Poetry Rules

My First Poetry Chapbook

2012-02-19T03:16:00.000-08:00

I am so happy to report that my first bilingual poetry chapbook will soon be published here in Italy. A series of fortunate events made it possible. Sometimes life surprises you in unexpected ways. I met the publisher last December only! I am even more lucky because poet Jack Hirschman loved the book and was happy to write its introduction. His words really made me cry out of joy. Last but not least, I will have a photograph by my friend and fellow poet Marco Cinque as the cover. What else could I ask for? Well, some readers I suppose...

The title? I will divulge that soon!

Tolstoy's Muse

2012-01-24T09:17:00.000-08:00

Here is my first published prose poem in 2012. Ms. Karenina makes it to TrainWrite. My thanks to Editor Karen Eileen Sikola.

http://trainwrite.tumblr.com/post/16349548359/tolstoys-muse

Published Poems in 2011

2012-01-23T10:57:00.000-08:00

I have been writing poetry since I was a teenager. One day I discovered Arthur Rimbaud and Dylan Thomas and I was hooked. The bad lad with the soles of wind has haunted me for a long time and still does. So does the Welsh Bard. But, over the years, many other poets have become part of my literary Pantheon. From all of them I have learnt a lot. To all of them I owe something.

It took me way too long to decide to market my poems. The main reason being that I dare write them in English which is not my mother tongue. Here below you may find a list of published poems since end of February 2011. I am indeed thankful for all journals that have accepted my work and I am very grateful to all the editors who have been willing to spend their time providing me with precious feedback.

But, I am also thankful to all journals who have rejected my work too. I have really learnt a lot from my rejections. Beloit Poetry Journal rejected one of my poems in a way that made me rejoice as if it had been accepted: "We shall not be using your manuscript. Thank you, however, for giving us the opportunity to consider it. Thanks also especially for the Akhmatova poem. The image that leads to "Requiem" is among the most powerful in all of twentieth-century poetry."

So here is my 2011 in figures, names and links. Am so looking forward to 2012!

Published Poetry in Magazines

Zouch Magazine & Miscellany

Poetry Rules http://zouchmagazine.com/poetry-poetry-rules/

Consistency http://zouchmagazine.com/poetry-consistency/

Paperblög

Instructions for Folding (continued) http://paperbagazine.com/blog/?p=392

Poetry Quarterly

Self-Portraits (to Francesca Woodman) http://poetryquarterly.com/?page_id=7

elimae

Milk & Bread http://elimae.com/2011/10/Milk.html

Cliterature Journal

Cassandra

Labyrinthine Love http://cliteraturejournal.com/madness/alessandrabava.html

The Anemone Sidecar

Women’s Only Asylum http://www.ravennapress.com/anemonesidecar/pdf/chapter_16.pdf

Counterexample Poetics

Words

Cruel Narcissus

Pandora’s Box

A Dream

Nettles http://www.counterexamplepoetics.com/2011/10/alessandra-bava.html

The Turnstiles Review

Cumulus Hank http://turnstilesreview.com/2011/11/11/cumulus-hank/

Crack the Spine

Like Venus Recumbent

Kareninas & Bovarys

Fleeting(-ness) http://www.crackthespine.com/p/current-issue.html

[take-it-to-the-streets-poetry]

Set Fire http://takeitothestreetpoetry.files.wordpress.com/2011/12/tittsp-vol-132.pdf

Published Poetry in Anthologies

Sons of Disobedience in Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology

http://peopleslibrary.wordpress.com/2011/11/18/ows-poetry-anthology-update/

http://peopleslibrary.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/ows-poetry-anthoogy1.pdf

Sete in Acqua privata? No grazie. (ed. Marco Cinque), 2011

http://ilmiolibro.kataweb.it/schedalibro.asp?id=655904

P.S. Oh, I forgot. I also had 3 erotic poems accepted as Sasha Marvell. :)

No Words Required

2012-01-03T14:53:00.000-08:00

After having seen Steve McCurry's exhibit today, I ended up realizing that even if words matter, no writing can convey emotion as a photograph does. Truly, I cannot describe the world I saw through his camera lens. I could attempt, but photography is untranslatable. Even the best writer cannot but bow to an art that can capture the world with such vivid realism.

Rodchenko: When Photography Recalls Poetry

2012-01-01T16:26:00.000-08:00

Spending the afternoon in contemplation of over 200 works by Alexsandr Rodchenko has been an amazing experience. I am so glad I had my pad and my pen with me. One must always carry one's writing weapons in the handbag. Mayakovsky's snapshots, in particular, were incredibly inspiring, capturing so well his tormented soul and piercing eyes. No wonder I wrote two new poems!

A Poet named Jack

2011-12-13T05:45:00.000-08:00

It is mandatory for me today to talk about Jack Hirschman. I have at least two good reasons for doing it. The former is that December 13th is his birthday and so I feel the need to celebrate him, whilst the latter is a lovely find. As I was researching pictures of him early this morning, I stumbled upon a photograaph by Charles Brittin dating back to the early Sixties. The website says that it was taken in 1962. Judging from the movie, I believe it may be a couple of years later. The place is outside Cinema Theater, Western Avenue (L.A.). I look at that picture of over forty years ago and I recognize his smile, his wit and his gait. Jack's life has made him tread so many different roads since then, but it is so great to see his spirit come alive from a still shot.

Happy birthday, comrade. Sempre.

Street Poetry Rules

2011-12-12T10:09:00.000-08:00

When poetry becomes graffiti and poets feel the urge to read their poetry to the crowds, then we acknowledge that the times are changing. I have never felt so much the importance of being a street poet before. But, I was so angry lately that I wrote some of my poems on small pieces of paper and handed them out to people in the streets. It is a small act. It won't change the world. But, I do feel a better human being. And, you, my fellow poets, I encourage you all to do the same!

When Magritte painted Poetry Personified

2011-12-02T03:53:00.000-08:00

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.

