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IMPORTANT! The literary property of the works published in this page belongs to the several authors. The partial reproduction also is not authorized and absolutely prohibited.
The published authors are:
Marisa Annoni Lissoni, Giuliana Anzani, Magda Fagetti Adzes, Rosanna Belotti, Giuliano Beretta, Luigi Besana, Antonio Ceruses, Grazio Caliandro, Ivana Cantaluppi, Ettore Cappelletti, Egidio Cescato, Citterio Vat, Ciullo Franc, Maria Duval Grace, Alfonsina Franzi Santini, Federica Frigerio, Mariateresa Frigerio, Mauro Fogliaresi, Luciana Galimberti Beretta, Adriana Gervasini, Francisco Gottardi Maria, Sandra Martoglio, Gabriella Melis, Alfredo Merlini, Graziella Molinari, Cesar Puppi, Raffaele Rigamonti, Roncoroni Maria, Roberto Sampietro, Antonietta Sormani, Mansueto Villa.
Gianna Beccalli, Fabio Caironi, Arming Rudi, Susy Salvadé, Maurizio Tiberi, Dario Know it.
An angel in flight - Marisa Annoni Lissoni
Framed in a free space
a pale blue sky splash
a soft cloud evidences me
from the aggraziata form of an angel
with the longest and opened arms
and it dresses fluctuating and it rigonfia.
The form of the head hardly rough sketch.
Wonder! A message from the sky.
I spell to watch it and frullano me
in the head thousand thoughts. Who is l ’ angel?
A beloved presence, a friend who has left
the earth or an omen of new departure?
Then the form allonge and stands out in “ T ”
and the mind is worried to think to a name
that it begins with this simple letter.
Or it is l ’ beginning of the sweetest phrase
“ You task ”
This angel in flight, appeared stamane
sull ’ blue blackboard of the sky, has donated
a smile or a regret. I still must
to discover it. I only know that the impazienti fingers
they have stopped on the sheet this moment
And for a long time they did not succeed nell ’ attempt.
The poetry seemed to sleep to the large one.
It seems reached I disgelo .
( )
Ul battesim in Battery (filanda) - Giuliana Anzani
Vascuni d ’ water sbruienta
scüra and without cuscenza
spüzza from cadavar
and man puciaa in from l ’ water.
“ Bagna very quèll fiur that végn ”.
‘ Na sbrufada
par sbassà it plows
to l ’ ültima rivada.
To dudas ann to guadagnà the micca
sutta the vècc imbruttii from the life
and cantà … .cantà,
par scunfund the fadiga.
Strenc the dinc pora tüsa
that the sira l ’ it is wake
and to cà yours gent
the ta speccia,
cun ‘ na beautiful minestra
sö ‘ l föch.
The baptism in Battery (was the name of a filanda): Large bathtubs of dark hot water/and without conscience/smell of corpse/and hands dipped in the water. // Bathes that flower well that comes . /Spraying/in order to lower airs to the last one arrived. // To twelve years to earn the bread/under the old ones imbruttiti from the life/and to sing … .cantare,/in order to confuse the hard work. // You tighten the teeth poor child/that the evening is arriving/and to house your parents/are waiting for to you,/with a beautiful one minestra/on the fire.
( )
Filastrocca for my papa Giordano - Magda Fagetti Adzes
Also you have been
borgata child of,
Also you have been
blue prince
Also you have been
emperor
in your castle of numbers
and of poetry
where a language echoed
universal;
your faith in the men
(often betrayed) é be your creed
and for the Christ-man you have screaied enthusiasms
too much large for our poor humanity.
Then you have intentional to abdicate
our cantastorie you have preferred to become
and like old test
farti to ossequiare.
You have been six and
you will always be
our great papa
that the more important thing
in inheritance you have left us:
the compromise of the spirit
to never accept.
( )
Omm trasaa - a Gianna Beccalli
(dialetto brianzolo)
Forsi murivi istess
par ul turment
from mine vess staa ciamaa
par the sadness of tò öcc
or mamm
par the bestemm ca t'huu faa dé
or pà.
But if vegnevi to the mund
gh'avaress 'vüü 'l dulur
sö mine pell
par vess staa cuncepii
dopu 'na ciocca
between udur de vén, from fömm
and of usteria
and that woman
cume 'na baltrocca
duprada par gudé
põ, trada via.
Cume pudevat mamm
slungà the tò brasc
incuntra to me pinett
insegnamm to cicciarà
to fä the premm pass
without carezz
without never a basén.
Pà Cume pudevat
indrizzamm via in the life
scernendo quell ch'é bòn
and quell ch'é gramm
it knows ta m'hée mine cercaa
and inscé
ta m'hée mazzaa.
