• TABLE OF CONTENT
    • the dreaming machine – issue number 16
    • the dreaming machine – issue number 15
    • the dreaming machine – issue number 14
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    • The dreaming machine – issue number 11
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    • The dreaming machine – issue number 9
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    • The dreaming machine – issue number 4
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 3
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 2
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 1
  • THE DREAMING MACHINE
    • The dreaming machine n 16
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    • The dreaming machine n 14
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    • The dreaming machine n 12
    • The dreaming machine n 11
    • The dreaming machine n 10
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The Dreaming Machine
  • Home
  • Poetry
    The God of Submission Loves Gentle Calves and Other Poems –  Yuliya Musakovska

    The God of Submission Loves Gentle Calves and Other Poems – Yuliya Musakovska

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    Hence, the walruses will keep our memories – Poems from Ikaro Valderrama’s Tengri: The Book of Mysteries

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    “When Crimea Was Not a Grief”: Six Poems by Lyudmyla Khersonska, from 21st Century Ukraine

    Of Hunger and Tents: Poems from Gaza by Yousef el-Qedra

    Of Hunger and Tents: Poems from Gaza by Yousef el-Qedra

    Ratko Lalić’s painting, a little Noah’s ark –  Božidar Stanišić  

    The region suddenly turned into a deciduous forest. Poems by Paulami Sengupta

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    A False Dimension: regarding the empty walls – Aritra Sanyal

  • Fiction
    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    The Importance of Being Imperfect – Haroonuzzaman

    THE STATE – Hamim Faruque

    THE STATE – Hamim Faruque

    Tempus Fugit (in D Minor) – Michele Carenini

    Tempus Fugit (in D Minor) – Michele Carenini

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    A Mirage of a Dream – Kazi Rafi

    Prologue to “Maya and the World of the Spirits” – Gaius Tsaamo

    Prologue to “Maya and the World of the Spirits” – Gaius Tsaamo

    RETRIBUTION – Mojaffor Hossain

    RETRIBUTION – Mojaffor Hossain

    A Nation’s Reckoning on a Rickshaw: Photogallery from Bangladesh in turmoil – Melina and Pina Piccolo

    Between Two Lives – Mojaffor Hossain

    A Nation’s Reckoning on a Rickshaw: Photogallery from Bangladesh in turmoil – Melina and Pina Piccolo

    The Amatory Rainy Night – Kazi Rafi

    Chapter 1 of “Come What May”, a detective story set in Gaza, by Ahmed Masoud

    Come What May, chpt. 11 – Ahmed Masoud

  • Non Fiction
    I AM STILL HERE: It’s not a movie, it’s a hymn to democracy – Loretta Emiri

    I AM STILL HERE: It’s not a movie, it’s a hymn to democracy – Loretta Emiri

    Requiem for a Mattanza – Gia Marie Amella

    Requiem for a Mattanza – Gia Marie Amella

    In Defense of T.C. Boyle: Satire in the Era of Psychological Realism – Clark Bouwman

    In Defense of T.C. Boyle: Satire in the Era of Psychological Realism – Clark Bouwman

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    That is the Face – Appadurai Muttulingam

    Langston Hughes: Shakespeare in Harlem – Barry David Horwitz

    Langston Hughes: Shakespeare in Harlem – Barry David Horwitz

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Understanding the Quintessential Divinity: Binding the Two Geographies – Haroonuzzaman

  • Interviews & reviews
    Michelle Reale’s Volta: An Italian-American Reckoning With Race. Necessary turnabouts as  Columbus Day returns amidst Sinners’ vampires – Pina Piccolo

    Michelle Reale’s Volta: An Italian-American Reckoning With Race. Necessary turnabouts as Columbus Day returns amidst Sinners’ vampires – Pina Piccolo

    from The Creative Process: The Future of activism.  Bayo Akomolafe interviewed by Mia Funk and Natalie McCarthy

    from The Creative Process: The Future of activism. Bayo Akomolafe interviewed by Mia Funk and Natalie McCarthy

    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    from The Creative Process: A Life in Writing with T.C. Boyle, interviewed by Mia Funk & Cary Trott

    from The Creative Process: A Life in Writing with T.C. Boyle, interviewed by Mia Funk & Cary Trott