Patti Smith, the Poet.

2011-12-01T08:16:00.000-08:00

Patti is not just a wonderful rocker, an engaged artist, an activist and a rebel, but she is also a talented wordsmith. These are just a few reasons for which I admire her. At her last concert here in Rome, in the Summer of 2010, it was a pleasant surprise to discover how much she loved Pasolini's works and how she had felt compelled to visit the place where he had been murdered. Her autobiographical book "Just Kids" is a great ride. But, her poems--permeated with her love for William Blake and Arthur Rimbaud--blow me away every time I read them. Her words have the power to scratch my soul. I welcome the bleeding.

THE WRITER'S SONG

I did not wish to work
I did not wish to earn
but to curl with my jar
in the sweet sorghum
I laid my mat among the reeds
I could hear the freeman call
oh my life
what does it matter
will the reed cease bending
with the leper turn
I had a horn I did not blow
I had a sake and another
I could hear the freeman
drunk with sky
what matter me cry
will the moon swell
will the flame shy
bonsai bonsai
it is better to write
then die
in the blue crater
set with straw
I could hear
the freeman call
the way is hard
the gate is narrow
what matter I say
with the new mown hay
my pillow
I had a sake and another
I did not care to own nor rove
I wrote my name upon water
nothing but nothing above
bonsai bonsai
it is better to write
then die
a thousand souvenirs
a thousand prayers
set away in earthenware
we drew the jars
from the shelves
drink our parting
from ourselves
so be we king
or be we bum
the reed still whistles
the heart still hums

Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology

2011-11-21T08:09:00.000-08:00

Have you sent your poem, yet? If not, do. Occupy with your words!

http://peopleslibrary.wordpress.com/2011/11/18/ows-poetry-anthology-update/

Why Ever A Poetry Collection?

2011-11-17T11:29:00.000-08:00

This year has been incredibly busy for me. I have started marketing my poems in a serious way, I have been translating poetry like crazy -- two collections, some poems by Jack that are being published as I write and I will soon translate a dozen or more poems of the members of Rome's Revolutionary Poetry Brigade for the second RPB's international Anthology. Last but not least, I have been involved in poetry readings too. This said, one wonders why I should take the pain of putting together some of my works for a collection. Does the world really need a new poetry collection? A friend told me: "Nobody reads poetry anymore!".

Oh well, I guess I know he is right. Not a lot of people do. But, maybe a couple of friends would dare buy my poems -- assuming I got published. And yet, I know this is not the reason behind my writing. If I write my poems it is because I need to let it out. I need to use my words and convey my message. It is my hidden strength.

"I'll let the vowels and the consonants be my only incendiary ammos." This is why I write. This is all that matters to me.

Recalling Pier Paolo Pasolini: A Force of the Past

2011-11-02T12:13:00.000-07:00

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 like a madman down the Tuscolana,
down the Appia like a dog without master.
Or I see the twilights, the mornings
over Rome, the Ciociaria, the world,
as the first acts of Posthistory
to which I bear witness, for the privilege
of recording them from the outer edge

of some buried age. Monstrous is the man

born of a dead woman's womb.

And I, a fetus now grown, roam about

more modern than any modern man,

in search of brothers no longer alive.

Translation by Stephen Sartarelli

In the Realm of Darkness

2011-11-01T14:08:00.000-07:00

There are plenty of reasons to celebrate the arrival of November. I am feasting darkness reading poetry and sipping a glass of red wine. Poets' and writers' darkscapes are a great place to be. Which reminds me that John Claude's short story collection "The Dark is Light Enough for Me" is coming out soon. A perfect companion for the approaching hiemal time.

The Visual Poetry of Georgia O'Keeffe in Rome.

2011-10-29T14:21:00.000-07:00

The Blue Flower

2011-10-24T13:17:00.000-07:00

I have just finished reading Penelope Fitzgerald's "The Blue Flower". Since Jack suggested me to read it--while he was in Rome just a few weeks ago--I felt the desire to buy myself a copy. And, it has been such an astonishing read. This book on the impetuous student of philosophy and future Romantic poet Georg Friederich von Hardenberg, better known as Novalis, is a precious little jewel. It is a wonderful and lively portrait of an age, of Novalis' family and of his adamantine love for 12-year-old Sophie von Kuhn, his "true Philosophy". But, really, it much more than this: the novel is an interrogation on life, love, courage, purpose, desire, Poetry and, the metaphysical striving for the infinite symbolized by the blue flower.

My poem "Women's Only Asylum" in The Anemone Sidecar

2011-10-17T14:08:00.000-07:00

I am very grateful to editor Kathryn Rantala for including this poem in the latest chapter of The Anemone Sidecar. It deals with madness, a theme which has become always more manifest in some of my latest works.

Women’s Only Asylum
(starring Miss Plath, Miss Frame and Miss Dickinson)

A mansion that is more
like a condo, inhabited
by the kindred souls of
those who have lost

their sanity. You will
find them all gathered
here in participating
disruption wearing

their candid straitjackets,
playing cards with
their mouths, acting
scenes like Tomfools.

There is the crazy
stare of Sylvia
writing wailing lines,
on sheets tossed

around her body.
The new so-called
schizophrenia in
the lucid ravings

of Janet. So many
different forms of
lunacy, but you will
end up loving them

all. Even Emily in her
room, blowing glass
panels to smithereens
at last.

http://www.ravennapress.com/anemonesidecar/pdf/chapter_16.pdf

Celebrate National Poetry Day

2011-10-06T02:08:00.000-07:00

It's National Poetry Day in UK today. Let's celebrate wherever we are around the world. So, pass on a poem. Buy a book of poems. Write a poem. Read a poem. Listen to a poem. Bookcross a book of poems. Host a poetry reading. Be a street poet. Let's all wax poetic. It's Poetry Day!

Harrowing Anne Sexton

2011-10-05T07:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, October 4th, was Anne Sexton's suicide anniversary. She had long searched for her Mercy Street but could not find it so she chose to gas herself to death in her garage at the age of 45.

