Eliseu Visconti, Back to the trenches, c. 1917 I will remember this autumn beautiful and fleeing the migrant light that curves now as the reeds are being bowed by the wind. The floodwater in the canals has come up to my waist and, parched by the drought, I sank right in. At night in the …
Leonardo Sinisgalli – Mi ricorderò di questo autunno / I will remember this autumn Read More »
Edward Hopper, The Long Leg, c. 1930 God was dying on the sea blue, on his rowboat where he had asked me to join him.But the jealousy, the normality of the kids pushed me to decline, to shrug my shoulders at the salacious barbs.The scent of the sea filled the boats and you sang in …
Dario Bellezza – Dio mi moriva sul mare azzurro / God was dying on the sea Read More »
Giovanni Boldini, Portrait of Diego Martelli, 1865 The sea of subjectivity I am scouring forgetful of every other dimension.What the critics want I cannot give. Only vocality ranting infidelitycowardly petulance. And yet beyond my rather gutted self there lies the changeable surrender to the everyday. To suffer humanlythe rhetoric of all the normal days of …
Rene Magritte, The Lovers, 1928 What brings you here, love, what journey has the wind given you? Darkness surrounds these clear days, flows perhaps in this opaque light here where in unsteady or in stable spots gold filters and wine matures. I pluck this splendid fruit from the sky, I close my eyes to what …
Raphael (Raffaello), Ezekiel’s Vision, c. 1518 The thought pursues me through this dreary town where the wind sweeps down from the high plateau and where a diving chimney swift can cut the slender thread of mountains far away. So soon come forty years of restlessness, of tedium, of unexpected joy, quick as a gust of …
Mario Luzi – Nell’imminenza dei quarant’anni / On Approaching Forty Read More »
Camillo Sbarbaro was an Italian (from Liguria) poet, wrier and translator. He was close to Eugenio Montale. Sbarbaro was an exponent of Crepuscolarismo (twilight school) and experimented with a form of prose poetry that he called trucioli (shavings). Some of his first poems were written in the trenches during World War I.
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