Been born to Como 29 February 1924, given a degree to accountant, in 1952 it enters to make part with the friend and Giordano poet Adzes of the esperantista club comasco. Courageous supporter and divulgatore of the invented supernational language from Polish doctor Zamenhof, wrote on a dozen of reviews read from esperantisti of all the world. In 1982 he published a book poetries PRETERTEMPE (beyond the time) sold in thousands of copies from Brasi them to China, from Holland to Russia. They are the comasco more read in the world loved to define Aldo with irony. It had the honor of being admitted to international the esperantista Academy. In Italy this title it came only granted to three persons.
Convinced Socialist, carried its valid contribution to the P.S.I comasco in whose rows supported years.
Man of great culture loved coverallses the limbs prepreferring the literature, the poetry and, in music, the jazz. To this end in the post-war period and just in 1956 with a group of friends he founded the first Jazz Como Club that, with its first president the lawyer, then student Gianni Levoni had an intense activity with auditions commented of discs, exhibitions of solisti and complexes. Successively the lost group the enthusiasm begins them with deep displeasure of Aldo that, after two decades, cocciutamente it tried of ridargli life.
Precious Ego Id of the mourning was the collaboration with the circle cav. Tawny Mambrini in whose cenacolo they met several forms of art: painting, poetry and photography. Promotore of competitions and extensions that, the participation of esperantisti artists, rendered international.
From the section poetry of the circle Ego Id in the nov.1977 the cultural Group Acàrya was born, association prepreferred from Aldo that precious and irreplaceable secretary saw, task which it dedicated untiring its energies, while they were ollowed to the presidency: Gisella Adzes, Gianni Amarù, Graziella Molinari and Giordano Adzes. After to have for years refused the president charge, in it accepted it to 1998, but it was forced to discharge itself for reasons of health in 2001.
To the Comasca Family, which it since joined the first years of its foundation, yields available with an active collaboration.
Cultural operator of certain abilities, untiring active and also when, debilitated from the disease, the forces began to venirgli less. Strict critic, valid man of letters, entertainer and courageous promotore of initiatives apt to carry prestige to its Como, city that he has always loved also stigmatizzando of defects and manchevolezze.   For the culture comasca it is a incolmabile loss.  Aldo, the tuttologo defined it the acaryani friends benevolmente, than better than every other knew the vastness of its knowledge, thus like Aldo, fico of India epiteto coined from Gisella Adzes in order to define of the spiny character to defense of its great sensibility, has been for we a great master and a friendly beloved grandissimo. It has left 19 January us of 2003 and for the culture comasca it is a incolmabile loss.

It has published the volumes:

PRETERTEMPE (beyond the time) in Esperanto 
In Italian its poetries have been published on Anthologies VOICES AND IMAGES POETICHE LARIANE nr. 1 and 2 and on Voices and Poetiche Images nr. 3 moreover included in other books and on very many cultural reviews, impossible to cite them all. 
The acaryani friends have to dedicated he of poetries are in Italian who in dialetto, some of which we bring back here of continuation. 

HE DIES HIMSELF IN HUSH

He dies himself in Hush, like the snow/smarriti ribbons. /separating to us from others in commotion.  /Turbine in my /la heart your bitter departure/without a goodbye/without a love/with your which fall asleep pain. /Si only dies in Hush, like the snow,/before I disgelo/with the feeling of the still intact or torn life/in the spirit. /My torment Spreads,/in the thought that hurts/made brandelli,/from children infects from presumption.  /With indifference/I remove from me/the risata one of the life/that it cuts the anguish to me to end with squallide menzogne. 
  (Giovanna Redaelli) 

IN THE TIME WITHOUT LIMITS, INSEGNERA' ESPERANTO

An other ring s'è broken and the spirit/for other skies spaces and to we it is denied. /It had haste to leave the field/to other flowers of the spring. //Too much the pain, the anxiety, the fatigue. /The empty one and in Hush did not overwhelm the heart. /Too much far away the tender circle of the friends beloveds, gestures/, the lacustrine air. S'ammutoliva the spirit. //And we that with love ricucivamo together/brandelli of words from the tenuous colors and light/palpitare of warm and sincere phrases for beams/of sun to riscaldargli the heart! //We still find again ourselves to watch to us around/without to sink the look in other clear eyes/. They rigonfiano large sighs and they press. /Hands without more grips, embrace without time. Perhaps//only now it will know to see all/and to find again the peace and a song of usignolo. /passing in the middle of the flowers, caress high petals/curing garden with the delicate breath. //It will find again the scope in order to live in eternal/many free, full seasons of every scent. /And the smile will return running between clouds,/it will interlace ghirlande of music and dreams. //It will meet other faces,/friendly never scordati. /In the time without more limits/will teach esperanto!    (Marisa Lissoni Annoni)  

'NA WORD (dialetto erbese)

Word from the silenzi knows lever 'na. /But vardi inturnu/the umbra speaks dumò sira/about tej/'na nivula luntana/and from na gesa/ul sòn of an of campania. //A figüra of omm/the fixed one in mine ment/regord, insegnament/fregöj from puesìa/and cicciarà luntàn/perdüü for via. //It knows stops temp/ültima a its word/purtada from the suspir/from the vent from tramuntana. //Par té, is sira/sunava the of campania.       

