal shame!
So pained, she felt that life itself receded, her face wholly awash in tearful sprays. Her pages folded, she expertly brought together and entwined the wax and knot. Those crimson lips now parched from such distress, with her plentiful tears did she, the damsel, moisten the gem in order to impress her image, lovely, proud, upon the seal. Then, perturbed by an anger amorous, to carry back her answer does she call the messenger.
Devoted, bowing low, off like an arrow shot straight does he go. Ha pubblicato diversi romanzi, narrative di viaggi e racconti sia in italiano che in inglese, tra i quali Tiro al piccione , ristampa , Peccato originale , Biglietto di terza , ristampa , Una posizione sociale , ristampa col titolo La stanza grande, , Grafiti , Molise Molise , Il tempo nascosto tra le righe , Detroit Blues , e i romanzi in inglese Benedetta in Guysterland , premio American Book Award, , Accademia , Il paese di Nonsisadove - romanzo telematico, websito arscomica.
Bergin, Salvatore Battaglia e, ultimamente, Robert Lafont. Bibliograia Azais, Gabriel. Beck, J. Die Melodien der Troubadours. Strasbourg, Broadbent, J. Poetic Love. London, Fernandez de la Cuesta, Ismael. Tolosa, Paris, Hill, R. New Haven and London, Margoni, Ivos. Milano-Varese, Angelo Monteverdi. Studi in onore di Angelo Monteverdi. Modena, Aurelio Roncaglia. La lingua dei trovatori. Roma, Maurice Valency. In Praise of Love. New York, Van der Werf, Hendrik. Utreck, Et ella lo fetz a gran honor sepeillir en la maison del Temple; e poi en aqel dia ella se rendet monga, per la dolor qe ella ac de la soa mort.
A cura di Robert Lafont. Casa Editrice Le Let- tere, Firenze , p. Io mi avvalgo per convalida e guida del Vo- cabolario ragionato del dialetto di Casacalenda, di Antonio Vincelli, Edizioni Enne, Campobasso, Also a novelist and literary critic, she founded and directs the only poetry prize for bilingual book publication for Italian American poets with Italian poet, Alfredo dePalchi. Ned Condini is a native-born Italian who has lived in the United States for many years, a fact that makes him thoroughly bi-lingual.
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Lafayette, Indiana, After all, it is a plant and I do love greenery. Other plants wait for death to give lesh to roots. I resolve to become a vegetarian. But this Venus Fly Trap is too much for me.
It will have to die tossed into the waste can with the bright red lipstick, the blood red nail polish. I no longer wear. She nods at us knowing we are lovers returning from paradise. Ho cercato di ricordare di darle acqua. Altre piante aspettano che la morte dia polpa alle radici.
Propendo a farmi vegetariana. Questa dionea non fotosintetizza in pace. Sta cercando di diventare un animale e io che cerco tanto di essere un albero non lo sopporto. Ci accenna sapendo che siamo amanti che tornano dal paradiso. Each falls asleep and wakes alone in a dream on a cold shore far from home, without shelter from wind, sun dark, cold, heat. I feel as a tiny breathing thing alone in a vast night no hand anywhere to hold mine.
We wake into life sure of dying under the frozen sky and mute stars, glistening with winter light. We hold hands into new [years, knowing all new years turn old, and listen to the night, snow creaking in mounds, and the air iced from the [Northwind For the sake of the other, we do not say how each together is alone returning from paradise. Ciascuno si addormenta e si sveglia solo in sogno su una spiaggia fredda lontano da casa, senza riparo da vento, sole, buio, freddo, calore. Mi sento un minuscolo oggetto che respira solo in una notte [immensa da nessuna parte una mano a tenere la mia.
Ci destiamo alla vita sicuri di morire sotto il gelido cielo e stelle mute, che brillano di luce invernale. A few bleeding leaves fall amidst wilting greenery. Poison ivy turns red with warning. My ninety-year-old mother still argues with my father, twenty years dead. Their hatred reverberates in a back room of my head, rattling recollections of a lonely childhood.
UBC Theses and Dissertations
Their loathing for each other colors all my days. I loved him, because he loved me best, but I look like her. My face and spirit tear at each other. I am the child of hate. A weed sprouts from watery depths, uncultivated, lowers, white and purple, bloom, even in these days of dying leaves. Beyond winter, no one grieves. Italy, — d. America, ] written in Edna St. You died in spring, father, and now the autumn dies. Bright with ripe youth, dulled by time, plums of feeling leaked red juices from your eyes, blood hemorrhaged in pools to still your quivering mind. Alcune foglie sanguinanti cadono sul verde che langue.