I have always admired her strong, painful, masterfully written poems but, I had never yet read more about her life than what I had studied on my anthology books at University. Until, just a few days ago, when I decided to buy a memoir book written by Linda Gray Sexton, her daughter, and I am finally catching up on her tormented and highly dramatic life.

I will confess that I have asked two famous poems what they thought about her poetry and, I was kind of surprised to learn that they dismissed her work as highly narcissistic. But, knowing their mindset, I can well understand their reaction.

Sexton is certainly no poet for the weak of heart. She explores personal themes in an unprecedented manner and in such a stark, brutally honest way that people may end up failing to notice the beauty of her words, each chosen with skillful craftsmanship.

I feel people should know more about her harrowing life and read more of her strong and mind-blowing poetry. In the meantime, I wish to thank Anne's daughter for having had the courage to disclose so much about her mother. This has also enabled me to mull over a new, exciting writing project.

"I cannot promise you very much./I give you the images I know."

Thanks, Anne.

Neglecting Cendrars

2011-09-01T02:01:00.000-07:00

I feel I have been neglecting my Cendrars for too long. The iconoclastic poetry of the man with one arm has always fascinated me deeply. He is the first real modernist in a way. No wonder Henry Miller worshipped him. Reading him in translation is always tricky. He masters French in a way that makes my heart rejoice.

Journal

Christ
There goes another year in which I haven’t thought about You
Since I wrote my penultimate poem Easter
My life has changed so much
But I’m the same as ever
I still want to become a painter

Here are the pictures that I’ve done displayed here on the walls this evening.
They reveal to me strange perspectives into myself that make me think of You.

Christ
Life
See what I’ve unearthed

My paintings make me uneasy
I’m too passionate
Everything is tinted orange.

I’ve passed a sad day thinking about my friends
And reading my diary
Christ
A life crucified in this journal that I hold at arm’s length.
Wingspans
Rockets
Frenzy
Cries
Like a crashing aeroplane
That’s me.
Passion
Fire
A serial
Diary
No matter how much you try to stay silent
Sometimes you have to cry out
I’m the other way
Too sensitive

Illuminations and Prose Poetry

2011-08-15T02:46:00.000-07:00

I have spent the morning re-reading Rimbaud's Illuminations and I have eventually decided that I need to master prose poetry. I have always been very reluctant to do so, but Arthur and Baudelaire have inspired me to dare write some prose poems today. It took me two hours to complete the first two.

I have just sent "He Smothered Them In Rose Petals" and "Caravaggio In The Wilderness" to a magazine that publishes prose poetry. Wish me luck!

The Lovely Rejection

2011-07-23T01:15:00.000-07:00

I am very grateful to Cooper Renner, poetry editor of elimae for having sent me a lovely rejection mail just a few days ago. He took the pain of writing back that the poems I had sent his way weren't right for the magazine, but that they were accomplished work and that he suggested I should send them to the editor of their sister magazine with his best wishes. I promptly did so and well, one of the three has been accepted to be published. I am still a novice, but I am learning a lot about the publishing world out there!

The Importance Of A Pen Name

2011-07-19T05:35:00.000-07:00

It's been a hard choice deciding whether I should have marketed my erotic poetry with a pen name or not. I frankly believe that I have nothing to hide, but I somehow hope that this will increase my opportunities too. As my friend Kate generously pointed out, some of my works have a John Donne feel. So, the surname Marvell pays hommage to one of my favorite metaphysical poems, whereas Sasha is the nickname that Jack (Hirschman) gave me. Ever since he has called me that way. I believe that, what Kate says is particularly true insofar as the two poems that have just been published by Safeword in their July edition is concerned. Sasha Marvell exists at last!

http://www.safewordmagazine.com/

Anne Sexton's "Briar Rose". An Armor of Words.

2011-07-04T03:18:00.000-07:00

I have discovered that the poetry that works better for me is the one that--albeit metaphorically--has its deepest roots in life. I was reading this poem by Anne Sexton again a few days ago and I was struck by the cruelty it depicts. It's not about Briar Rose, or Sleeping Beauty, indeed. It's more about girls having to deal and cope with abusive fathers. Anne's strength comes alive within an armor of words. Can words be abusive? Certainly not as acts. But, even if they cannot kill they can perhaps be of help in effacing the past.

Consider
a girl who keeps slipping off,
arms limp as old carrots,
into the hypnotist's trance,
into a spirit world
speaking with the gift of tongues.
She is stuck in the time machine,
suddenly two years old sucking her thumb,
as inward as a snail,
learning to talk again.
She's on a voyage.
She is swimming further and further back,
up like a salmon,
struggling into her mother's pocketbook.
Little doll child,
come here to Papa.
Sit on my knee.
I have kisses for the back of your neck.
A penny for your thoughts, Princess.
I will hunt them like an emerald.

Come be my snooky
and I will give you a root.
That kind of voyage,
rank as a honeysuckle.
Once
a king had a christening
for his daughter Briar Rose
and because he had only twelve gold plates
he asked only twelve fairies
to the grand event.
The thirteenth fairy,
her fingers as long and thing as straws,
her eyes burnt by cigarettes,
her uterus an empty teacup,
arrived with an evil gift.
She made this prophecy:
The princess shall prick herself
on a spinning wheel in her fifteenth year
and then fall down dead.
Kaputt!
The court fell silent.
The king looked like Munch's Scream
Fairies' prophecies,
in times like those,
held water.
However the twelfth fairy
had a certain kind of eraser
and thus she mitigated the curse
changing that death
into a hundred-year sleep.

The king ordered every spinning wheel
exterminated and exorcised.
Briar Rose grew to be a goddess
and each night the king
bit the hem of her gown
to keep her safe.
He fastened the moon up
with a safety pin
to give her perpetual light
He forced every male in the court
to scour his tongue with Bab-o
lest they poison the air she dwelt in.
Thus she dwelt in his odor.
Rank as honeysuckle.