(A word is raised from Hush/is watched around/speaks only to the evening/the shadow about tigli/a far cloud/and from a church/the sound of an of campania. /A fixed figure of man/in my mind/briciole poetry memories, instructions//and to chat far away/lost for via. /A time is stopped/last its word/capacity from the sigh/of the north wind wind. /For you, this sea/played the of campania.    (Francisco Gottardi)

Extrapolated from its anthologies and its books we bring back some its poetries:

HAND KAPRICA (In esperanto)

Mine mine 
estas nigra tabulo, kie 
kaprica hand volutis 
arabeske 
kreante el gi 
barokan pentrajon. 
 
Mine mine 
estas nigra tabulo, kiu 
nur nigras: 
sama the hand kaprika 

translation (CAPRICIOUS HAND) mine I is a blackboard where a capricious hand designed intentional of arabesques creating a baroque picture. Mine I am a black blackboard where the black one is alone. The same capricious hand infantile has cancelled all. 

FRIENDLY CAKE MINE 

Friendly cake mine, 
beloved stimulus to the life, 
faithful companion  
of all mine pains, 
how many times you have drawn to me  
beyond the suffering 
with your hands of fairy! 
Thinking you 
how many obstacles I have exceeded  
and only because always  
the dolcezza was perceivable 
of your presence.  
, They are remained on the way 
in spite of the right  
to the desperation, 
because I know that it will be with me  
your ipnotica image 
for the last walk  
because I know that you will be ready  
for the final risata explosive, 
you, single lover without tradimenti,  
extreme consolation, last hope, 
friendly cake the mine, beautifulst,  
you, my handgun.

The LAST ROSE  

It is December,  
me riaggredisce the memory:  
when 
the last rose was red 
in the ghiacciato garden.
In the garden  
where even the frost  
it seemed lukewarm  
for the happiness  
warm ch'era in house, 
with She. 
It is December,  
no rose is red      
in no garden.  
They seem red  
drops from my eyes.      
Sul table the tears  
they seem blood,  
without She.  

IN THE PARK  

In the park soffuso 
Tremula the birch  
it palpita virginalmente  
to the caress of the wind.  
The purpurea azalea, 
it is offered trepida 
to the sensuale embrace  
of the salice of Babylon.  
In the remote angle,  
here in bottom,  
under the breath of the glicine.  
our park bench then  
é empty.

THE VOICE OF HUSH  

It listens,  
Hush with the thousand shadings sound,  
soft but perceivable,  
and it suggests vellutate emotions.  
It listens, 
you it does not seem to hear  
I whisper of the mysterious one  
presence of the cosmos  
behind to every blade of grass,    
butterfly flight,   
wander birchen,   
lake flashing?   
It listens, 
you do not feel   
the melodie of infinites worlds,   
of thousand fantastic creatures   
of desires,     
of the antichi dreams,     
of your infinites I? 
It listens, 
it listens to the mormorio cake 
of Hush  
and you will not be never single.

VIIF

Viif it is quajcoss   
that river never:   
ul maag, the amuur, the mort?     
It is tirà it to Viif innanz    
and pudè minga fann to men    
because ul muund to the rüza    
Viff it is tacà litt cuj of  
cul temp that 'l it passes,    
cunt ul muund    
that it is tropp strecc.    
It is lavurà it to Viif, südà, it suffered,     
pe 'na tazina de minestra,      
for the fiöö tirà grand 
that scapan via  
apèna poden.  
Viif it is cercà, cercà, as a danaa   
a hope, a creed, a ideal    
that quand ch'el trövum to it is already I refuted      
opüür quel' ilüsiun that the poor tarlüch   
apèna poden 
ciamen happiness -  
and that, to the màsim, it is a intervall,     
cürt cürt, in mezz to the suferenz. 
Viif it is pagüra, teruur de guardà in giir      
and it saw dumà buumb, ladar and sfrütaduur,      
bagasc and cülatuni  
and savè propi minga   
cumè 'l it will be 'l duman.   
Viif it is lecass the crust    
and pöö, even, ciamà feed    
quell that inveci it is imputenza,     
vigliaccheria and rasegnaziun.   
Viif, disèmal ciaar, to it is a cumprumess     
ch'èmm faa cul diavul it is l Signuur,     
it is tüta 'na busia     
that sütum to ripett      
in de'l specià the Stria

To live is some thing/that it never does not arrive: /the May, the love, the dead women? /To live it is to pull ahead/and not to be able any to make less/because the world pushes. to /Vivere is to litigate with the days,/with the time that passes, with the world,/that too much it is tightened. /To live it is to work, sudare, to suffer for a cup of minestra, /per to pull large the sons who scappano via/as soon as they can. /To live it is to try, to try like damned/a hope, a creed, an ideal/and we find when it already is refuted,/or it is that illusion that the poor ones creduloni/call happiness. /and that to the maximum it is a short short interval in the middle of the suffering. /To live it is the fear, terror to watch itself in turn/and to only see bombs, thieves and sfruttatori/prostitutes and gay/and not to know just/like will be tomorrow. /To live it is to leccarsi the wounds and then, even, to be converted/what instead it is impudence,/vigliaccheria and giving up. /To live, we say it clear, is a compromise/that we have made with the devil and the Gentleman,/is all a lie/that we continue to repeat/in waiting for the Witch (Dead women).

IN FIRST SLOWLY
	Proposed new: a page modernized monthly, in which showing new a poet of the Italian scene, and the international scene. 1° competition Literary Group classified Acàrya to under the 35. Expiration: 31 May 2006.

An angle only for you.

An angle, for you that you are alone.

In order to write,
in order to read,
in order to think,
but above all in order to dream to me.

Thus you notice not
to be single
and I am with you.

Mariateresa Frigerio