    Living as a painter: Shaun McDowell in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Living as a painter: Shaun McDowell in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Area Sacra at Torre di Largo Argentina —or, Calpurnia’s Dream – Laura Hinton

    from The Creative Process: TIOKASIN GHOSTHORSE, interviewed by Mia Funk and Melannie Munoz

    from The Creative Process: TIOKASIN GHOSTHORSE, interviewed by Mia Funk and Melannie Munoz

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    From The Stony Guests, Part IV: SIRAN BAKIRCI and SAIT B. KARAKAYA – Neil P. Doherty

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Chaos Theory – Michele Carenini

    Of People and Puppets, Kingdoms of Silence, Trauma and Storytelling: Review of “Azad, the rabbit and the wolf – Pina Piccolo

    Of People and Puppets, Kingdoms of Silence, Trauma and Storytelling: Review of “Azad, the rabbit and the wolf – Pina Piccolo

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Poetry is also born from Gesture – Ikaro Valderrama on Gestos de la Poesia, transnational poetry, multimedia and the energy of the Andes

    Poetry is also born from Gesture – Ikaro Valderrama on Gestos de la Poesia, transnational poetry, multimedia and the energy of the Andes

    A loneliness like an endless steppe – Poems from Maria Luisa Vezzali’s collection Home Ghost

    A loneliness like an endless steppe – Poems from Maria Luisa Vezzali’s collection Home Ghost

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Once the veil of artifice falls away: Poems by Haroonuzzaman

  • News
    Memorial Reading Marathon for Julio Monteiro Martins, Dec. 27, zoom live

    Memorial Reading Marathon for Julio Monteiro Martins, Dec. 27, zoom live

    PER/FORMATIVE CITIES

    PER/FORMATIVE CITIES

    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

  • Home
  • Poetry
    The God of Submission Loves Gentle Calves and Other Poems –  Yuliya Musakovska

    The God of Submission Loves Gentle Calves and Other Poems – Yuliya Musakovska

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    Hence, the walruses will keep our memories – Poems from Ikaro Valderrama’s Tengri: The Book of Mysteries

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    “When Crimea Was Not a Grief”: Six Poems by Lyudmyla Khersonska, from 21st Century Ukraine

    Of Hunger and Tents: Poems from Gaza by Yousef el-Qedra

    Of Hunger and Tents: Poems from Gaza by Yousef el-Qedra

    Ratko Lalić’s painting, a little Noah’s ark –  Božidar Stanišić  

    The region suddenly turned into a deciduous forest. Poems by Paulami Sengupta

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    A False Dimension: regarding the empty walls – Aritra Sanyal

  • Fiction
    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    The Importance of Being Imperfect – Haroonuzzaman

    THE STATE – Hamim Faruque

    THE STATE – Hamim Faruque

    Tempus Fugit (in D Minor) – Michele Carenini

    Tempus Fugit (in D Minor) – Michele Carenini

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    A Mirage of a Dream – Kazi Rafi

    Prologue to “Maya and the World of the Spirits” – Gaius Tsaamo

    Prologue to “Maya and the World of the Spirits” – Gaius Tsaamo

    RETRIBUTION – Mojaffor Hossain

    RETRIBUTION – Mojaffor Hossain

    A Nation’s Reckoning on a Rickshaw: Photogallery from Bangladesh in turmoil – Melina and Pina Piccolo

    Between Two Lives – Mojaffor Hossain

    A Nation’s Reckoning on a Rickshaw: Photogallery from Bangladesh in turmoil – Melina and Pina Piccolo

    The Amatory Rainy Night – Kazi Rafi

    Chapter 1 of “Come What May”, a detective story set in Gaza, by Ahmed Masoud

    Come What May, chpt. 11 – Ahmed Masoud

  • Non Fiction
    I AM STILL HERE: It’s not a movie, it’s a hymn to democracy – Loretta Emiri

    I AM STILL HERE: It’s not a movie, it’s a hymn to democracy – Loretta Emiri

    Requiem for a Mattanza – Gia Marie Amella

    Requiem for a Mattanza – Gia Marie Amella

    In Defense of T.C. Boyle: Satire in the Era of Psychological Realism – Clark Bouwman

    In Defense of T.C. Boyle: Satire in the Era of Psychological Realism – Clark Bouwman

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    That is the Face – Appadurai Muttulingam

    Langston Hughes: Shakespeare in Harlem – Barry David Horwitz

    Langston Hughes: Shakespeare in Harlem – Barry David Horwitz

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Understanding the Quintessential Divinity: Binding the Two Geographies – Haroonuzzaman