On her fifteenth birthday
she pricked her finger
on a charred spinning wheel
and the clocks stopped.
Yes indeed. She went to sleep.
The king and queen went to sleep,
the courtiers, the flies on the wall.
The fire in the hearth grew still
and the roast meat stopped crackling.
The trees turned into metal
and the dog became china.
They all lay in a trance,
each a catatonic
stuck in a time machine.
Even the frogs were zombies.
Only a bunch of briar roses grew
forming a great wall of tacks
around the castle.
Many princes
tried to get through the brambles
for they had heard much of Briar Rose
but they had not scoured their tongues
so they were held by the thorns
and thus were crucified.
In due time
a hundred years passed
and a prince got through.
The briars parted as if for Moses
and the prince found the tableau intact.
He kissed Briar Rose
and she woke up crying:
Daddy! Daddy!
Presto! She's out of prison!
She married the prince
and all went well
except for the fear --
the fear of sleep.

Briar Rose
was an insomniac...
She could not nap
or lie in sleep
without the court chemist
mixing her some knock-out drops
and never in the prince's presence.
If if is to come, she said,
sleep must take me unawares
while I am laughing or dancing
so that I do not know that brutal place
where I lie down with cattle prods,
the hole in my cheek open.
Further, I must not dream
for when I do I see the table set
and a faltering crone at my place,
her eyes burnt by cigarettes
as she eats betrayal like a slice of meat.

I must not sleep
for while I'm asleep I'm ninety
and think I'm dying.
Death rattles in my throat
like a marble.
I wear tubes like earrings.
I lie as still as a bar of iron.
You can stick a needle
through my kneecap and I won't flinch.
I'm all shot up with Novocain.
This trance girl
is yours to do with.
You could lay her in a grave,
an awful package,
and shovel dirt on her face
and she'd never call back: Hello there!
But if you kissed her on the mouth
her eyes would spring open
and she'd call out: Daddy! Daddy!
Presto!
She's out of prison.

There was a theft.
That much I am told.
I was abandoned.
That much I know.
I was forced backward.
I was forced forward.
I was passed hand to hand
like a bowl of fruit.
Each night I am nailed into place
and forget who I am.
Daddy?
That's another kind of prison.
It's not the prince at all,
but my father
drunkeningly bends over my bed,
circling the abyss like a shark,
my father thick upon me
like some sleeping jellyfish.
What voyage is this, little girl?
This coming out of prison?
God help --
this life after death?

An Untitled Gem by Angela

2011-07-01T14:38:00.000-07:00

I found this poem by Angela Carter on the web today. It struck me with its terse words and apparent simplicity. There is a great writer's wisdom in the use of few words and strikingly compelling images. The cat with the spoon ears is just a brilliant sentence, but the last two lines literally give me goose bumps. I feel I have learnt a whole poetry lesson today. You've got a long way to go, my dear Alessandra!

My cat
Is the snow queen,
This frigid virgin four
Winters old crooks
Her paw to wash a face
White
As starlight, twice
As cold.
She puts back
her ears like spoons
to listen to the wind
behind her.
She eats
For breakfast, hearts;
For supper, northern lights.

Inspiration

2011-06-30T11:34:00.000-07:00

So yesterday evening I was sitting at my table, with a glass of wine and a pad when I started skimming through my Francesca Woodman books. I was captured by her Self-Deception series and the pen started flowing to the rhythm of her black and white pictures and her twisted body. There is a strength in her work that makes it appear almost as solid as a sculpture and yet wraithlike. There is a naked truth hidden in her works that needs to be deciphered. These shots were taken in a cellar, which make them even more intriguing to me. I keep wondering whether Bluebeard was her favorite fairy tale as a kid.

Poetry As Consolation

2011-06-28T11:42:00.000-07:00

There is always a good reason to read poetry. Whether feeling happy or sad, I know I will find some solace or comfort turning the pages of a poetry book. I was watching the sunset and recalling the sunrise that saw my son and me awake earlier today. He is traveling alone and a lot of thoughts inhabit my head. It’s a strange feeling, maybe a mixed feeling of restlessness and hopefulness. I wrote some bad lines and then I picked up a book by Wisława Szymborska and at last found some truly consolatory lines that made me smile. Who does not love happy endings?

CONSOLATION

Darwin.

They say he read novels to relax,

But only certain kinds:

nothing that ended unhappily.

If anything like that turned up,

enraged, he flung the book into the fire.

True or not,

I’m ready to believe it.

Scanning in his mind so many times and places,

he’d had enough of dying species,

the triumphs of the strong over the weak,

the endless struggles to survive,

all doomed sooner or later.

He’d earned the right to happy endings,

at least in fiction

with its diminutions.

Hence the indispensable

silver lining,

the lovers reunited, the families reconciled,

the doubts dispelled, fidelity rewarded,

fortunes regained, treasures uncovered,

stiff-necked neighbors mending their ways,

good names restored, greed daunted,

old maids married off to worthy parsons,

troublemakers banished to other hemispheres,

forgers of documents tossed down the stairs,

seducers scurrying to the altar,

orphans sheltered, widows comforted,

pride humbled, wounds healed over,

prodigal sons summoned home,

cups of sorrow thrown into the ocean,

hankies drenched with tears of reconciliation,

general merriment and celebration,

and the dog Fido,

gone astray in the first chapter,

turns up barking gladly

in the last.

Unpacking Books and Hidden Poetry

2011-06-20T07:58:00.000-07:00

What a joy, after a move, to be able to allow one's books to breathe again. Seeing them on the shelves makes me so happy. Sometimes, unexpectantly, I find some hidden treasures. A note that a friend wrote, a postcard, a bookmark, scraps of paper. I was so happy to find in a poetry book some poems I had almost forgotten. They date back to the period in which I was attending University and I was studying American Poetry for my second year exam of American Literature. They are three poems by Robert Creeley that my Professor had translated. Great ones. I'll share one of them with you:

CHAIN

Had they told you, you
were "four or more cells
joined end to end," the Latin
catena, "a chain," the loop,
the running leap to actual
heaven spills at my stunned
feet, pours out the imprison-
ing threads of genesis,
oh light beaded necklace,
chain round my neck, my
inexorably bound birth, the sweet
closed curve of fading life?

