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    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

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    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    This Is Not A Feminist Poem – Wana Udobang (a.k.a. Wana Wana)

    from AFROWOMEN POETRY – Three Poets from Tanzania: Langa Sarakikya, Gladness Mayenga, Miriam Lucas

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    What Was Heart Is Now A Scorched Branch – Three Poems by Elina Sventsytska

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Water: The Longest Tunnel Where the Color Blue Is Born — Four Poems by SHANKAR LAHIRI

    Message to Forough Farrokhzad and other poems – Samira Albouzedi

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    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    BOW / BHUK – Parimal Bhattacharya

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    A Very Different Story (Part II)- Nandini Sahu

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    The Aunt: An Exhilarating Story by Francesca Gargallo

    THE PROGENITOR – Zakir Talukder (trans. from Bengali by Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat)

    Stalks of Lotus – Indrani Datta

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    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations: Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

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    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

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    Menstruation in Fiction: The Authorial Gaze – Farah Ahamed

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    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE TIME HAS COME – Gaius Tsaamo

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” –  Massimo Ceresa

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” – Massimo Ceresa

    Plowing the publishing world  – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Plowing the publishing world – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

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    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

    Everything Moves and Everything Is About Relationships. Susan Aberg Interviews Painter Louise Victor

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    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

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    Videos from worldwide readings in support of Ukrainian writers, September 7, 2022 – Zoom Readings Italy

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    Artwork by Mubeen Kishany – Contamination and Distancing

    Glory to the Heroes! Poems by Volodymyr Tymchuk

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    The Shipwreck Saga – Lynne Knight

    Phoenix: Part I – YIN Xiaoyuan

    Surrender to Our Explosive Democracy – Five Poems by Serena Piccoli from “gulp/gasp” (Moria Poetry 2022)

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Me and French, or What I Did During the Pandemic (Moi et le français, ou Ce que j’ai fais pendant la pandémie) – Carolyn Miller

    Becoming-animal as a Mirror – Ten Animals from Gabriele Galloni’s Bestiary

  • News
    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

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    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

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Five Poems from “TUTTO QUESTO ” (All of This), Maria Luisa Vezzali

SELECTION FROM TUTTO QUESTO – POESIE 2004-2017, by Maria Luisa Vezzali (puntoacapo, 2018), translation by Pina Piccolo, reviewed by Zack Rogow.

April 25, 2018
in Poetry, The dreaming machine n 2
Five Poems from “TUTTO QUESTO ” (All of This), Maria Luisa Vezzali
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on violence

 

come, cut the branch that isn’t blazing with buds

cut the door handle, the spoke

of the wheel that doesn’t turn, cut

the road that doesn’t brush against distances

come, cut the wind coughing in the dark, light up

the whistling blood as it sets sail towards harm

what can happen will happen to you

in things that are close and hidden alike

and you won’t even know when, what

you won’t even fathom how far, only at

the counter of the radical bank

will you find out the exchange rate of fear

 

from VERSI DI ESPERIENZA ED AMNESIA 2004

 


 

tongue of stone

 

whether inside a cage or inside your head

or under gray desert sands

words may die

just like people

once the fabric containing them

becomes unraveled

once it is torn away

and then down they slide into a ravine

among atoms that shiver at the touch

nauseated matter withdraws and shatters

like  chips of stone raining down

only the manner (plummeting)

up to your ears in foamy water

only the weight (its volume)

tongue of stone

rolling in your mouth

sucking on inarticulate

deportations at sea

 

only the thing itself, without inflection

euphemisms wandering among

sounds like snares

 

and us

we work and pray*

and speak into the night

beyond the cut of the cold canal

 

as though triangulating with the stars

a home that glows too intensely in memory

full of  steps that lead to a waiting greenhouse

on your lips the vanishing point of the  horizon

the teapot whistling its song amidst the rooftops

the skin of your hand with the scent

of  a safe harbor

only backwards

 

but going back

is difficult

staying here

difficult

I’ll give you my time

my back my body I’ll give it

in exchange for a bag of food

but not my face, the expression of my eyes

my mouth

 

if you want to shoot, shoot up towards the sky

we are not

birds

 

2010

 

This poem was inspired by the impact of interviews with the migrant farmworkers who were wounded during the Rosarno uprising in January of 2010. The last stanza is a direct quote.

 

 

 

Gretel

 

if you keep quiet, Margherita, perhaps they won’t notice

that I have shut you inside my locker

together with old books papers from last year

creaky videos refresher course

binders, they won’t notice perhaps

that I don’t want to let you go, let you out of here

that I bring you water from the cooler

a sandwich wrapped in plastic

this locker could turn into your lair

anyway you’d be better off here than outside

poke your pinkie out of the locker door

if you still have flesh around the bone you can stay

you aren’t in danger of starving yet.

 

stay inside but keep quiet, your face

is too scary, in the middle your two eyes like Mount Etna

that dissect the hours, take roll call

of the most random of things, your mouth gnashes

at the blackboard, blacker than it and with more writing,

and when you move the curve of your chin

quashes messy questions

you are ill mannered and perhaps brought up ill inclined

you dance barefooted on the borders that sort of primitive

dance, you pound your feet and shake your hands

just like you really got burned

but if you keep quiet, Margheritina, they won’t notice

and I can keep you with me a little longer.