  • Interviews & reviews
    Michelle Reale’s Volta: An Italian-American Reckoning With Race. Necessary turnabouts as  Columbus Day returns amidst Sinners’ vampires – Pina Piccolo

    Michelle Reale’s Volta: An Italian-American Reckoning With Race. Necessary turnabouts as Columbus Day returns amidst Sinners’ vampires – Pina Piccolo

    from The Creative Process: The Future of activism.  Bayo Akomolafe interviewed by Mia Funk and Natalie McCarthy

    from The Creative Process: The Future of activism. Bayo Akomolafe interviewed by Mia Funk and Natalie McCarthy

    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    The Spanish Steps, Revisited: A Temporary Exhibition – A conversation with Sheila Pepe

    from The Creative Process: A Life in Writing with T.C. Boyle, interviewed by Mia Funk & Cary Trott

    from The Creative Process: A Life in Writing with T.C. Boyle, interviewed by Mia Funk & Cary Trott

    Living as a painter: Shaun McDowell in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Living as a painter: Shaun McDowell in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

    Calixto Robles and Ancestral Spirits in the Mission – A Conversation on Art, Society and Social Action

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Area Sacra at Torre di Largo Argentina —or, Calpurnia’s Dream – Laura Hinton

    from The Creative Process: TIOKASIN GHOSTHORSE, interviewed by Mia Funk and Melannie Munoz

    from The Creative Process: TIOKASIN GHOSTHORSE, interviewed by Mia Funk and Melannie Munoz

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    From The Stony Guests, Part IV: SIRAN BAKIRCI and SAIT B. KARAKAYA – Neil P. Doherty

    Eva Bovenzi: The inner world. The artist in conversation with curator Camilla Boemio

    Chaos Theory – Michele Carenini

    Of People and Puppets, Kingdoms of Silence, Trauma and Storytelling: Review of “Azad, the rabbit and the wolf – Pina Piccolo

    Of People and Puppets, Kingdoms of Silence, Trauma and Storytelling: Review of “Azad, the rabbit and the wolf – Pina Piccolo

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Poetry is also born from Gesture – Ikaro Valderrama on Gestos de la Poesia, transnational poetry, multimedia and the energy of the Andes

    Poetry is also born from Gesture – Ikaro Valderrama on Gestos de la Poesia, transnational poetry, multimedia and the energy of the Andes

    A loneliness like an endless steppe – Poems from Maria Luisa Vezzali’s collection Home Ghost

    A loneliness like an endless steppe – Poems from Maria Luisa Vezzali’s collection Home Ghost

    The Creeping of the Spirit of the Times and Other Poems – Pina Piccolo

    Once the veil of artifice falls away: Poems by Haroonuzzaman

  • News
    Memorial Reading Marathon for Julio Monteiro Martins, Dec. 27, zoom live

    Memorial Reading Marathon for Julio Monteiro Martins, Dec. 27, zoom live

    PER/FORMATIVE CITIES

    PER/FORMATIVE CITIES

    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

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The times being what they are – Selected poems from Gentiana Minga’s trilingual collection

April 30, 2021
in Out of bounds, Poetry, The dreaming machine n 8
The times being what they are – Selected poems from Gentiana Minga’s trilingual collection
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 Selection from “Tempi che sono… (The times being what they are…) /Zeiten wie…/ Kohē që janë…”,  Gentiana Minga’s new trilingual collection

In November 2017, all Italian newspapers reported that upon inspecting a freight train stopped at the Brenner Pass station in South Tyrol the police found a 5 years old child sitting all alone on the floor of a wagon, in a state of hyperthermia.

Admitted to the hospital, the boy said his name was Anthony and that he was from Sierra Leone. This news story is the starting point and inspiration for first part of Gentiana Minga’s latest poetry collection, just out from Terra D’Ulivi edition (Granati series).

This trilingual volume (Italian, Albanian, German) is divided into four sections (Ad Anthony, Il cammino degli autoctoni / Der Gang der Autochthonen, L’eco del pargolo, “Tempi che sono … / Zeiten wie …)  and includes translation by South Tyrolean translator and author Werner Menapace, and Albanian author and translator, Ilir Ferra.

English translation of all 5 selected poems by Pina Piccolo are provided here first, followed by original Italian language and the Albanian and German translations

 

From the Ad Anthony (for Anthony) section

 

 One

 

Times are always loyal

and my pilgrim is pressing

to go Entheos, with enthusiasm.