Translating Poetry, Creating Fireflies.

2011-06-14T05:55:00.000-07:00

I have been busy translating poetry lately and this made me even more aware that the task of a translator is perilous and extremely complicated. What Umberto Eco says about translation is so true. That is, striving to say almost the same thing. Succeeding is an accomplishment that requires sweat and blood. And yet, despite Frost's famous quote that "poetry is what gets lost in translation" I know that not everything is lost. Some of it remains and the sparks of the poets can be captured in the end. Translating poetry is like giving life to a firefly. A dazzle of light remains in between all the darkness.

My disquieting Muse

2011-05-31T09:15:00.000-07:00

The naked truth is that I wish my poems could boast the same stark honesty of Francesca Woodman's photographs. There is so much power in them and the clear feeling that she is weaving a story in every single snapshot. Unhinged doors, thresholds leading to everywhere and to nowhere, tightrope walker kind of poses, apparent oddness winking at surrealness, scattered debris, cracked mirrors, objects mingling with bodies and her Self. Francesca--whether naked or not--leaves her mark, her trail of personality throughout the whole scene. All her shots are still yet vibrant means of self-assertion. And yes, she is becoming my disquieting Muse.

The Death Of A Poet.

2011-05-28T01:05:00.000-07:00

How very sad to wake up to discover that another poet has passed away. I have always been very fond of Gil-Scott Heron. He was a great revolutionary soul, but most of all he was an amazing writer. I was tempted to post his so famous "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised", but I will post his wonderful "Winter in America" instead. Now this is what I call a poem!

Writing Poetry, Or Taking Up The Torch.

2011-05-16T03:42:00.000-07:00

Four or five months ago I started rereading my poems because I thought it was high time to send some out to magazines. To my surprise, I remember distinctly being overcome by a sense of discomfort about everything I had written. Some of it was barely acceptable to me. Yes, there was sentiment in my poems, but I realized somehow that I lacked something.

What was I lacking? After pondering over it I concluded that there was no purpose in my lines. No sense of direction. No message. I was mostly writing poetry for poetry's sake. So, I started giving a different shape to my ideas and writing poems with a more distinct edge. Or, so I believe. I felt I had to write about the "hic et nunc", the here and now, the present times.

I'd love my poetry to be like a torch as Jean-Paul Sartre suggested in the following quote: "every age has its own poetry; in every age the circumstances of history choose a nation, a race, a class to take up the torch by creating situations that can be expressed or transcended only through poetry."

Several of my poems have been rejected. But, two of my poems have been accepted and published by Zouch Magazine lately. There's hope. I shall fare forward.

Forging Words

2011-05-10T03:22:00.000-07:00

I often compare writing lines to forging. It's a tough work that needs three essential elements: darkness, strength and sparks. If you never read Seamus Heaney's "The Forge", you probably should. That poem does capture the essence of poetry making. Where is my anvil? Where is my hammer? It's time to smite some words...

Poetry, Or My Daily Bread

2011-04-25T02:51:00.000-07:00

I have been unable to write much poetry lately. It looks like my Muse is in quescient mode. But I keep reading poetry at least, being faithful to my motto that states: poetry is my daily bread. Reading Jack's translations, I could not help falling in love with Roque Dalton's work. The simple strength of the revolutionary Salvadoran poet does move me deeply. His "Like You" I have just learnt by heart.

Like you I
love love, life, the sweet smell
of things, the sky-
blue landscape of January days.

And my blood boils up
and I laugh through eyes
that have known the buds of tears.
I believe the world is beautiful
and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.

And that my veins don’t end in me
but in the unanimous blood
of those who struggle for life,
love,
little things,
landscape and bread,
the poetry of everyone.

Shit Matters...Excuse My French!

2011-04-21T03:46:00.000-07:00

Life can be pretty unbearable at times. I am going through so much lately that I honestly feel a victim of the greed. Other people's greed naturally. I came to the conclusion that it would be much better not to own anything at all, except oneself and one's feelings. This is all I need, this is all that matters. The rest is just...shit! Ferruccio Brugnaro's poem "Buy, Always Consume" translated by Jack Hirschman is a perfect one for my mood today.

Buy, buy more than you can

consume. Consume. Fuck over
any relationship.
Step on everything and always
buy everything up. Carry home
as much as you can.
Stuff, stuff yourself with greed.
Don’t look anybody in
the eyes.
Surround yourself with high walls
so neither grass nor human
voices can reach you;
sink, sink into the shit as deep
as you can go.
You must be on your guard;
buy away, carry it home
always consume.
Look around, make sure
they’re not robbing you;
trample
any flower
any plant.
Buy, always buy
carry home
more than you can carry ;
consume, consume,
sink, sink into the shit,
shit, shit shit.

Cardboard Lines

2011-04-14T12:37:00.000-07:00

I am moving next Saturday. I have had very little time to write poetry, not to mention read lately. But today, being surrounded by almost a hundred boxes, I could not resist the temptation of writing a line on each of them. I plan to write a poem using all my cardboard lines when I will be at my new place. I am ready to bet that unpacking will be great fun this time!

The Flesh In The Inkpot

2011-04-11T13:09:00.000-07:00

Tolstoy could not have described the process of writing in a better way. Personally, I believe that writing poetry is all a matter of flesh and blood. This is why Paul Engle's quote is a favorite: "poetry is ordinary language raised to the nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words." Hand me a quill and the inkpot, please. I think it's time to pour some flesh in it!

