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    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

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    LAUNCHING PAPER BOATS OF HOPE: Five Poems by Halyna Kruk

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    PHOENIX (Part III) – YIN Xiaoyuan

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    THE SOUL AND THE BODY / DEHATMATATWA – Abhijit Sen

    Roble Negro – Lucia Cupertino

    Roble Negro – Lucia Cupertino

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    The Door to My Inner Self: Four Prose Pieces by Abdallah Zrika

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    The Naked Shell of Aloneness – Kazi Rafi

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    The Shadow of a Shadow – Nandini Sahu

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    Listening to Our Listening – Gary Whithed

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    SOME CONSIDERATIONS ON METHOD (Part I) – Gaius Tsaamo

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    “My family is gone,” she wrote, her voice silenced by the weight of her words – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Mathematics As Poetic Thought; Sans Barbarian Evidence – Will Alexander

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Lingual Mesmerism That Rises From Haunting Evidence – Will Alexander

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

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    Coordinates for a poetic debut. On “Allora ho acceso la luce” by Antonio Merola – Iuri Lombardi

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    BEING AS TRANSMUTATION: THE LIGHTNING PATHS OF WILL ALEXANDER – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Understanding the Mathematical Metaphysics of Nandini Sahu’s Zero Point – Bhaskar Bhushan

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    Everything Comes from the Soil: Painter Tendai Makufa Interviewed by Camilla Boemio

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    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    In Exile, War is Bitter – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

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    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

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    Films From Palestine: A Poem – Farah Ahamed

    Films From Palestine: A Poem – Farah Ahamed

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

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    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

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

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

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    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)

  • Home
  • Poetry
    …so I turned on the light: Poems by Antonio Merola

    …so I turned on the light: Poems by Antonio Merola

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    …andromeda whispers breathe as you go – Four poems by Michael Amitin

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The woman doesn’t want to wake up crazy: Selected poems by Mariya Grabovska

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Three Poems from The Stony Guests – Neil P. Doherty

    LAUNCHING PAPER BOATS OF HOPE: Five Poems by Halyna Kruk

    LAUNCHING PAPER BOATS OF HOPE: Five Poems by Halyna Kruk

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    PHOENIX (Part III) – YIN Xiaoyuan

  • Fiction
    OCTOPUS – Nandini Sahu

    OCTOPUS – Nandini Sahu

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    THE SOUL AND THE BODY / DEHATMATATWA – Abhijit Sen

    Roble Negro – Lucia Cupertino

    Roble Negro – Lucia Cupertino

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    The Door to My Inner Self: Four Prose Pieces by Abdallah Zrika

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    The Naked Shell of Aloneness – Kazi Rafi

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    The Shadow of a Shadow – Nandini Sahu

  • Non Fiction
    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    Listening to Our Listening – Gary Whithed

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    SOME CONSIDERATIONS ON METHOD (Part I) – Gaius Tsaamo

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    “My family is gone,” she wrote, her voice silenced by the weight of her words – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Mathematics As Poetic Thought; Sans Barbarian Evidence – Will Alexander

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Lingual Mesmerism That Rises From Haunting Evidence – Will Alexander

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

  • Interviews & reviews
    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Coordinates for a poetic debut. On “Allora ho acceso la luce” by Antonio Merola – Iuri Lombardi

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    BEING AS TRANSMUTATION: THE LIGHTNING PATHS OF WILL ALEXANDER – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Understanding the Mathematical Metaphysics of Nandini Sahu’s Zero Point – Bhaskar Bhushan

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

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    Everything Comes from the Soil: Painter Tendai Makufa Interviewed by Camilla Boemio

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  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    That Elusive Orgasm – Nandini Sahu

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    BOUNDARY/GONDI – Abhijit Sen

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    The Stony Guests: THE STORY – Neil P. Doherty

    Chapters Four and Five from La Cena (The Dinner) – Božidar Stanišić

    Chapters Four and Five from La Cena (The Dinner) – Božidar Stanišić

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    In Exile, War is Bitter – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

    Films From Palestine: A Poem – Farah Ahamed

    Films From Palestine: A Poem – Farah Ahamed

  • 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

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

    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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Here, Where We Keep on Meeting – Giuseppe Ferrara

Translated by Pina Piccolo, unpublished story courtesy of the author. Cover artwork by Sumana Mitra.