Fold by-gone times into four.

Our tender pupils will cross

when the oncoming train whistles violently

on the window of the other.

We will draw farther away past our perpendicular bodies.

Some lives settle down towards the end.

To be happy man needs to be placid. Flesh and inertia.

These being the times that they are …

Me too, I see myself unfinished everywhere

where I was born and where I go now, a woman and a foreigner,

spider’s nest, straw on enemy plains.

A Scorpio surrounded by flames in the lair

that I thought mine.

I’m training not to be afraid.

I’m training to not be afraid

from what I can sense:

I’m still

under some shade,

cautious like a lizard.

No step forward. None back.

I wait and flowers bloom.

Ivory white eyes and lips.

And stems rise,

mouths hum verses

confused and disturbed the flowers

confused and troubled the tongue.

 

 

 

 

Four

 

On an August evening, my aloe, an unexpected gift,

was leaning out tenderly. A touch of red, celestial body,

a pulsating eye, it seemed, incidentally,

on the roof of the hostel.

The upper wing of the Hill flashed on the edge of the slope

with the little houses and roofs out there refreshed by the downpour,

when up on the road I saw some shoulders peeking out,

black heads and curly hair.

– A hundred more died yesterday … I said to myself,

all of them Black .

 

Perhaps it would be different if people went

where Sciacca’s boat stopped.

To see Giarratano, the shipowner, in the waters of Malta and the fishermen,

the outstretched cast their nets and pull up fugitives

with their face pierced by two small bonfires.

Between their lemur eyes, the lights of the sun on their temples,

and he who crosses the sea intact,

will notice! Oh, yes he shall notice

the bodies emerging from the seabed

like poisoned dolphins,

lying with eyelashes on waves,

or turned towards the air, with relaxed bellies.

 

You  came hanging from a train, a commodity from snowy borders!

Oh, Anthony , little Anthony, you are among the saved!

Crystal of the November dawn and pistil of poppies,

you are among the saved!

Your new siesta and bed area an auspicious fate,

the warm bridge and your touch on the apple frost.

 

But know that among us,

as among you,

there are those who are frailer

than a birch leaf

 

 

Lost happiness

 

I saw two little brothers from the Sahel

crossing the park, with their wavy, black hair.

The oldest pointed his finger to the other side of the river.

It was there on the gravel, like a withered dahlia flower,

that stood a house.

Meanwhile the other raised his head up

towards the magnolia branches

to see the bird houses for the sparrows.

 

I never saw a sparrow in there!

 

We used to come down from Magrè every Saturday evening.

Sometimes on Sunday mornings.

From the low walls, from left to right, hung glittering violets.

The slightest breeze rocked them up and down.

– Oh, that’s enough for me

to be happy! – I said to myself. 

 

Now you watch me too, go in and out like a soldier.

Stepping on the compass to empty myself of travel.

I never drink water from the fountain.

Purple ducks dive into the river and I am in a hurry,

without hearing anything

ever again.

 

 

Ovens among the flowers

 

Who else, besides me, touched your memory today, lieber Franz?

One November day at noon, in sunny Dachau.

But before that, I visited the concentration camp. His vertical figure

was next to me as I crossed the door.

Then, with no respite, I entered the hostile city.

 

Everything was as as it could be,

so much emerald on the onion-shaped bell towers.

Children’s messy faces

inside the dripping fountains in the steep squares.

Nothing made my heart beat like when

I saw the ovens in the midst of so much  greenery, full and luxurious.

Poplars so tall as to be beyond evil.

 

Yet, on the blue bench I sat!

I tried io see whether I would succumb to the pilgrim’s passion.

What! I just wondered:

How could cornflowers and daffodils bloom again

on those lands?

 

As the grandchildren emerged

chomping food on elegant tables,

delighted in fresh violets, served by other people.

Grandchildren, they too, perhaps, of those

Who never came out of that concentration camp except as dust

as the sun slowly turned away,

at the rising of the moon.

 


 

 

Tratti da Tempi che sono/Zeiten wie diese/Kohe qe jane ( edizione Terra d’Ulivi) di Gentiana Minga*

  

Da Ad Anthony

  

Uno

 

I tempi sono sempre leali

e il mio pellegrino preme

per andare Entheos, con entusiasmo.

Piegare in quattro il tempo che fu.

