Ringrazio

in ordine di apparizione più o meno fugace:

roby,rodolfo, gianni biondillo, franz krauspenhaar, mario ardenti, jaap wm di randy weston, wordinprogress, orazio, marco zacchia, maura gancitano, fiOrdivanilla,luigi pingitore, music, Flounder, emanuela, panirlipe, paolo, apolide, luciana, tessapurna, bill cohen, branco (ndr), pippo, outofsilence, gaja cenciarelli, niky lismo, monodose, antonio consoli, sergio garufi, antonio, stefano (ste), cecilia, alfonso arpino, furlen, marco candida, ruùù, amoilmare, beppe sebaste, marianna, vicozzarecords,paolo, tiziano scarpa, cinzia, luigi, bellalu, ether, angie, davide venticinque, batsceba, francesca.

                                                                                           lisa (falso d’autore)

Jack Spicer : Radar

 

             A Postscript for Marianne Moore

No one exactly knows
Exactly how the clouds look in the sky
Or the shape of the mountains below them
Or the direction in which fish swim.
No one exactly knows.
The eye is jealous of whatever moves
And the heart
Is too far buried in the sand
To tell.

They are going on a journey
Those deep blue creatures
Passing us as if they were a sunshine
Look
Those fins, those closed eyes
Admiring each last drop of the ocean.

I crawled into bed with sorrow that night
Couldn’t touch his fingers. See the splash
Of the water
The noisy movement of cloud
The push of the humpbacked mountains
Deep at the sand’s edge.

Jack Spicer : [Dear Lorca, This is the last letter]

 

Dear Lorca,

This is the last letter. The connection between us, which had been fading away with the summer, is now finally broken. I turn in anger and dissatisfaction to the things of my life and you return, a disembodied but contagious spirit, to the printed page. It is over, this intimate communion with the ghost of Garcia Lorca, and I wonder now how it was ever able to happen.
It was a game, I shout to myself. A game. There are no angels, ghosts, or even shadows. It was a game made out of summer and freedom and a need for a poetry that would be more than the expression of my hatreds and desires. It was a game like Yeats’ spooks or Blake’s sexless seraphim.
Yet it was there. The poems are there, the memory not of a vision but a kind of casual friendship with an undramatic ghost who occasionally looked through my eyes and whispered to me, not really more important then my other friends, but now achieving a different level of reality by being missing. Today, alone by myself, it is like having lost a pair of eyes and a lover.
What is real, I suppose, will endure. Poe’s mechanical chessplayer was not the less a miracle for having a man inside it, and when the man departed, the games it had played were not less beautiful. The analogy is false, of course, but it holds a promise and a warning for each of us.
It is October now. Summer is over. Almost every trace of the months that produced these poems has been obliterated. Only explanations are possible, only regrets.
Saying goodbye to a ghost is more final than saying goodbye to a lover. Even the dead return, but a ghost, once loved, departing will never reappear.

                                                                                                                  Love
                                                                                                                    Jack

Poesia sul perché non scrivo poesia

 

è che ora ogni volta che ci tento
riesco a fare solo versi di domande.
Una sfilza d’interrogativi
uno per ogni poesia, uno ad ogni poeta,

Frank O’Hara : Personal Poem

 

Now when I walk around at lunchtime
I have only two charms in my pocket
an old Roman coin Mike Kanemitsu gave me
and a bolt-head that broke off a packing case
when I was in Madrid the others never
brought me too much luck though they did
help keep me in New York against coercion
but now I’m happy for a time and interested

I walk through the luminous humidity
passing the House of Seagram with its wet
and its loungers and the construction to
the left that closed the sidewalk if
I ever get to be a construction worker
I’d like to have a silver hat please
and get to Moriarty’s where I wait for
LeRoi and hear who wants to be a mover and
shaker the last five years my batting average
is .016 that’s that, and LeRoi comes in
and tells me Miles Davis was clubbed 12
times last night outside BIRDLAND by a cop
a lady asks us for a nickel for a terrible
disease but we don’t give her one we
don’t like terrible diseases, then
we go eat some fish and some ale it’s
cool but crowded we don’t like Lionel Trilling
we decide, we like Don Allen we don’t like
Henry James so much we like Herman Melville
we don’t want to be in the poets’ walk in
San Francisco even we just want to be rich
and walk on girders in our silver hats
I wonder if one person out of the 8,000,000 is
thinking of me as I shake hands with LeRoi
and buy a strap for my wristwatch and go
back to work happy at the thought possibly so

Gesti # 4

 

Alcuni giorni fa un amico nel corso di una conversazione mi ha dato, letterariamente parlando, dell’emarginata. Ho accolto questo attributo come un complimento poiché nell’ambito della discussione che stavamo avendo mi aveva inorgoglito il fatto che lui, persona il cui modo di scrivere ammiro moltissimo, avesse accomunato la sua condizione alla mia, e malgrado il valore negativo che si accompagna a quella parola essa mi era sembrata una delle cose più belle che mi sia stata detta riguardo a ciò che scrivo.

