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Never bored, I did not realize how poor we were, having so much. Perhaps it is our nature to hold hard to what causes least pain? To indulge moments of nostalgia is no act of foolishness. Sguardo sul passato A volte sono scosso da un desiderio di ritornare il bambino che ero — giorni infiniti sotto un cielo immenso sole onnipresente come il cane bastardo che mi tallonava.

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La raccolta si articola in cinque parti: Suspension of Belief Cables, ropes and wooden slats create a seemingly fragile sagging arc high above the crash and dash of Capilano Canyon. In my eyes this is not a bridge — but rather, some adult deceit designated to instill fear in a small boy. Father takes my hand, envelops it in warmth, strength and security a child comes to accept as truth. Beneath my feet faith and trust teeter and sway side to side, nothing beneath me but a void my fear has filled. Mio padre mi prende la mano, la avvolge col calore, la forza e la sicurezza che un bambino riconosce come veri.

Sotto i miei piedi fede e fiducia traballano e oscillano fianco a fianco, niente sotto di me se non un vuoto colmato dalla mia paura. The Thief Reflects Tell me, what have I stolen from you that you have missed? Surely you know I have taken only inessential fragments you would have shed without my help.

I can in no way be dismissed as common thief, nor as cheap trickster. You must agree I am a thief of impeccable taste: I did choose you.

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  8. Night is never dark enough for some. There will always be things to hide. Cold speaks its own language. The deafest ear will hear something. Fear not the night, the dark, the cold. It is ourselves that we need to fear. An open heart will always be hurt. Close it if you must. Di sicuro sai che ho preso solo frammenti inessenziali li avresti sperperati senza il mio aiuto.

    Non posso proprio essere liquidato come ladro comune, o dozzinale truffatore. Devi convenire che sono un ladro di gusto ineccepibile: Sempre ci saranno cose da celare. Il freddo parla la sua propria lingua. Paura non avere di notte, freddo, buio. Di noi stessi che dobbiamo aver paura. Tutti i cuori muoiono. Closed hearts only the pain of no. Only a fool tries to stop the wind. The same fool tries to stop hurt. The open hand feels good about itself. The closed hand always wonders why. Hourglass The evidence lies everywhere. We ignore the image — the bottom half, its increasing sand.

    It is funerals we attend with growing frequency that give us pause, make us feel the measure, the urgency, the anticipatory snare drum roll. Beat by beat, grain by grain. I cuori chiusi solo la pena del no. Solo un folle tenta di fermare il vento.

    Carlo Emilio Gadda - II

    Lo stesso folle tenta di fermare il male. Clessidra Le prove sono ovunque. Make it Last A flash of orange and black through sun-splattered aspen leaves, the faintest glimpse of baltimore oriole; or the brilliant scarlet shoulder sheen as a red-winged blackbird warbles from its wind-bent cat-tail perch; or a high-above dissonant clamour of a passing startle of snow geese etched white on unmarred blue: Beauty surrounds us — no charge, no previous experience needed.

    Beauty is Where You Find It Why deny Beauty can illuminate a January day when wind has taken a break and the air is a hush, a blanket of expectation? Even that miserly sun, that furtive fox creeping ever southward, bounces brilliant diamond facets off sculpted snow, mauve with shadow. This winter postcard pleases me, even though I do not stand long admiring the chill wonder of glistening snow, caught JIT Nature dies with such flamboyance, such acrylic outbursts.

    I gaze at this flaunting of fiery hues and unbidden names flash into my mind. I have seen too many friends too soon to the grave. La natura muore con tale fastoso sfolgorio, tali deflagrazioni acriliche. Io fisso questo sfoggio di sfumature fiammeggianti e spontanei i nomi nella mente mi saettano.

    Ho accompagnato troppi amici, troppo presto alla tomba.

    I loro elogi funebri rammentano come ogni foglia del verde acero deve flambare e cadere. March Musing Alone with my thoughts I reflect on so many themes, but so often these musings return to you, the centre of my world and the wonder of it all, the serendipity, if indeed such matters ever are, that we managed somehow, with all the infinite permutations and random rolls of the dice, to found each other.

    For we have saved each other and we have both been saved. In the finding, lay the saving; in the saving, lay the finding. Nel trovarsi, sta il salvarsi; nel salvarsi, sta il trovarsi.

    IJD Events in Italy

    Sei motivi per cui scrivo poesie Biagio Marin was born in in Grado, a fishing village on the coast between Venice and Trieste, in a region under Austrian rule until He studied in Florence and Vienna before the First World War, and then, after service in the Italian army during the war, also in Rome. He spent his working life in Northern Italy as a schoolteacher, schools inspector and finally as a librarian in Trieste. He published his first collection of poetry in More than thirty further volumes followed, almost all in the dialect of Grado, where he lived in retirement from until his death in From the s onwards he was recognised as an important and distinctive voice, a poet writing with apparent simplicity in traditional rhym- ing forms in a quite unprovincial way, whose dialectal colouring was in fact not a serious barrier for readers from other parts of Italy.

    His rate of publication increased rather than diminished in old age, which saw him produce some of his best work.

    e-book Mondo Nuovo (Gli emersi poesia) (Italian Edition)

    El corpo mio el gera una biondura de gran al vento ne la grande istae e ne le vene el veva la frescura de le rogie che score trasognae. Me son in paradiso! No one sees it. My death has been maturing for so long, the sickle only flashing at the wheat. I look at it and think that I feel strong and then I shiver walking down the street.

    My body was a blonding field of grain on which the wind of a great summer played, and it had coolness in its every vein from little streams that flowed by half-asleep.

    (PDF) Journal of Italian Translation Vol. XII, No. 2, Fall | Luigi Bonaffini -

    I am in paradise! Poplars still tremble in the light enraptured with the breeze, and the world is at ease in this hour before night. Stirred I turn round and mark how the blue turns to gold, JIT Tra sera e note, Carne, carne tu geri JIT Gera quela la vita mia: Profumi persi e prumitinti de cu sa quale ignote fioridure: Flesh wants children to come the full moon and the sun, wants every crust and crumb to take on fleshly form. You were rich black earth wanting to make corn, you were solid stone from which a house is born.

    La poesia secondo Ungaretti

    I was born to stand watching on one side life which is just a cloud for the wind to unwind. It has unwound your hair, your breast it has undone, and your beauty is now where such things with God have gone. All faded All faded and nothing was there: That was the life I led: Lost fragrances that came JIT The light, the light, the wicked light seducing with its playfulness, above, below, and anywhere it liked, and lasting just an hour, or less. Wondrous the tricks Wondrous the tricks put on by flowers that are not made to last, by clouds in the blue air above sailing untroubled past.

    Never shall I turn you down, for you I always thirst, loving you with infirm mind much more than solid earth. Those parties of the apple trees drunk on the open sky, till the fine petals founder when a windy witch storms by! You, spring, are just crazy, summer, you burn the heart, and sun, you shine into the blood that revels in your heat.

    I want to stay in your abyss in any of its ways. Lassa la vita a largo e che la vaga a pico; el to barco xe cargo del to nemico. E ninte mai more nel mondo: La mutassion origina el canto; JIT Let life sail the seas, let it go and capsize, you have in your hold your foe and your prize.