Guide LUOMO CHE PARLAVA ALLE NUVOLE (Italian Edition)

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The city refuses to end and the countryside stretches like stagnant water where we grow old. Siamo troppo abituati ad ascoltarci. All around, these missing persons dense in the odor of death Wrought-iron benches fragile in their void, silent on this besmirched earth We drank each other up with our eyes-- in gusts of thought that the distant thunder among the lean shadows of spruce, mountains and our exhaled tremor made theater. We sensed the air of the nightingales that behind trunks were like remorse of summer rain mid cloud covers where the sun creates the image of Angera, our golden Citadel.

Angera Citadel, forceful and fierce in the fog, hid the lake.

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Over the edge, through the trees, the hospital loomed-- stripped, immersed in mud, melancholy-- as if seeking its identity amid the Pity And you, Pietro Gori, where are you? Shades standing or seated and this body stretched, something dense-- with shoes and an unmade bed Dear friend, speak to me with your face lit by words reclaiming time! Air comes gently to the windowsill, birds soar as the world seems to wait for them there So I proceed, eyes down, yet something transports me and in my throat I squeeze those ruffled sheets.

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Air reaches me like fog, I am fixed, cant wait The bed is there, something trembles, looks like a hand whose grasp fades away, clutching naught But who knows? Di Dio sono pazzo, si strappa la coscienza. The more I contemplate Him the more He recedes God is playful, like the moon, where my thoughts become clouds and He hides So I let my mind meander, speak with humans, and the moon persists, mad, clear, lunatic with its glow slipping through the night. Death plants fear in the heart, flees behind the mirror me.

I watch life and will dies: do what you please, but please find use for me!

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Call me, call me, folks! Dont let me sleep! Dont let my life go oblivious! Or my history just die Love, so lunatic, reaches me like joy of water--it always seeps among the living!

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Brevini, ed. Turin: Einaudi, ; Le parole perdute , cit. She writes in the dialect spoken where she was born. I do not mean here a chronological structure with gradual passage from an alpha to an omega, but, rather, a linking of poetic texts that deal with unified thematics: the body, lovers, the mirror, now vs. This structure seems inevitable. For this bird, the hoopoe, never lays its oils on a synopic canvas. Instead, it daubs with its spatula. This gleeful and much maligned bird lives via indetectible surprises, fits and starts, grazing the reversals of a reality stranger than fiction.

This invisible reality glimmers beneath primordial stains as original images reverberating from these deeply felt and variegated poems. In her poems, however, such an intensity reaches the extraordinary point where it constitutes the essence of her lyricism. The world as we know it vanishes; historical reference points no longer exist; and experience in all its polyhedricity is reduced to the confrontation with the other.

Loi, introduction to Ura , cit. Other lights shimmer in sky, on earth. I see what I watch, see the shadow of this place once again Could it really have been the way I feel today? I want to see it for myself so I can call brother that man who says his land is the loveliest I take yours and you have mine in mind how come these two signs mingle? Otherwise, if they were compounded it would make the world tremble.

Dont know It began in one of us, each pursued it, doesnt matter who. Secret paths we call ours passing through everybody. His university studies were done in Zurich and Pavia. A bilingual author, he contributes to numerous literary magazines and journals.


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He has also written theatrical pieces, some of which have been set to music. Herein, Quadri expresses his anguish in trying to create a new world. But his vision is not projected toward the future. Instead, it focuses on resistance against those who aim to eliminate the rural universe.

In short, this vision is retrospection. A literary parallel to this aspiration is found in Giacomo Noventa. Ultimately, Quadri is haunted by the negative results of the gap between the two universes: the moral and the managerial. His studies in dialectology and philology clearly facilitate his fieldwork, that is, in turn, the linguistic grounding for his poetry. Such games inform this poetry, refining and focusing it via respect for folk culture.

One might doubt or even deny that Quadri still takes this approach as a mature writer. Per un pivello.

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Sveglia, galoppino! Your mop is going grey, your teeth are thinning out, you look awful! But, if you cant hack it, - fanaboola! Clap your balls! Il vecchio castagno. Hunched by the years, the cancer that abided, by the tangles of branches and tufts of leaves, the chirping of daunted birds escapes that soul in agony: empty, aged, dotard but still kicking, a doormouse emerges and scurries off. Familia longobardorum. All around, handkerchiefs, school uniforms, even a pillow-case on a stool Inedita Mnemosyne He writes in the dialect of his native city.

There are no features or gestures which are not a looking beyond, a way of querying the signals and warnings couched in everyday life. But in this gaze looking within the usual cycle of days and seasons lies the restless act of the search for meaning, the interrogation that springs from distance and foreignness. Time is revealed in the perfect circle of repetition and return, within which chance and destiny move Giovanni Tesio, preface to El zharvelo e le mosche , cit.

Bressan was interested in reconnecting the time of memory and everyday concerns, he was interested in clarifying.. Dante Maffia, in La barriera semantica, cit. Senza parole.

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Through the cracks come the sounds of perforated air: the turtle doves call me, the sparrows arouse me. And then I ask myself, could one live like this, just listening? Amore di giovinetta. All refractory things become straight, in the ideal circle the quantified fact resonates. Astir in my brain half-structured remains, ants in procession. I sense my own ear, and I repent. Could it be the one all-surrendering voice?

I wish someone would silence the silence this way. He received a degree in modern literature and teaches in a middle school. He edits the political-cultural journal Confronto. His poems have appeared in Diverse Lingue and Pagine. The spirit that prevails in this book is a profound pietas for the immense suffering that man has had to face every day in the dreadful reality of a life which has almost always been a struggle for meager survival.

In the background there is the enormous crowd of the dead, the presence of the Manes, absolutely irreplaceable essences that every man on earth has embodied. The attempt to relive the pains of the past by projecting them onto the present gives his work an almost sacrificial form: the poet presents himself as someone who wants gather in himself, and take responsibility for, everything that is malevolent, hard, coarse.

He tries to give a new human sense to all this, using the only language that seems to allow him to communicate with that distant world in its innermost truth.


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