domenica 27 febbraio 2011


mossi di nuovo le mani ed il volto
più lieve soffio di brevi parole
si animò e sottili pallidi e lievi tratti del volto alzarono
i battiti di ciglia stupite, e mi aprirono il cuore.

ascent to wakefulness

You notice little things, slight details and you know you're awake, not asleep. All alerts you to reality, the palms, the little trees, the train's hissing doors, its trembling strength, and the harsh rolling of wheels upon the iron railway as it speeds out. Life outside takes shape in spite of itself, and perhaps, in spite of everything else. Green fields, hoses, concrete blocks and half-finished buildings, work sites and container units, rivers, small bridges - and the cemetery in rememberance of WWII soldiers dead in fight. Soon after, a long line of tomato and cauliflower plantations, all covered in plastic film to shield them from the sun. The platform's bench is solid and unmoving, the sole object of your vision, as you cast your weary eyes out. Your undreamt nightmares scare you throughout the day, and at night, the sleep you sleep is full of flowers, brides and rings. If living a meaningless life at times makes you cross, you still get a sense of purpose, waking up, catching the train, going to work and back. Once you're back your energies are drained and you are left, staring out, as electric lines which pigeon adopted as their modern nest pass you by. The broken line, two x-shaped wooden pieces, makes you wonder about older trains, and what went before. What sort of carriage was threading those solitary rails, where were they headed, whose mournful shapes they carried. The thought makes you shiver, and gives you the creeps. But you still wonder. The abandoned warehouses, an open-eyed spectacle of the post-modern era, all revealed and bare, like a faulty body just being inspected prior to surgery, are now encumbered by rampicants and grass makes its way through the creaks of solid clay and the icy cold steel chunks. The empty, leafless trees, thin and fragile, strive to touch the rare cloud. The sun shines, as always, on this old new world.  

il ripostiglio

Anche i tralicci, le staccionate e gli idranti, come le piume al vento, somigliano a te.
Il ripostiglio dismesso con le sue cianfrusaglie è marcio e pieno d'erba muffita. L'uniforme verde e la luce d'emergenza (una di due, verdi anche quelle) in posti distinti della casa, sopra e sotto. Il tappeto blu ancora ti aspetta. Godot, inerpicatosi su di un ramo, declama l'Odissea. Ma Ulisse, pronto, ha pronto il suo cavallo di Troia, preso a prestito dai Cretesi. Enea, stanco, guarda Cervantes, che ride, e torna al galoppo. La bici di primo mattino ti porta, nel cuore, più vicino a me. Mi raccomando, il casco! Ah, si, per favore, vammi a fare un caffè..

notte accesa

Caldo vento, sogno, fumo, aria spenta, laccio sciolto.
Lucida polvere e ovattati silenzi, lunga notte, scuro mattino.
Lieve si alza, ali di ferro e ghiaccio, si libra immobile, per ore, sospeso.

Poi, la lunga discesa verso posti ormai raggiunti, prima distanti.
Cala la sera, dopo il tramonto, e tiepide braccia abbracciano i mille ritorni amorosi.

lunedì 21 febbraio 2011

books i've read recently

Kafka - The Process

Anita Brookner - Strangers

Chuck Palahniuk - Fight Club

different but a great read!