Il loro reciproco disgusto colora tutti i miei giorni. Il mio volto e il mio spirito fanno a pugni. Sonetti americani per mio padre —per Donato Giosefi: scritti nello studio di Edna St. Vincent Millay Steepletop, N. Vivido di compiuta giovinezza, opacato dal tempo, prugne di affetto gocciavano dai tuoi occhi rosse essenze, sangue emorragiato in polle a calmare la tua trepida mente. In this russet November woods of Millay, I wear your old hat, Dear Italian patriarch, to see if I can think you out of your American grave to sing your unwritten song with me.
I carry your silenced poetry with your spirit. I take off your old black hat and sniff at it to smell the still living vapor of your sweat. You wore your heart and soles sore. At forty, not climbing autumn hills like me, you lay with lung [disease strapped down with morphine, hearing your breath rattle in your throat like keys at the gates of hell. Your body was always a iend perplexing your mascu [line will. You illed me with pride, and immigrant tenacity. So be it.
You are done, unfulilled by song [except in me. If your dreams are mine, live again, breathe in me and [be. In questi boschi di Millay, novembrini, rugginosi, sfoggio il tuo vecchio cappello, caro patriarca Italiano, per vedere se posso pensarti fuori della tua tomba americana a cantare con me la tua mai scritta canzone. Col tuo spirito reco la tua poesia fatta muta.
Mi tolgo il tuo vecchio cappello e lo annuso per odorare il sudore che esala, ancora vivo. Lavoravi come un mulo, il maggiore di troppi igli, un [magrolino in zuava frusta che negli Anni Ruggenti zoppicava su per i gradini della city, di porta in porta con carichi di giornali del mattino e serali, ciascuno contato un misero soldo sudato per mantenere la famiglia. Ti logorasti il cuore e le suole. Il tuo corpo fu sempre un briccone impastoiante il tuo [volere di maschio. Mi riempisti di orgoglio e tenacia di immigrante.
E va bene. Hai concluso, adempiuto nel canto [solo in me. Se i tuoi sogni sono miei, vivi di nuovo, respira e esisti in [me. Tu non capisti mai la trama americana. Good night, go gently, tired immigrant father full of pride and propriety. We, your three daughters, all grew to be healthier, stronger, more American than you. The wound that will not heal in me is the ache of dead sensibility. Once full of history, philosophy, poetry, physics, astronomy, your bright, high-lying psyche is now dispersed, set free from your tormented body, but the theme you offered, often forlorn, sheer luminescent soul, glistened with enough light to carry us all full-grown.
The sky was falling. God bless Daddy! God bless spaghetti! When they laughed, I learned I had a pen for a tongue that could please. Buona notte, viaggia remissivo, stanco padre immigrante pieno di correttezza e orgoglio. Autobiograia incompiuta per mia iglia scritta nel , durante la prima Guerra del Golfo Nacqui nel Il cielo stava precipitando. Dio benedica la pasta! Quando risero seppi che per lingua avevo una penna che dava piacere.
Are you wearing one? Twenty and virginal when raped one midnight in a jail cell by an angry Klansman, Deputy Sheriff of Montgomery County, Alabama—only law for miles around Selma. Ne porti uno? Ventenne e vergine fui stuprata una mezzanotte in una cella di prigione da un rabido Klansman, il vice sceriffo della Contea Montgomery, Alabama—unica legge per miglia nei dintorni di Selma. My greatest moment of joy came in a near death—not when jailed by the Klans- man, but when giving birth to you who came by emergency Cesarean, bright with hope, lovely daughter; do you hear the ambulance of guilt, grieving in your near death birth, the re- birth of your mother, your moment of almost not being new life greeting me in your eyes, my eyes peering back at me, questioning, after the fever [subsided.
Are they yours, Daughter? I edit a book, On Prejudice: A Global Perspective, of xenophobia, ethnocentrism, sexism, racism, and hate the nuclear and oil barons who are your enemy. We cannot love without enemies who bond us together in love—Freud said— unless we see that avarice pours our own garbage and debris back upon us— Smothering us with mutual enemy. Our oil, nuclear, chemical, and germ warfare proiteers hold us all hostage, you, me, and them, to the screams of skulls with their forever gold teeth, lampshades of skin, their ears are ours illed with a siren of guilt from the history book of corpses.