Si incroceranno le nostre pupille intenerite

quando fischierà violento il treno

sulla finestra dell’altro.

Ci allontaneremo oltre i nostri corpi perpendicolari.

Certe vite si assestano verso la fine.

L’uomo è placido per essere felice. Carne e inerte.

Sono i tempi che sono…

Io pure mi vedo incompiuta ovunque

dove nacqui e dove vado, donna e straniera,

nido di ragno, paglia su pianure nemiche.

Scorpione accerchiato dalle fiamme nella tana

che credevo mia.

Mi sto allenando per non avere paura.

Mi sto allenando per non avere paura

da quel che avverto:

ferma

sotto un qualche ombra,

cauta come la lucertola.

Nessun passo in avanti. Nessuno indietro.

Io aspetto e fioriscono fiori.

Occhi e labbra bianche d’avorio.

E s’innalzano steli,

le bocche canticchiano versi

confusi e turbati i fiori

confusa e turbata la lingua.

 

 

 

Një (Albanese)

 

Kohët janë gjithmonë të drejta

e shtegtari im po më nxit

që të shkoj Entheos, me entuziazëm.

Ta palos në katërsh kohën që u krye.

Do të na kryqëzohen bebëzat e përmalluara

kur të fërshëllëjë me duf treni

mbi dritaren e tjetrit.

Do të largohemi përtej trupave tanë vertikal.

Ca jetë mbarështrohen kur u vjen fundi.

Njeriu është i plogët për të qënë i lumtur. Copë mishi e flashkët.

Janë kohët që janë…

Unë vetë e shoh veten të paplotë kudo

ku u linda e për ku shkoj, grua dhe e huaj,

fole merimange, kashtë mbi fusha armike.

Akrep i rrethuar nga flakët në strofullën

që e kujtoja timen.

Po stërvitem mos të kem frikë.

Po stërvitem mos të kem frikë

nga ajo që ndjej:

ngecur në vënd

poshtë ndonjë hijeje,

e kujdesshme si një hardhucë.

Asnjë hap para. Asnjë mbrapa.

Unë pres e çelin lule.

Sy e buzë të bardha fildishi.

E harlisen kërcellat,

gojët ninullojnë vargje

të hutuara e të trazuara lulet

e hutuar dhe e trazuar gjuha.

 

 

 

Quattro

 

La sera d’agosto, la mia aloe, dono inatteso,

si sporgeva tenera. Un che di rosso, corpo celeste,

un occhio pulsante, pareva per inciso

sul tetto dell’ostello.

L’ala superiore del Colle balenava sul ciglio del pendio

con casette e tetti lì dentro rinfrescati dall’acquazzone,

quando su, per le strade, vidi spuntare delle spalle,

teste nere e chiome ricciute.

 

– Altri cento sono morti ieri… mi sono detta,

tutti Neri.

 

Può darsi che sia differente se andasse la gente

dove sostava la barca di Sciacca.

Vedere l’armatore Giarratano nelle acque di Malta e i pescatori,

gli sbracciati gettare le reti e tirare su fuggiaschi

col viso bucato da due piccoli falò.

Fra gli occhi lemuri, i lumi di sole su loro tempie,

e colui che attraversa integro il mare,

si accorgerà! Oh, si che si accorgerà

dei corpi che affiorano dai fondali

come delfini avvelenati,

giacenti con ciglia su onde,

oppure girati verso l’aria, con pance decontratte.

 

Tu venivi appeso ad un treno, merce da innevati confini!

Oh, Anthony, piccolo Anthony, sei tra i salvati!

Cristallo dell’alba novembrina e pistillo di papaveri,

sei tra i salvati!

Per il destino tuo è fausta la tua siesta nuova e il letto,

il ponte caldo e il tuo tocco sulla brina delle mele.

 

 

Ma sappi che tra noi,

come tra voi,

c’è chi è più fragile

di una foglia di betulla

 

 

 

 

Katër (Albanese)

 

Mbrëmjen e gushtit, aloja ime, dhuratë e papritur,

harlisej njomëzake. Diçka e kuqe, trup i qiellit,

një sy regëtues, dukej si rastësi

mbi çatinë e bujtinës.

Krahu i epërm i Colle-s vezullonte mbi buzë të shpatit

me shtëpitë e çatitë përbrënda të freskuara nga rrebeshi,

ndërsa sakaq, nëpër rrugë, shpatulla u shfaqën,

koka të zeza e flokëkaçurrele.

