His maturity doesn't pass on to her, but, on the contrary, consigns her in a sort of a frozen childhood. "When I shall love once more so much all",įrom "Eri fra le madie bianche di cucina" Which allows itself to be kissed on the shoulders. Of my childhood, with the shutters always half-closed,Ĭreaking, with the greyed edges, the rolling pin inside,Īnd the heavy brass scale, still flesh crutch, You were among the white kitchen cupboard The distance had been a long artificially recreated exercise to a posthumous living, so the feeling of losing existed already, even when he was alive: The seal of death in the dream recreates the idyll of the amorous transfiguration, which happened before during awakening. In the same way death transfigures him: he becomes the double of himself, his own shadow. Where the memory jams like in an old man.īecause you didn't put barriers. (…) You wanted to destroy them before youįrom "Siete lì, strappate con rabbia, fidanzate" I observe the shattered mirror of your face,ĭid you destroy them, or forget them in a move? I imagine, as in a nightmare, that he has torn my letters, the only evidence of that love:Ībout the time when we didn't know each other anymore. He started to appear in my dreams, or in actions that I imagined he carried out in the interval of time between our separation and his death. The obsession of mixing cards through the disguise, almost a vice, uninterrupted for several years, started again with his death, which followed a period of a total silence and separation even in life. I continue to reflect about youth in poems that are much more recent: He wrote in the long poem: "The cloud in trousers", and I still can hear the voice of Angelo Maria Ripellino - a remarkable poet and Slavic scholar, and my professor at the University of Rome - reading the poem, with a rumble from the lecture hall: "I walk, beautiful, being twenty years old". The posing as a bold young man comes to me indirectly from the poetry of Vladimir Mayakovsky. Not to know the war, not to be older, just In the library, different from the others,Īn old professor proceeds bent, with glasses on, Youth becomes the stone that David throws against Goliath:įrom "La pioggia ieri notte scendeva giù" The ghetto of the inferior caste in which I felt myself confined, because of being younger, transformed itself into a challenge, almost a struggle between the old and the young, between the big and the small, between David and Goliath. The cursed captivity gave me the privilege to save myself, and to take out risks. The mattress counts twenty-three umbilica.įrom "E' passato qualche anno da quando io" Like the buyer confronted by the increased price The same thing you can say about the poem written on the eve of my thirtieth birthday: The atmosphere of this poem: the sense of aging as a physical decay, the final exaltation of the youth, the metaphorical historicity of a negation, the library as a space out of time, a barrage, an impossibility, echoes the poems by Constantine Cavafy. (…)įrom "So che le diverse etа sono chiuse fra loro" Seems to cry a high dignitary, blocking the entrance door. "You lack the property of our more remote memory", Like the castes at the time of Ancient Egypt. I know that different ages are closed in each other In my poetry, the metaphorical sense of distance, taken as an age distance, becomes a social distance, and for a moment recreates ancient Egypt My translation of her long story "The story about Sonechka", when I was twenty-four years old, was both a source of illumination and self-destruction for me. Marina Tsvetaeva was preaching asceticism as a practice of life, and contempt for earthly pleasures. Her charisma is so strong, that she can subjugate adolescents only with the power of the written page. In my total delivery to this love there was the strong application of what the Russian poet Marina Tsvetaeva was preaching in her poems and in her prose. Isolated from youth and deprived of defectsįrom "Ma la tua specialitа erano gli angeli" This point of view remains even in memories, later, when he dies:Ī mad-house of miles, on their eyes the veil Love is seen as a deprivation, a denial of life, because of the distance from the beloved: At that time, my diary and my poems were following an amorous correspondence, mostly one-sided, that I defined many years later in a poem:Įven in the letters I would take on other names, which were invented, such as Anna Gatti, or others taken from the books: for example Tatiana from the Onegin by Pushkin, Cécile Volanges from Les Liaisons Dangereuses by de Laclos, Henry Brulard from the autobiographic novel Vie de Henry Brulard by Stendhal. The masks have a bookish flavour, they come from literary characters, from reading experiences. 'Cardinal Points' literary journal CARDINAL POINTS: THE CURRENT ISSUE
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