It talks to autumn, Daughter. Its splendor makes us sing. Un sottile ilo di vita goccia sulla pagina mentre i miei occhi diventano gli occhi di un altro: Sono i tuoi, Figlia? Metto insieme un libro, Sul Pregiudizio: Una Prospettiva [Globale, di xenofobia, etnocentrismo, sexismo, razzismo, e odio i baroni nucleari e del petrolio che sono i tuoi nemici.
Il suo splendore ci fa cantare. Only middle age girth makes me look maternal. Menopause has left not one kernel of hope in my old ovaries. Oggi, non vengo o spero di divenire incinta, nessun bimbetto scalpicciante in arrivo. La menopausa non ha lasciato un briciolo di speranza nelle mie vecchie ovaie. It, too, possesses a navel for seeing the world through the skin, has rounded buttocks, good to place against the hand the way earth reminds lesh of its being. Through the eye of the needle, death is a country where people wonder and worry what it is like to live. The sullen wish to live and live soon, to be done with death and the happy want to stay dead forever wondering: will it hurt to live and is there death after death?
Near Bari and Brindisi where the ferry has travelled the Adriatico, to and from Greece for centuries. How strange to view you, piccolo villaggio, with ladybugs, my talisman, landed on my shirt. Ladybugs rest on me at the dig of stone sculptures the Belgian professor shows me. You never returned to your ancient land where now the [natives, simpatici pisani, wine and dine me in their best ristorante. I insist on paying the bill.
They give me jars of funghi and pimento preserved in olive oil—their prize produce to take back home with me. They nod knowingly, when in talking of you, I must leave the table to weep— alone in the restroom, looking into the mirror at the eyes you gave me, the hands so like yours that turn the brass faucet and splash cold water over my face.
For an instant, in this foreign place, I have met you again, Father, and have understood better, your labors, your struggle, your pride, your humility, the peasantry from which you came to cross the wide sea, to make me a poet of New York City. Which is truly my home? Mi mostrano il tuo certiicato di nascita— Donato Giosefi, nato nel — scarabocchiato a penna, su carta che ingiallisce. Quando gli dico che sono una scrittrice, prima della [famiglia americana a ritornare alla casa paterna, di colpo sono nobile!
Coccinelle riposano su di me allo scavo di sculture in pietra che il professore belga mi mostra. Non ritornasti mai alla tua terra vetusta dove i nativi, simpatici paesani, mi dan da mangiare e bere nel loro ristorante migliore. Insisto a pagare il conto. This home where you would have [been happier and better understood than in torturous Newark tenements [of your youth.
This land of sunlight, blue sky, pink and white lowers, [white stucco houses, and poverty, mezzogiorno, this warmth you left to make me a poet from New York City, indifferent place, mixed of every race, so that I am more cosmopolitan than these, your villagers, or you could ever dream of being. This paradoxical journey back to a lost generation gone forever paving the way into a New World from the Old.
Maria Lisella has been an editor and journalist for most of her life and has covered the travel industry, a profession that has taken her to dozens of countries. Her work appears online at FOXNews. Bound; Bible and silk thread. To bring poetry to people is her mission: for 36 years she has successfully hosted the radio program The Poet and the Poem.
In , when the blood of the U. She opened the microphone to the city inviting poets, non-poets, ordinary citizens to share their voices on the airwaves. Best known for The Poet and the Poem, which is celebrating its 36th year on the air as an hour-long radio program, Cavalieri con- tinues to produce and host the show on public radio. Her programs include every Poet Laureate since and a signiicant collection of African-American poets.
Cavalieri has written 16 books of poems and 26 produced plays. She lives in Annapolis, Maryland, and was married to metal sculptor, Kenneth C. Flynn who recently passed away. She has four children and four grandchildren. I suoi programmi hanno proposto tutti i Poeti Laureati a partire dal e una notevole raccolta di poeti Afro-Americani.
La Cavalieri ha scritto 16 libri di poesie e ha prodotto 26 opere teatrali. Vive ad Annapolis, nel Maryland, ed era sposata con lo scultore Kenneth C. Flynn, scomparso recentemente. Ha quattro igli e quattro nipoti. But the African-American link came through poetry rather than cultural or political afiliations.