 

– Njëqind të tjerë vdiqën dje… i fola vetes,

të gjithë të zinj…

 

Mund të ishte ndryshe po të shkonin njerëzia

në barkën e Sciacca-s.

E të shihnin kapitenin Giarratano në ujërat e Maltës e peshkatarët,

mëngëpërveshurit që hedhin rrjetat e peshkojnë ikanakët

me sy të shpuar nga dy bishtukë.

Mes syve të kuq si të lemurëve, vagullimeve të diellit mbi tëmtha,

e atyre që ja dalin ta kalojnë detin të pacënuar,

do t’i vënë re! Oh, patjetër do t’i vënë re

trupat që dalin prej thellësive

si delfinë të helmuar,

përmbys me qerpikë mbi valë,

ose të kthyer nga ajri, me barqe të shtendosura.

 

Ti vije kapur pas një treni, mall prej kufijsh me dëborë!

Oh, Anthony, i vogli Anthony, je nga të shpëtuarit!

Kristal i agimit të nëntorit e pistil lulëkuqesh,

je nga të shpëtuarit!

Për fatin tënd është ogurmirë gjumëzhegu i ri e shtrati,

ura e ngrohtë e prekja jote mbi brymën e mollëve.

 

Por dije që mes nesh,

ka nga ata që janë

më të brishtë

sesá nje gjethe mështekne.

 

 

 

 

Felicita perduta

 

Vedevo attraversare il parco due fratellini,

magrebini con chiome nere, ondulate.

Il più grande indicava col dito sull’altro lato del fiume.

Era lì sulla ghiaia, come un fiore di dalia avvizzita,

che si ergeva una casa.

Nel mentre l’altro alzava la testa insù

verso i rami delle magnolie

per vedere le casette dei passerotti.

 

Mai vidi io un passerotto lì dentro!

 

Scendevamo da Magrè ogni sabato sera.

A volte di domenica mattina.

Dai muriccioli, da sinistra a destra, pendevano viole scintillanti.

La brezza più leggera le cullava su e giù.

– Oh, questo mi basta

per essere felice! – mi dicevo.

 

Ora guardami anche tu, entrare ed uscire come un soldato.

Svuotandomi dei viaggi calpestando la bussola.

Io non bevo mai acqua dalla fontanella.

Si tuffano delle anatre porpore sul fiume e io vado in fretta,

senza sentire mai più

alcunché.

 

 

 

Verlorenes Glück (tedesco)**

 

Ich sah zwei maghrebinische Brüderchen mit schwarzen,

gewellten Haaren durch den Park gehen.

Der größere zeigte mit dem Finger auf die andere Seite des

[Flusses.

Dort auf dem Kies, wie die Blüte einer verwelkten Dahlie,

ragte ein Haus auf.

Unterdessen hob der andere den Kopf zu den Magnolienzwei-

[gen empor,

um die Spatzenhäuschen zu beobachten.

 

Nie habe ich dort drinnen ein Spätzchen gesehen.

Wir fuhren jeden Samstagabend von Margreid hinunter.

Manchmal Sonntag morgens.

Von den Mäuerchen, links und rechts, hingen funkelnde

[Veilchen.

Die leichteste Brise wiegte sie auf und ab.

– Oh, das genügt mir,

um glücklich zu sein! – sagte ich mir.

 

Nun sieh auch du mich an, wie ich komme und gehe wie ein

[Soldat.

Ich entleere mich von Reisen, indem ich auf den Kompass trete.

Ich trinke niemals Wasser aus dem Brunnen.

Die purpurroten Enten tauchen im Fluss und ich eile,

ohne jemals mehr etwas

zu hören.

 

I forni tra i fiori

 

Chi altro, a parte me, sfiorò oggi la tua memoria, lieber Franz?

Un meriggio di novembre, il soleggiato Dachau.

Ma prima ancora visitai il lager. La sua figura verticale

mi era accanto quando oltrepassavo il portone.

Dipoi, entravo nella città ostile, senza alcuna tregua.

 

Tutto era come poteva essere,

il tanto smeraldo sui campanili a cipolla.

Musi dei bimbi impasticciati

dentro gli stillicidi delle fontanelle nelle piazzette ripide.

Niente mi fece battere il cuore come quando

vidi i forni in mezzo a tanto verde, flora rigogliosa e piena.

Pioppi alti fino al di là del male.

 

Eppure, sulla panchina blu io mi sono seduta!

