Today is Pasolini's 36th death anniversary. He was brutally killed on the night of November 2, 1975 in still unclear circumstances and found the following morning by a blue collar on his way to work. Pasolini is possibly Italy's most important poet after Dante. An amazing intellectual who truly loved the lowest classes, which he celebrated in his deeply profound novels and poems. As Jack Hirschman points out, his three initials stand for "Passion, Provocation and Prophecy." This is so true.
I wish to celebrate Pasolini posting Orson Welles' reading one of his poems of which I am also including a translation. "I am a Force of the Past" roars Pasolini. No, he is much more than that. He is still today a Force of the Present and of the Future too.
I am a Force of the Past. My love lies only in tradition. I come from the ruins, the churches, the altarpieces, the villages abandoned in the Appenines or foothills of the Alps where my brothers once lived. I wander lik…
I seldom write long poems and I have often questioned the reason why. I guess it is a matter of taste. The first poems I ever wrote were haiku poems. I have always been fascinated by Japanese poetry and the haiku form has always worked well for me. Being able to capture a mood, an image, a moment in just 3 lines is more difficult than one may think, especially if you are following the 5-7-5 syllable rule.
Brevity in poetry is compelling. I feel Emily Dickinson was the skillful master of the genre, despite the fact that she also wrote longer poems. Dickinson was able to convey so much in just a few lines. Sometimes in simply two!
Soft as the massacre of Suns
by Evening's Sabres Slain
Even though I tend not to write as many haiku poems as I used to do once, every now and then "that agony returns." No, it's not really the Ancient Mariner's agony! It's more like a delight. I am glad whenever some editor picks up some. You may read 2 of my latest in "50…
I have always been deeply fascinated by Magritte's paintings. "The Empire of Lights" is my absolute favorite. I have stood admiring it "forever" at the Peggy Guggenheim's Collection in Venice. But, there is a canvas in particular that keeps mesmerizing me. It dates back to 1937 and it is known as "The Therapist". The more I soak it in, the more I feel that it is much more than a mere depiction of the subconscious. I wrote a poem that does capture, or so I believe, the inner poetical nature of this work. To me this painting symbolizes the Poet. The wandering spirit with soles of wind, a bright red cloak, a straw hat, a walking cane and a bag full of books. Each Poet has a transparent soul, an exposed rib cage that cannot conceal the Truth where words in form of doves nest and sing.