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Siamo Cosmopoliti. Blog di viaggi d'Arte, Fantasia e Regioni. Viaggi nel Cinema, nel Teatro. Cosmopoliti di città e di scena. Dall’Italia al romanzo, dal racconto alla fiction, dal Teatro all'economia. Confondere Letteratura, Arte, Città, Nazioni sarà un modo per incantare.

giovedì 20 novembre 2014

Giuseppina Biondo's Poems

By Giuseppina Biondo
English translation by Katia Smaldone


A poem recited by a drunk poet,
maybe while he is peeing in an alley
(Author-entry: read it rapidly in order to recreate the sound, slowly in order to understand its meaning)

The sun turns everything into other colors,
and it is not a matter of light.
The land, the skin, turn red;
the fields, the hair, turn blond.
Yet it is not the light.
It changes as burns change into healings,
it changes like marker pens and so on.
It changes like fragrances do.
Still the Sun is not the Earth
And the Earth does not change the Sun.
« And wine?
Does the wine change in the sun?
It changes color perhaps? »
Wine is not the land and the
Earth changes the wine.
Sun is poetry,
the ground its poetics,
the wine makes poetry.
But poetry is when
someone decides to turn ravings into something brilliant.
The flowing and sing-song, frenetic, concise nonsense is poetry.
The different, the same language
Wine is poetry, when not drunk.
The brilliant delirium is the natural one,
the exhausted, torn, darkened one.
And the sun changes the colors,
it darkens the ravings,
it is poetry.

(9th July 2013, Milan )



I didn’t want to be understood

I didn’t want to be understood,
neither the seas, nor the men could understand me,
neither the winds, nor the aborigines of the space,
neither the fields, nor the future migrants of time.
The grass surrenders to the feet, as I do to life.
And people raise rancor and scandal, like the sun of the East.
People lower sails of rage,
and I wasn’t understood.

You poetess or poet that are or will be,
what push makes us firstly believe that we want to be understood, accepted, interesting, graduated?
Seduce everybody? No, I won’t.

Understand me, poets of all times, just you, my only listeners!
You poets who listen, you listeners who write poetry, the poetry is hereditary.
I now inherit it from Whitman (this one is Whitman!), now from Sappho (the first one!), now from Panagulis (the one of yesterday!).
They, the I of tomorrow.
You poets who listen, you listeners who write poetry, the poetry belongs to the elite.
Now it belongs to the humble peasant,
now to the humble worker,
now to the artist who, pricing them, sells his own works.
Always belonging to the mind, always to the modest sensitivity of the universe.

« You happen » the lover told me,
I happen, he was right.
My lover, maybe she or he:
I can’t remember his or her place anymore
I don’t know its shape,
I don’t know its body.
We happen in life, on the Earth, on earth,
we happen in the singing and we happen in cheeriness or when we fall down.

I happen, I occur, I inherit, I am way ahead.
Forgive me, or forget me!, if I blundered,
if  I misused the poetry I received,
without strenghthening it with glory.

Yet the summer will come, when you will smile again,
dead, sad, corrupted cities will revive,
 sweet wine will be back in parties.

Fear made us wise,
love made us mad,
courage made us brave.

The dreambinders walk alone.
Poets walk alone.
Walk.

(2nd September 2014, Milan) 



How do you sing the stranger’s love?

How do you sing the love of the stranger
who you end up not wanting when you happen to know him?
How do you sing what you wish,
if you did not fulfilled it after having it expressed.
Does he, the stranger, know
that is nice to think,
that touching his fingers is just frivolous?
It would be enough to have the permission:
the pupils dilate in the light of the possibilities.
Too much distance, how could she, the stranger, know?
Know that I think of her, that I would praise her even more,
exhausted from this fight between Fate, Love and Verses.

(5th April 2014, Milan)



How do you save a poet?

How do you save a poet?
When he stays there emotionless, gloomy, forging pains?
How do you save a poet alone in a room?
A poet who would rather not be one in that moment.
A poet who would rather not be alone in that moment.
A poet who would deny anything about him.
He hopes to be saved.

How do you save that man?
He feels the way
and I think he’s right.
He is on fire
and I can see the flame shooting high,
how fast does it burn!
How do you save the inspired man?
It sounds dramatic leaving him there,
yet who am I
to prevent a man from feeling?

(4th July 2014, Milan).



What do you do?

What do you do, young woman?
What binds you to constraints?
What do you do after you harmed your body
due to someone who does not deserve it,
even if he looks perfect?
What? What? What do you do?
What? What? What do you do?
If my questions are nothing but drops that fall and torture you,
your answers,
if they do not come now,
they will frustrate my never ending struggle.

(29th June 2014, Milan)



Express yourself

Express yourself.
Is the “I” that is asking you.
Express yourself.
Is the one who will follow that is asking you.
Express yourself.
Every time the dread of a defeat tries to hinder your tendency for life,
react, expressing yourself.

(29th July 2014, Milan)