December 14, 2021
in Fiction, The dreaming machine n 9
Photographer Sumana Mitra on her street photography and recent explorations of Surrealist techniques
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I knew that the city of Ferrara would be the perfect meeting place. It was in October 2014 when John was a guest of the annual festival organized by the Italian culture and world affairs print magazine  Internazionale to engage in a conversation with Teju Cole and Maria Nadotti about ” what we have in common “.  And he is there today as I see him sitting at a bar table by the street, with his umbrella leaning against the chair and his signature shoulder bag.

That day, precisely the fifth day of October, seven years ago, I asked John Berger to sign my copy of his book Understanding a photograph. I waited for most of the audience who had attended the debate to leave the theater,  which just that year had been named ” Claudio Abbado”, after the conductor who had been its artistic director for many years. Impatiently I made my way advancing through the long line and finally arrived in front of him. As he signed my copy, I barely had enough time to tell him: “How I’d love to talk about poetry with you!” He smiled at me and replied, “One day, who knows…”.

And here it is, that day!

“Remember John”, his mother’s ghost had once told him, “the dead don’t linger where they are buried, they go back to where they were happy when they were alive.”

“So time doesn’t matter but place does?”, asked John.

“Not just any place John, places where people meet.”

These words came to mind as I approached his table, observing him sitting ever so still, like he sought to draw attention to himself. No doubt he wanted to get noticed. He really wanted to get noticed. By me.

“It’s true I should have told you where we would meet and not one day, who knows … ” and he smiled at me the same way he did on that October day.

Thus, a conversation that had come to an abrupt end seven years earlier resumed, most naturally, thanks to the place where we were and in spite of the time that had elapsed, our ages and most of all, our origins. It took my surprise.

“This has always been my experience since I was a young man; I was always someone who came from somewhere else,” he told me. Even today, in fact, it is like this.

That sentence, however, made me fall into the right Bergerian mood,  a condition resembling that of a precipitate, which I was always reduced to whenever I read his works or heard of them.

On the other hand, it is thanks to him that I learned this: every one of us comes not from a place but rather from a language and, therefore, we belong to the word rather than to the place.

“So, you said you wanted to talk about poetry, well? You will surely realize that talking about poetry is a matter of… the gaze rather than words.”

How could I forget that! I was in front of …  a man who had spent his whole life looking and had explained to everyone how to observe a work of art and how we are observed by it.

I had in front of me someone who had been dealing with ‘the gaze’ throughout his life, reminding us that “seeing means having seen” because our sight (but we could say that for all of our senses and, therefore, for every thought) is trained by perceptions that have gradually become stratified in our species and in  each of us as individual specimens. It is those very perceptions that orient us.

I could not ask him for … words about poetry and so I took shelter in the poems he wrote.

I asked the waiter to bring me an espresso and took his book of poems out of my backpack.

“See John, this book, Il fuoco dello sguardo, this book contains your collected poems, found scattered in essays, novels, short stories and even in notebooks with your drawings, published over the years spent together. Let’s start here? What do you make of it?”

John smiled and leafed through the pages of this posthumous book of ‘his’, a book that perhaps he would have never ever considered publishing during his lifetime. He then started reading one of the poems in a soft,  level voice,

“ In a pocket of earth

I buried all the accents

of my mother tongue

 

there they lie 

like pine needles

assembled  by ants

 

one day the stumbling cry

of another wanderer

may set them alight

 

then warm and comforted

he will hear all night 

the truth as  lullaby.