 

From SCUOLA D’OSSA (2011-2017)

 


 

 

references and responses

 

Simply pretend the earth is mute

mute like things when you avert your eyes away from them

 

I’ll ignore the stench of mud

produced by flesh howling in the nights of famished time

 

I try to erase the droplets of fog

drops from a chained body, drops of iron encysted in the bodies

 

They are erasing my memory

half extinguished fires outside of the door, the inadvertent sharing of wine glasses

 

I’ll have to bypass my memory

further down there, beyond the realm of possibility

 

 

On Judgment Day they’ll stand barefoot

while youth dies like spring, like songs, like the mouth of god

in the meantime, coups d’états, real and alleged, failed and staged, directed and ignored

 

Losing your soul will cost time

terrified, in an utterly unforeseen, incomprehensible way

what will I do with my love under the cooling logs of a smile

 

The part of the Earth that makes her to blush

what will my love do for me if slumber chances by like a miasma

and lips turn that otherworldly color of the desert

 

Photo: they replace you until you return

because there is a meaning even in the way a shadow fell on your cheekbone the day of the last fire glimpsed between peaceful leaves

 

A mix of your blood, your sweat, fluid leaking out of your eyes,

an extreme, black departure surrounding all certainties

in a cone of darkness, in the crook of history’s elbow.

 

 

Everything has its weight

if you go now it will be forever, it will be agony

it will be through frozen squares and you’ll have to drag

a restless, boneless survival around them

 

Fill exile’s belly with as much of your own blood as you can

if you go now you’ll cross shattered bridges

where the faint sounds echoing out of our throats

shall be forever trapped in glass

 

And a box- where one day your mother trapped your scream 

there could be different routes, different gestures, other days of no surrender

clots of stem cells meant to turn into blood with other directions

in the scorching heat of this second millennium born of hate

 

The old door applauds the wind

loves to feel its spinal cord vibrate in the wood

identify as a welcoming threshold for whatever weather

a little lark-girl still granted admission to the garden

 

And the wind is an invisible being

still creaking, the door of sorrow opens and closes

ten thousand times it repeats your name together with the ones who were lost

human kind is also lost, what remains are the extreme rhythms of silence

 

Even as the dance with the trees

 

2017

 

The italic lines are from Palestinian poet Ashraf Fayadh, have been translated by me from the English version of his poems.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Almost as though water should derive from fire and earth from water,

and in this manner any element should always derive

from a preceding one of a different kind.

 

 

  1. (from an electrical power substation at Correggioverde, near Mantua)*

 

 

That a spark would fly, in such a fog, a humor almost thick as rain, was the last thing you’d expect,

in all that planking completely fallen into disuse, which at one time had rooms and stories, mutually

paraphrasing lives in transit. The wrong flare from a forgotten live wire, almost a fragment in a vacuum

with no invitation or swerving atom. So, all that glass swarmed down your eyelids that had not blinked for

days, a dry glue sticking to the bills piled up on the shoe rack in the entrance. Like when a crippled warrior

looks an the enemy in the eyes, and tars a moon around his eyes to maul the darkness.

Thirty-five years of age, four children (including the one who kept rowing with his oars in those rusty

outskirts until dusk crested), and penelope sitting watching the news, and one more round of lay-offs, one

among many, of these that mark the borders of our new, unperceived Copper Age.

 

 

*This poem was inspired by an incident that took place in 2016 in the village of Correggioverde, near Mantua, where a unemployed worker who was trying to eke out a living by collecting copper wire from abandoned buildings was electrocuted by a live wire in a decommissioned electrical power substation, on a foggy day.

 

from CARTOLINE METAFISICHE (2013-2017)

 

 

https://cdn.flv.kataweb.it/repubblicatv/file/2018/03/09/429342/429342-video-rrtv-650-20180309bovaresi.mp4

Video appearing in RepubblicaTV.

Born in Bologna in 1964, award winning poet and translator Maria Luisa Vezzali teaches literature  at high  school. She is the Italian  translator of Adrianne Rich (Cartografie del silenzio, Crocetti 2000, and La guida del labirinto, 2011), and Lorand Gaspar (Conoscenza della luce, Donzelli 2006). She was also the editor for Saint-John Perse’s Anabasi.

She has published several poetry collections including L’altra eternità (1987), Eleusi marina (1992), dieci nell’uno (2004) lineamadre (2007), forme implicite. Her poems have been translated into English, Spanish, French, German, Swedish and arabic.  Her poems appear in  many journals and anthologies. She is an editor for the literary journal “Le voci della luna” and the translator’s collective WIT (Women in Translation).

 

The featured image is a painting by Lule  (Barbara Gabriella Renzi).

Tags: Ashraf Fayadhcontemporary ItalyfearItalyMaria Luisa VezzalimigrationPoetryschoolteachingunemploymentviolence

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