Un paio di anni fa fui invitata a far parte di un blog letterario collettivo, e seppure non molto convinta accettai. Quell’esperienza durò pochissimi giorni, alcune incompatibilità mi spinsero ad uscirne. Scrissi una cortese e-mail spiegando le mie motivazioni che fu accolta piuttosto freddamente e la cosa si concluse lì. È normale d’altra parte che fra più persone possano nascere delle divergenze e che la convivenza, seppur letteraria, possa fallire e che si senta la necessità della separazione, ma ciò che dell’episodio mi lasciò perplessa fu il fatto che, quasi istantaneamente, tutto quanto potesse riferirsi ad una mia, seppur breve, presenza nel blog fu cancellata. Le poche cose postate, il mio nome, quello del mio blog, tutto sparì. Puff…

Craig Arnold : Two Poems

 

da : Asunder

On the fire escape of your rented room
we sat and felt the empty city
sweat and fret      we passed a cigarette
back and forth      as once we passed
words like these between us      without
hope of keeping
                        Now I write
without hope of answer      to say
that what we gave each other nakedly
was too much and not enough
to say that since we last touched
I am not empty      I hear you named
and my heart starts      the pieces of your voice
you left      are interleaved with mine

and to this quick spark in the emptiness
to say Yes      I miss how love
may make us otherwise

Gesti # 3

 

 

Non molto tempo fa mi sono ritrovata a chiedermi quali fossero state le ultime pagine lette a cui avessi associato una percezione erotica. La domanda nasceva dalla deludente lettura di un libro di racconti “erotici” che forse aveva trovato il suo unico perché nel radunare un gruppo di soli scrittori maschi affinché raccontassero l’Eros da un punto di vista unicamente maschile, per l’appunto.
“Pene d’Amore” ha fallito fin dall’inizio nel suo intento già nel doppio senso del titolo, troppo infelicemente ludico per predispormi a una qualsiasi fantasia erotica e quindi nell’asettica lettura che ne era seguita quasi tutte le storie mi erano sembrate percorrere il solito cliché in cui il concetto di Eros e cosa potesse essere definito erotico, e quindi essere narrato, ne uscivano ancora più fumosi e sempre in bilico  fra ogni possibile interpretazione del puro atto sessuale e una sensualità troppo letteraria per essere, nella sua percezione, reale.

Jack Spicer : [Dear Lorca, Loneliness is necessary for pure poetry]

 
Dear Lorca,

Loneliness is necessary for pure poetry. When someone introduces into the poet’s life ( and any sudden personal contact, whether in the bed or in the heart, is an intrusion) he loses his balance for a moment, slips into being who he is, uses his poetry as one would use money or sympathy. The person who writes the poetry emerges, tentatively, like a hermit crab from a conch shell. The poet , for that instant, ceases to be a dead man.
I, for example, could not finish the last letter I was writing you about sounds. You were like a friend in a distant city to whom suddenly unable to write, not because the fabric of my lige had changed, but because I was suddenly, temporarily, not in the fabric of my life.i could not tell you about it because both it and I were momentary.
Even the objects change. The seagulls, the greenness of the ocean, the fish – they become things to be traded for a smile or sound of conversation- counters rather than objects. Nothing matters except the big lie of the personal- the lie in which these objects do not believe.
That instant, I said. It may last for a minute, a night, or a month, but, this i promise you, García Lorca, the loneliness returns. The poet encysts the intruder. The objects come back to thier own places, silent and unsmiling. I again begin to write you a letter on the sound of a poem. And this immediate thing, this personal adventure, will not have been transferred into the poem like the waves and the birds were, will, at the best, show in the lovely pattern of cracks in some poem where autobiography shattered but did not quite destroy the surface. And the encysted emotion will itself become an object, to be transferred at last into poetry like waves and the birds.
And I will again become you special comrade.

                                                                                                                       Love,
                                                                                                                          Jack

Gesti # 2

 

Di Edward Hopper si è detto che interpreta le piccole vite e che le sue tele racchiudono nel loro piccolo spazio il silenzio che le attanaglia. I soggetti da lui ritratti, seppure bloccati in un fermo immagine che li sorprende nell’intimità di uno sguardo assorto o di una apparente conversazione, appaiono sfuggire l’uno all’altro, schiacciati da un’opprimente incomunicabilità che li immobilizza e li rende estranei anche al mondo che li circonda. Ma quello che più di ogni altra cosa è messo in evidenza dalla loro staticità, spoglia di qualsiasi tensione, è la rinuncia, e la conseguente accettazione di quel senso di isolamento materializzato in una solitudine a cui sembrano predestinati e ormai condannati.