 

What do you make of it?” He continued in a louder voice, “It doesn’t seem as pessimistic to me as the Soviet agents told me when they searched my luggage and peeked into my notebooks during my trip to Russia in 1983 …”.

“No, not at all!”, I replied, “Probably they came across another one of your poems and maybe this is the point, if I may, of your poem …”

“Please, go on, tell me more. I’m listening”, he continued and kept staring at me.

“Your poetry emerges. Appears. It rises … I have no other words to explain. It emerges from the… tale… from the battlefield… from the woods. Here it is: your poem emerges like a … clearing in the woods”.

It wasn’t just his forehead that became furrowed, but his whole face: the big, deep wrinkles around the mouth and the smaller lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes. He smiled with that expression of quiet happiness of someone getting off his motorcycle and removing his helmet after a nice ride; taking in the place that has just welcomed him.

Reassured by his face and the shiny sky enhanced by the contrast with the pastel shades of the cathedral and bell tower, I continued:

“Clearings, your poems are clearings. One walks in the woods of your language and when you feel that spatial sensation of “loss” or “discovery”, suddenly, there appears the clearing, the poem, to return the wanderer to that process for which loss or discovery are only accidents”.

“Good. We have said everything that could be said about poetry”,  he said rising from his chair and adjusting his shoulder bag. “Now let’s go to Comacchio to welcome the eels arriving from the Gulf of Mexico”.

He probably noticed my embarrassment and awkwardness in getting up from my chair to follow him. I saw him stop near a pine tree planted in a small flowerbed nearby and bend over to look at something on the ground.

Right then the waiter caught up with me and stopped me in a rather abrupt way. I had forgotten to pay for the coffee.

“I’m really sorry, I got distracted. Here, I’ll pay you for the two coffees,” I said.

“You sure are absent minded”, he replied, “You only ordered one.”

I looked in John’s direction and yelled unsteadily, “Wait for me John, I’m coming.” Then I turned to the waiter and said, “Get yourself an espresso, it’s on me. Goodbye and I apologize again.”

I turned to join John but he was gone. I looked in every direction: towards the street, in the direction of via Mazzini, at the entrance to via San Romano. Nothing. John was gone.

I approached the flowerbed where I had last seen him and there, placed in a pocket of soil, pine needles attracted my attention. No doubt they wanted to get noticed. They really wanted to get noticed.

By me.

 

 

Giuseppe Ferrara was born in Naples and grew up and studied in Potenza, southern Italy. He earned his degree in Physics from the University of Salerno and has been living and working for many years in Ferrara, as a physicist at a private Research Center. He has published five collections of poetry: L’Orizzonte degli eventi (Event Horizon, Este Edition, Ferrara 2011); segnicontroversi (controversialsigns, Edizioni Kolibris, Ferrara 2013), Appunti di viaggio di un funambolo muto  (Travel Notes of a Mute Tightrope Walker, Tracce, Pescara 2016) and Il Peso e la Grazia (96 rue de-La-Fontaine Edizioni, Follonica 2018). His latest poetry publication is Raccolta differenziata (Separate waste collection, InternoLibri, Latiano 2021).  His work is included in several anthologies including  I poeti del Duca- Excursus nella poesia contemporanea di Ferrara (The Poets of the Duke – Overview of the contemporary poetry of Ferrara (Kolibris Edizioni, Ferrara 2013); Riflessi , n ° 40 (Pages, Rome 2015);  Il mio mandala-Antologia 114 haiku (My mandala-Anthology 114 haiku (Cascina Macondo series, 2015) and Folate di versi ( Gusts of wind, Paolo Laurita Edizioni, Potenza 2019). He writes about poetry and more in his blog Il Post Delle Fragole ( www.thestrawberrypost.blogspot.it ). He is a member of various cultural associations and contributes to many literary journals.

 

 

Tags: clearingsemergenceFerraragazeghostGiuseppe FerraraItalyJohn BergerlanguagephysicsplacePoetryseeingtimevision
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