The Poet Is A Thief

2011-04-06T03:44:00.000-07:00

I wrote a poem last night and, despite it being so concise, it took me a lot of effort to complete it. Words most of the time just flow out naturally, but this time I could not find the right word I needed. It was at that point that I decided to stop writing and start reading. I was flipping through the pages of a book of poems by Marina Tsvetayeva when I stumbled on the right word. I smiled thinking about T.S. Eliot's quote: "one of the surest tests [of the superiority or inferiority of a poet] is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal." Maybe I am not really mature, but I will call myself a thief. I won't tell you which word I stole, but you can read the poem I stole it from!

Every verse is a child of love,
A destitute bastard slip,
A firstling -- the winds above--
Left by the road asleep.
Heart has a gulf, and a bridge,
Heart has a bless, and a grief.
Who is his father? A liege?
Maybe a liege, or a thief.

You Will Hear Thunder

2011-04-05T04:05:00.000-07:00

After having heard Jack Hirschman read his poetry so passionately and with such a thundering force, I am reminded that this is exactly what poetry should do. I was rereading Anna Akhmatova's poems last night which do express this very thought beautifully. So you will hear one of her poems now or, in her own words, you will hear thunder.

You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

48 Hours Of Pure Poetry

2011-04-03T11:12:00.000-07:00

So I am back in Rome and I wish I could share with you the bewildering phantasmagory of these few, intense hours. Edoardo and I will cherish in our hearts this incredible experience, starting from the breathtaking reading up to the heartfelt generosity of four extraordinary poets--Jack Hirschman and his wife Agneta Falk, Paul Polansky and Alberto Masala--who have shared with us their daily life, their stories, their humor and their passion. Naturally, I owe a special thanks to Jack for having devoted me over four hours of his time and memories. Trust me, he is not just a spectacular poet but he is, above all, a wonderful man!

I truly left a speck of my heart in Bologna!

April is Not The Cruellest Month

2011-04-02T07:51:00.000-07:00

Yes, April is not the cruellest month simply because it is Poetry Month. Celebrate it as best as you can. Be a poet. Write poetry. Read poetry. Buy books of poetry. Support poets and poetry as best as you can. Dare disturb the universe!

The Albatross

2011-03-30T04:01:00.000-07:00

Baudelaire's poem is a perfect one for my son Edoardo who, being 11 years old, feels that he is growing up too fast. Adolescence is indeed the lovely and terrible age of clumsiness. But, I am confident that this is just a step because, like a poet, he will soon learn to spread his wings and fly. Soar, my boy!

Often our sailors, for an hour of fun,
Catch albatrosses on the after breeze
Through which these trail the ship from sun to sun
As it skims down the deep and briny seas.

Scarce have these birds been set upon the poop,
Than, awkward now, they, the sky's emperors,
Piteous and shamed, let their great white wings droop
Beside them like a pair of idle oars.

These wingèd voyagers, how gauche their gait!
Once noble, now how ludicrous to view!
One sailor bums them with his pipe, his mate
Limps, mimicking these cripples who once flew.

Poets are like these lords of sky and cloud,
Who ride the storm and mock the bow's taut strings,
Exiled on earth amid a jeering crowd,
Prisoned and palsied by their giant wings.

Traveling with Walt

2011-03-29T04:08:00.000-07:00

I have traveled with uncle Walt this morning during my coffee break. And, as usual, the journey has been an enriching experience. There is a depth in his work and yet a comradesque appeal that is perhaps what I like most. Reading "Leaves of Grass" makes you feel part of a Whole, because Whitman is the largest poet. He does contain multitudes indeed.
Here is an excerpt I truly adore from "Song of an Open Road". And yes, you bet, I will give him myself. I will stick with Walt as long as I live!

From this hour I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, the north and the south are mine.
I am larger, better than I thought, I did not know I held so much goodness.
Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth.
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is called riches,
You shall scatter with a lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,
You but arrive at the city to which you were destined,
You hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are called by an irresistable call to depart,
You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,
What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reached hands toward you.
Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginingless,
To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,
To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it, To conceive no time, however distant, but you may reach it and pass it,
To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you,
However long but it stretches and waits for you,
To see no being, not god's, but you also go thither,
To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all without labour or purchase,
Abstracting the feast, yet not abstracting one particle of it.
To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go,
To gather minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts,
To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind,
To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for travelling souls.

Allons! the road is before us! It is safe-
I have tried it- my own feet have tried it well- be not detained!
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopened!
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearned!
Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law,
Camerado, I give you my hand! I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law: Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

Revolutionary Mayakovsky

2011-03-28T03:50:00.000-07:00

I have been reading Mayakovsky's poems extensively in the past weeks. I deeply love them and I tend to agree with most of his revolutionary ideas. He does sound prophetic at times: the poet must hurry time forward. And he was almost too faithful to his idea considering the fact that he committed suicide when aged 36. His definition of a proleterian as someone in love with the future is quite amazing. His ideas on literature so powerful: Why should literature occupy its own special little corner? Either it should appear in every newspaper, every day on every page, or else it's so totally useless. The kind of literature that's dished out as dessert can go to hell.

I am so touched by the verses that follow. They could well be my poetical manifesto.

For you
I will tear out my soul
and trample on it till it spreads out
and I'll give it to you,
a bloody banner.

On Hedgehogs And Poetry (à la Wallace Stevens)

2011-03-27T06:45:00.000-07:00

I was driving along a country road this morning when the smallest hedgehog ever crossed my path. It was such an unexpected surprise that I pulled over not only in order to enjoy the wildlife epiphany but because the event reminded me of a quote by Wallace Stevens: "Poetry is a pheasant disappearing in the brush". Well, maybe poetry is a hedgehog disappearing in the darkest greenery. I want to write a haiku in honor of my small, lovely fellow! And let him reappear in my pen!