Provavo se cedevo alla passione del pellegrino.

Ma che! Solo mi chiesi:

Che sbocciassero di nuovo i fiordalisi e le giunchiglie

su quelle terre?

 

Man mano emergevano i nipoti

sminuzzare il cibo sui tavolini eleganti,

deliziati di violette fresche, serviti da altra gente.

Nipoti, pure loro, può darsi, di chi

da quel lager non uscì mai se non pulviscolo

mentre il sole si girava lentamente dall’altra parte,

e si alzava la luna.

 

Die Öfen zwischen den Blumen

 

Wer sonst außer mir streifte heute deine Erinnerung, lieber Franz?

Ein Novembermittag, das sonnige Dachau.

Noch vorher aber besuchte ich das Lager. Deine aufrechte Gestalt

war an meiner Seite, als ich durch das Tor schritt.

Danach betrat ich die feindliche Stadt,

ohne Waffenstillstand zu schließen.

 

 

Alles war, wie es sein durfte,

das viele Smaragd auf den Zwiebeltürmen.

Bekleckerte Kindermäuler

an den Wasserstrahlen der Brunnen auf den abschüssigen kleinen

[Plätzen.

Nichts ließ mein Herz heftiger schlagen als

der Anblick der Öfen inmitten so viel satten Grüns und üppiger

[Vegetation.

 

Pappeln hoch über das Böse hinaus.

 

Und doch habe ich mich auf die blaue Bank gesetzt!

Ich wollte sehen, ob mich die Begeisterung des Pilgers überkam.

Ach was! Ich fragte mich nur:

Ob wieder Kornblumen und Narzissen erblühen

auf diesen Böden?

 

Nach und nach tauchten die Enkel auf,

zerkrümelten das Essen auf den eleganten Tischchen,

die mit frischen Veilchen geschmückt waren, bedient von anderen Leuten.

Enkel, auch sie, kann sein, von Menschen,

die dieses Lager nie verließen, es sei denn als Staub,

während sich die Sonne langsam wegkehrte,

und der Mond aufging.

 

 

Gentiana Minga is a writer and journalist, born and raised in Albania, who has been living in Italy, in Bozen, South Tyrol, for over twenty years and now writes in Italian.  The following  is a list of some of her works published in Albanian and Italian, as well as translated in other languages, over the years:  Autopsia e shkatërrimit / Autopsy of a disaster( Prose), Europa, Tirana , 1993; Zonja e Shkodrës / La signora di Scutari (poems ), Florimont, Tirana, 2003; Ciao mamma, un saluto da Bolzano (poems), Terra d’Ulivi, Lecce, 2017 : Tempi che sono/ Zeiten wie/ Kohe qe jane -(trilingual poems  Italian-Albanian-tedesco), Terra d’Ulivi, Lecce, 2021. Spaziergänge, Der Gang der Autochtonen, Eine Platz für die, die plötzlich liegen, in  “Lichtungen- Zeitschrift fur Literatur Kunst und Zeitkritik”, nr 157/2019, pp. 74-77;  Pais remoto/ un lugar para los reclinados repentinas/ Hola mamà un saludo desde Bolzano in Aerea,(Pais remoto, muestra de poesìa albanese), Ril editores, Santiago de Cile, 2020,pp. 189-192. Ky është cepi që dua më shumë in AA.VV.,  Lyrischer Wille, poesie einer multilingualen Gesellschaft”, Foglio Verlag 2018, pp.74; Se fossi Narin, Finchè arriva il giorno, in AA.VV., Sotto il cielo di Lampedusa II, Nessun uomo è un isola, nota introduttiva di Gino Strada, Rayela, 2015, pp. 53 e pp. 109; Donne combattive e solitarie (reportage) in AA.VV., Donne d’Albania- tra migrazione, tradizione e modernità, a cura di Rando Devole e Claudio Paravati, Com Nuovi Tempi, 2017; Ciao mamma…, in AA.VV., Matrilineare, Madri e figlie nella poesia italiana dagli anni Sessanta a oggi, La Vita Felice, 2018, pp.78; Il tuo naso, nel suo giallo Giulio in AA.VV., Poesia (urgente) per Giulio Regeni, Rayela, 2019, pp.88.

 

 

 

Tags: AlbaniaAnthonyconcentration campsGentiana MingaItalymemorymigrationPoetrysurvivalTempi che sonothe saved and the drowned
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