Poetry Rules

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 photograph 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.

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!

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 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 w

Have you sent your poem, yet? If not, do. Occupy with your words! http://peopleslibrary.wordpress.com/2011/11/18/ows-poetry-anthology-update/

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'

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 l

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.

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.

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

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!

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 be

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.

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!

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!  

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/

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

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.

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.

    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 ri

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?

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.

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.

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!

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 tha

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...

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.

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, alwa

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!

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: "p oetry 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!  

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: "o ne 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.

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. 

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!

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!

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 cr