A Phone Call From Poet Jack

2011-03-26T05:04:00.000-07:00

I can think of no better way to begin a Saturday morning than receiving a phone call from a poet! And if the said poet is Jack Hirschman--that is my poetical guru--than the experience is almost blissful. Jack arrived in Bologna yesterday. His wife and him are hosted by a friend-poet, from whose cell phone Jack was calling me. We have talked for ten solid minutes in the most friendly and cordial way. We have agreed to see each other on the day in which I will arrive in Bologna for his reading performance and on the following day as well. He asked me what exactly I am planning to write. At my answer: "The story of your life", he exclaimed laughing "Oh boy!".

Gotta love the young man!

Poetry Is A Dangerous Thing

2011-03-25T04:36:00.000-07:00

I love this quote by Tom Waits. It's simple and mind-blowing at the same time. Poets are well aware of the danger awaiting the travels of writing, but they must be ready to run the risk. So, here I am ready to plunge in any of Baudelaire's bottomless chasms anytime. Got to love those fabulous falls holding a quill and some leaves of paper in hand!

N.B. Saddest note and detrimental to my mental health is discovering that Tom Waits' poetry book "Seeds On Hard Ground" is out of stock already... :(

Dreaming Rimbaud

2011-03-24T04:34:00.000-07:00

I dreamt Rimbaud last night. In my dream, I am walking along a solitary country road, surrounded by a Northern landscape dotted by dank pastures and gray clouds, when I see a man walking towards me. When he is close enough for me to recognize his features, I am greeted by the palest blue eyes and a smirk. The beauty of his face and the elegant legs clash with the worn, brown boots.

I smile now thinking about the Bohemian lad in his soles of wind. One of the most mobile and restless poets of his age. His life is a parable of prophecy and hallucination. His sweetly poisonous words have always bewitched me.

And, since I feel nomadic lately--as my dream possibly suggests--here is Arthur's "Ma Bohème"!

I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets;
My overcoat too was becoming ideal;
I travelled beneath the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal;
Oh dear me! what marvellous loves I dreamed of!

My only pair of breeches had a big hole in them.
– Stargazing Tom Thumb, I sowed rhymes along my way.
My tavern was at the Signof the Great Bear.
– My stars in the sky rustled softly.

And I listened to them, sitting on the road-sides
On those pleasant September evenings while I felt drops
Of dew on my forehead like vigorous wine;

And while, rhyming among the fantastical shadows,

I plucked like the strings of a lyre the elastics
Of my tattered boots, one foot close to my heart!

Rilke's Angel

2011-03-23T04:51:00.000-07:00

I am in Rilke state of mind today. As a translator and writing poems mainly in English myself, I am always fascinated by Rilke's skilful use of language in his French poems--considering the fact that he was Bohemian-Austrian--but even more by his powerful depictions. The one I love most is perhaps his Angel in the poem "An Angel At My Table". A visionary yet rustic presence whose invisible traits linger in me after each single reading. The physical description is missing, but one has the impression of truly seeing the winged creature. Enjoy Rilke's wonderful piece of bravura (not lost in translation)!

Stay still, if suddenly
the Angel decides to appear at your table;
smooth out the creases
in the tablecloth under your bread.

Offer him to take a turn
at tasting your crude fare,
to take a turn lifting to his pure lips
a simple glass of everyday life.

The Unbearable Madness Of Poetry

2011-03-22T04:56:00.000-07:00

"Love in the Asylum"--my favorite poem by Dylan Thomas--is possibly the most lucid and poetic account of the unbearable madness of poetry creation. I cannot help thinking that the "girl mad as birds" that "raves at her will/on the madhouse boards" and in whose arms the poet suffers "the first vision that set fire to the stars" is a marvelous metaphor for his Muse and the fury of writing. I am deeply touched by this kind of madness. I too crave for a spark of that insanity in my poems.

Poets, Or Wanderers

2011-03-21T04:59:00.000-07:00

"I am a wanderer so let that be my name" writes Basho in one of his most famous haikus. It struck me rereading it this morning how being a poet means also being a wanderer. Wandering is a necessary state for a poet. Soul wandering even more so. Stopping in the middle of my train of thoughts--captured by the beauty of a word--is the beginning of a new soulscape for me. From there a new journey begins. A journey leading to always new paths of ink. Let's be erratic!

Red Poet in Rome

2011-03-20T13:57:00.000-07:00

This afternoon's screening of "Red Poet", the documentary on poet Jack Hirschman, at Rome's Independent Film Festival was a truly stirring event. The Pasolini venue was crowded and the movie as moving as I knew already. I was so glad to be able to talk to Matthew Furey, the director, for almost half an hour. He told me interesting stories about Jack. And, I made him laugh, when I told him what Jack thought about the lead actor. Dear, the man is 77yo but he has the most amazing sense of humor. I wonder if he could be Mr. Zouch's nephew!

An Anatomy of Cranach's Melancholy

2011-03-20T01:48:00.000-07:00

Why should the Muse ever decide to bother me so early on Sunday morning is a mystery I won't even attempt to solve now. I just hope that my poem may be able to capture the amazing atmosphere of Cranach's wonderful painting. It was a real surprise to discover that Scotland owns a spectacular fuchsia thistle named Melancholy. Its unparalleled beauty is a perfect match to Cranach's work at the National Gallery in Edinburgh. I need to see both live soon, but I am heading back to bed now at 9.45 am Rome's time!

Shelley, Modigliani And Me. Or, A Book Of Poetry In The Pocket.

2011-03-19T07:45:00.000-07:00

Carrying a book of poems with me everywhere I go has become a habit. As soon as I have a chance to, I'll grab the book and avidly read a few poems whether I am stuck in a traffic jam or having my coffee break. Wherever and whenever indeed.

This reminds me that I am just like my beloved Modì, i.e. painter Amedeo Modigliani, who always carried a book of poems with him. It is a well known fact that he was a fond admirer of "Moldoror" by Lautréamont and that he owned a worn copy of the amazingly hallucinatory poem. He would read a few pages of the book to himself or to friends and acquaintances in the Parisan bars of Montparnasse. How I would have loved to attend such extemporary readings or hear him recite Dante by heart!