When I heard a new radio station was being planned to go on-air in Washington, D. I had the love and history on my side Because Washington D. I worked three years fundraising and sweeping loors to get a radio station on the air, to establish a platform for poetry. Although I was making poetry available in a way that had not been done before, I still had to prove myself. Gwendolyn Brooks was wary of me, but became a friend; Allen Ginsberg insulted me but eventually respected my work. My most profound memories were of truck drivers, prize-ighters, drunks, grandmothers, who called in to read their own poems.
Nel periodo tra il e il aiutavo ad avviare ed insegnare la scrittura presso i campus universitari della costa orientale del College di Antioch, a Washington D. Quando venni a sapere che una nuova stazione radio sarebbe stata fondata, con trasmissioni a Washington D. Lavorai tre anni raccogliendo fondi e pulendo pavimenti pur di far partire le trasmissioni radiofoniche, per fondare un programma per la poesia. Ricorda dei momenti signiicativi di The Poet and the Poem? My heritage is an ongoing theme I have only begun to explore, there is so much richness wait- ing, the past has so many stories, but I cannot be objective about its effect on me yet.
I have yet to make enough use of it. This worries me. But the past is all still in my future. Poetry is the way we rinse off language. If it were not for po- etry, we would all talk in slogans and TV commercials. We would use the language of politicians — words with no meaning. Poetry is, as Allan Grossman once said, the way we preserve the beloved. I see it as the great equalizer, the democratic ideal, the way every person can speak with an inimitable voice, the miracle that each one of us has our own breath and cadence that cannot be sto- len.
Poets document what it is to be alive at this moment in history. What would you like readers to come away with from po- etry? I feel less alone now. E devo ancora utilizzarlo appieno. Useremmo il linguaggio dei politici — parole senza signiicato. Cosa vorrebbe che la poesia lasciasse ai suoi lettori? Ora mi sento meno sola. Thompson N. Thompson is a full time writer and translator and lives outside Oxford, UK. His latest book of poetry is Letter to Auden Smokestack, a verse epistle in rime royal. Pier Paolo Pasolini Although he achieved inter- national fame as a ilm director, Pasolini was irst and foremost a poet and played an important part in Italian literary life as editor, critic and novelist.
While pursuing these many different paths, he continued to write and publish verse throughout his life, including poetry in the Friulan dialect. But it was his novels and screenplays of Roman low life that led to his success in the cinema as director: Accatone , Mamma Roma , The Gospel according to Matthew and his famous 70s trilogy Decameron, Canterbury Tales and A Thousand and One Nights. Non puoi, lo vedi? You were young then in that May when error Was still alive2… in that Italian May That gave at least the beneit of ardour, That careless, less immorally healthy Time of our fathers, when you — humble brother, Not a father — were ready with a stealthy Hand, ready to sketch out an ideal other But not for us now, as dead here as you In this dank garden bringing light to bear On silence.
II Tra i due mondi, la tregua, in cui non siamo. Scelte, dedizioni Nei cerchi dei sarcofaghi non fanno che mostrare la superstite sorte di gente laica le laiche iscrizioni in queste grigie pietre, corte e imponenti. Now the wind blows bringing in intermittent drops of rain. II Between two worlds, this is the respite where We have no life. Choices and sacriices… Make no sound in this garden now so bare, If noble.
But all the obstinate lies That deaden life are here for death to know. And in these circles of sarcophagi, Banal inscriptions of these banal folk Show nothing but a lasting transition Set in the graveness of this greyish stone, Brief and imposing. With unbridled passion But no longer any scandal, the burnt Remains of millionaires who came from nations Much grander; as if they were here, the hum Of irony from prince and pederast Whose ashes lie in scattered burial urns And, although turned to cinders, still not chaste.
The silence of the dead here is witness To cultivated silence of these last Remains of men still men, of weariness The weary garden tactfully disguises, The city that surrounds it making less Its splendour in between the pieties Of makeshift shacks and churches. And so I come across you quite by chance With hope and old mistrust still on my tongue And ind you in this makeshift lean-to placed Around your grave, your spirit resting here Along with these free spirits. Ed ecco qui me stesso I feel here — in this quietness where your tomb is Laid, in this country where your tension had No place in this unstable fate of ours, — How right and wrong you were, before the sad Day of your murder, writing the supreme notes3 You did.
And bearing witness to the seed Of power with its old traditions not Displaced, these dead attached to ownership That founders in the centuries with its pot Of evil and its grandeur. But the taps Heard from that hammered anvil, heartrending, Obsessive, if faint, coming from the traps Of poverty, bear witness to its ending. And here I ind myself, poor, in the kind Of clothes the poor admire in window dressing Of garish splendour, but have lost the grime Picked up in long forgotten streets and seats Of trams that give my day a dizzying time.
Vivo nel non volere del tramontato dopoguerra: amando il mondo che odio - nella sua miseria sprezzante e perso - per un oscuro scandalo della coscienza Come i poveri povero, mi attacco come loro a umilianti speranze, come loro per vivere mi batto ogni giorno. Poor as the poor, like them I pit myself Against humiliating hopes, like them I struggle every day to keep one step Ahead in my life. Ma come io possiedo la storia, essa mi possiede; ne sono illuminato: ma a che serve la luce?
Ma in esso impastati quali comuni, prenatali vizi, e quale oggettivo peccato! But how can I own history When it owns me, has me illuminated: And what use is its light? And so his deeds, Internal and external — all that go To give some body to his life — must needs Be subject to religions, there is no Escape, they take a mortgage out on death To trick the light and light this trick they do.
Gloria by Graham Greene
Ciecamente fragranti nelle asciutte curve della Versilia, che sul mare aggrovigliato, cieco, i tersi stucchi, le tarsie lievi della sua pasquale campagna interamente umana, espone, incupita sul Cinquale, dipanata sotto le torride Apuane, i blu vitrei sul rosa E lo sommuove. VI I have to go… and leave you in the sad Time evening brings as it falls softly on The living in the sunlight that turns pallid As it thickens above this part of Rome Turning dark and stirring it, making it Look large and empty. And the eager longing For life lights up in the distance, split With the harsh rasp of the trams, the raucous And distant shouts in dialect that knit To form a concerto.
Diademi di lumi che si perdono, smaglianti, e freddi di tristezza quasi marina You feel that any true faith is missing, Life is not life, only survival makes sense — which is happier than life perhaps — in being Akin to the animal world, they mumble Arcane orgasms, the only passion Is for daily existence, whose humble Fervour gives a sense of festival To humble corruption. In the rumble Of this empty space in history, all Pulsating pause in which life is silent — You feel the pointlessness of all ideals.
Nearby, about the mound and piles of rubble, Illegal shanty housing and the blocks Of lats that almost look clean, young kids play out And in the tepid breeze dance light as socks Pinned out. Elsewhere, dark adolescents pout As well: with devil-may-care attitudes They whistle down the pavements, twist and shout Tearing down roller blinds, full of a rude And festive joy making a fearsome din That breaks the evening calm with interludes Of rasping sound.
But life is bustling here, Its folk lost in it like a bright kermes, A fair that leaves hearts full; and here they are Poor, but out for fun this evening; defenceless But empowered, the myth for them reborn… But having in my heart the consciousness Of those who know how history is the mover Will pure passion ever move me again When I know that our history is over? It is now a protected archaeological site. She lived many years in Rome and now resides in Manhattan.
Today, there are two main anthologies of his work, as well as many individual volumes to peruse, most of them issued by the Milanese publishing house Mondadori. The principal anthologies are: Poesie scelte with introduction by Giovanni Raboni and Di certe cose: Poems — which contains an Afterword by the author. Risi is also well known for his extensive translation work, especially the many volumes of Pierre Jean Jouve, also selections from Supervielle, Jules Laforgue, Kavafy, and Radnoti. The titles alone indicate his engagement with social themes.
Both as a poet and a ilm-maker, Risi is clearly heir to the traditions of Parini and Leopardi, predecessors whom he often evokes within the poems, along with other quite different inlu- ences such as Rimbaud. A progressive, neorealistic ilm-maker and author, his is a constant critique of hypocrisy, corruption, injus- tice, indeed every abuse of power in contemporary life.
Often he mimics the speech of the enemy—governmental meta-language, publicity slogans, etc. A unique, original civic stance is veined with sardonic bursts. If he reduces phenomena to the bones, however, he also expands our sense of a higher destiny for humankind with his noble reminders. Biblioteca de Plata. Tapa dura con camisa brillante ilustrada. More information about this seller Contact this seller 5.
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More information about this seller Contact this seller 9. About this Item: Barcelona, Seix Barral. More information about this seller Contact this seller Published by Arnoldo Mondadori Editore. About this Item: Arnoldo Mondadori Editore. Condition: Good. In Italian. Clean copy, with light wear. With dust-wrapper. Photograph available on request.
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