As we all know, Percy Bysshe Shelley drowned for reason of a summer storm whilst he was sailing his Don Juan from Lerici to Livorno. He was found on the beach of Viareggio ten days later. His body was horribly disfigured, but his copy of poems by Keats was found in his pocket and this allowed to identify him.

Now, poetry won't always save your life, but carrying it in your pocket may turn useful!

Hank And Poetry Will Save My Life

2011-03-18T07:04:00.000-07:00

Some days are so hectic and full of worries that remaining sane seems impossible. I was standing in a line at the post office waiting for my turn to mail a poetry submission, whilst pondering the latest call from my lawyer--selling my house has turned into the worst of nightmares--when I started reading the book by Bukowski I had with me. It is a wonder how a few words can turn into a balm for the soul. Words full of sarcasm. Bitter words. Brutally honest words. But, Hank truly gave me hope. He made me smile and even laugh.Oh yes, Hank and Poetry will save my Life!

Ferlinghetti's "Poetry As Insurgent Art"

2011-03-17T08:13:00.000-07:00

I have always admired Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I stumbled into the Beats in my early twenties and his poems (and Corso's) have always had a great impact on me. I do love his lucid view of the world and meeting him in Rome afer one of his readings fourteen years ago made me realize that the man with the most amazing blue eyes, the poet and the thinker were a kind of indissoluble Trinity.

I bought "Poetry As Insurgent Art" last August at City Lights--which was also the very first place I wanted to visit as soon as I arrived in San Francisco. It very much sums up his general point of view that poetry and poets must meet the challenge of this cataclismatic times. It is a lovely, thought-provoking compendium on poetry and wonderful food for thought.

I am pondering over some of his most relevant--to me at least--quotes:

Have a good laugh at those who tell you poets are misfits or potential terrorists and a danger to the state.
Don't ever believe poetry is irrelevant in dark times.
Be committed to something outside yourself.
Be passionate about it.
Unless you have an urge to sing don't open your mouth.

I cannot deny it. Ferlinghetti and Hirschman's poetry have fueled some of my latest poems. Grazie Larry! Grazie Jack!

Visceral Anne Sexton

2011-03-16T12:42:00.000-07:00

I love visceral poets. I love poetry made of flesh and bones, of marrow and heart. And pain. I was seventeen when I first read a poem by Anne Sexton. It was love at first sight. I could not help reading all she wrote from then onward and being so devastated by her words and life. I still retain the magical power with which a sentence of that poem hit me: "My mouth blooms like a cut." If only my verses could be as powerful as this! Anne remains a spirit guide.

A Haiku for Japan

2011-03-15T04:06:00.000-07:00

Ap-pall-ing clouds

coating the lands as

crows shadow daisies.

Wearing Poetry

2011-03-14T07:07:00.000-07:00

Yes, I proudly wear poetry. Every time I watch my ring I rejoice because those lines were written for me and no one else owns a more precious jewel. It is not the silver that makes it precious, but the beauty of the words that were chiseled on it. More so, it is the meaning of those six lines--that are the final stanza of a longer poem--that move me and remind me how incredible fortunate I am. Nothing like those words. They burn in me like an inextinguishable fire every day.

A poem for Emily Dickinson

2011-03-13T08:27:00.000-07:00

(To Emily Dickinson)

The curtain winks -

dawn dazzles my

sleepless senses awake,

as the aching ink

invades my paper-soul.

This poem has been published on WLoAD.

Sylvia

2011-03-11T04:27:00.000-08:00

Her first name and her amazing smile only. That's how I wish to celebrate Sylvia Plath's 30th birthday. An endless 30th, since Death shall have no dominion and her poetry is immortal.

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am." -- Sylvia Plath

Latest on Jack

2011-03-10T14:40:00.000-08:00

Jack as Jack Hirschman, my poetical guru. I am so glad that the documentary on his life directed by Matthew Furey will be screened at the Rome Independent Film Festival next 20th March. He so deserves a wider audience. Poetry like his truly strikes a chord. He is such an inspiration!

Meeting him in person in San Francisco at Caffè Trieste, last August, and having a chance to chat amiably with him for over an hour has been such an amazing experience. As I patiently wait for the eight books he sent me to show up and I keep looking for his books dating to the Sixties and Seventies much like a hound, I am already looking forward to attending his reading in Bologna at the end of the month. I hope in some more interesting conversations with my dear comrade. Oh, and let me tell you a secret: he calls me Sasha. :)

Through the Cracks

2011-03-09T15:31:00.000-08:00

I have just discovered that poems can fall through the cracks. What a frightening thought! I guess technology is to be blamed. But, I still believe in the power of the handwritten word. Hand me my ink and my paper, O Muse, please and thank you!

Pictures at an Exhibition @Europunk in Rome

2011-03-09T12:52:00.000-08:00

Percy Bysshe and Narcissuses

2011-03-07T00:21:00.000-08:00

Spring at the Protestant Cemetery of Rome makes even gray days seem brighter and the location more inspiring. Keats' tomb is covered with violets and lovely, yellow narcissuses adorn Percy Bysshe's tomb, making the place even more dear to me. If possible!

Acceptances and Rejections

2011-03-06T00:52:00.000-08:00

Sending poetry to magazines, eventually. Took me too long to get started and, after a week, I am glad to report my very first acceptance and my very first rejection. Keep writing and ad maiora!

Pensive Keats and Shelley's Jaw

2011-03-06T00:43:00.000-08:00

Back from the Keats-Shelley House. I have been there so many times and yet that place always speaks to me in powerful ways. Two items in particular captured my attention. The sketch of Keats reading--from a notepad by Severn--is simply moving. He seems so busy and so pensive: a lonely star in a desolate world. In the main room, a small green urn containing a fragment of Shelley's jaw made me wish we could still hear the poet utter some of his words to us.