Forsi
par the pagüra
dda duvé ciamamm
par ul timur
from 'vègh a disgraziaa
parché in from the vegné grand
in from the vardamm
saréss staa cume té
A omm trasaa.
A sciupato man: Perhaps I died equally/for the torment/not to be be called/for the sadness of your eyes/mother/for the blasphemies/that I have made to say/father you. /But if I came to the world/I would have had the pain/on my skin/for being be conceived/after a ciucca/between smell of wine, smoke/and tavern/and that woman/like a whore/used in order to enjoy then/, it throws via. /As you could mother/lengthen your arms/encounter to mine and thus/you have killed to me. /Perhaps/for the fear/of having to me to call/for the fear/of having a wretch/because in growing/and watching to me/I would have been like you /A sciupato man.
( )
And it becomes a star - Rosanna Belotti
As it is sad the dead women of the sun!
The sunset is a red sabre
that it is sunk in the ventre of the sky
coloring the meat of the sea.
The evening is vanished in mute
and the night, to falcate giant
it has caught up the encumbrance of the day
that it is lost heart like a broken log.
Punctual like always, it returns
the memory of a July far away
and of a fallen log anzitempo,
thus beautiful to remove the breath!
And in this hour of tears intrisa,
in the pain that snerva the night,
a drop from the eyes is detached,
it catches up to you
and it becomes a star.
( )
Removals - Giuliano Beretta
The habit of a day
The habit of a month
Wonder of the title it
that it consumes the sand
with the rust that joins the look
They have left to the back
with the toy from the pebble body
The sawdust changed the sapore to the minestra
An evening was of walnut
an other evening ciliegio
with the sweat of my father
nearly aware in the choice of the wood
The tools uniforms between saw and the hammer to it
in a fight of noises
Amarognolo the fir
The birch dressed all the family
The white man of the sheet the table cloth
Four places are remained free
Removals
I measure the fever to the chair
The left hand tightens the right hand
last rancor of the nail
that I do not succeed to straighten.
( )
Submergeeed islands - Luigi Besana
Sul lake a dimmed moon.
Nell ’ now that the birds
they became stars
two gote red
they cancelled the stars
with the fresh wind
of your race.
I held the open hands
in order to stop l ’ arrival of the evening
and yours it passes on the gravel.
At the bottom of the road
little breviums words
they took the ways of the sky.
The world s ’ removed like ’ a island
leaving the thread of ’ a wave.
’ a breeze wing
it folded ’ a thin shadow
between the lightning bolt of your eyes
cloud passengers.
( )
Still has sense the poetry today? - Antonio Ceruses
To love there is poetry to thus you have written me
and to live this emotion
he is to leave with the rainbow
in the travelling bag
- and I know where he begins -
he is to know the horizon
that you meetings next
tightened for hand
- and I know where he ends -
he is to discover the sapore of the dawn
over your breast
before that the window is opened
or to find again
on lands emerged of the evening
the same movement
that the sea gave us
- and I know like making to last it -
It is beautiful
to watch with a sunset
to understand that the time
it is not a banal phrase
and then to return to swim
on waters designed from the skin
To melt
between the fingers the sun
and to donate a sky sheet to us
with the company
of our colors
- and we know like conjugating the sweats -
And if to love there is poetry
never like today
these words
they have a sense
( )
Air (Valbasca) - Fabio Caironi
Remote, the quiet ones propaggini
of mozziconi of forest - those that remains
of the ubriacatura of chestnut trees and oaks -
they are covered from a pebbly language
and from it uses in rubber
that they raise powder and snocciolano
sweat.
The forest remains indifferent
till the term of the night,
then it wears the mask
of the silent and faithful companion.
They were dirty years
with their the low devices and flights
that they screaied destruction
and they did not make reductions in price.
In the roof of tired leaves
of a too much cold November
the heartbeats of a heart got lost
between the near outbreaks
and Hush the impending one.
They remain brandelli of templi
- pagani for the Nature and sacred
for Animal-Man -
in constant decay,
nevertheless strong presences,
bleeding traces
of a past that turns around
to the present.
It is the song of the cornacchia
that it closes this day
and it gives beginning to the dance
of the hidden noises,
of the restless voices,
of the hidden spirits
in the cavities of the kernels
and in the rimembrate presences
of the gamberi of soft water.
In the cold air of peace
rabbrividisco.
( )
Nonexistent quatrains of Sonetti - Grazio Caliandro
I have not educated the hope well:
I have saved series observations.
Or she, object of desolations,
on a burning fire on foot knots dance
***
November: with love, mother earth,
it begins maternity of the grain.
He who offers she prode the hand
it announces that it does not love to make the war.
***
For the path to emotion hunting,
slowly, it goes the poet and it studies to bottom
the rhyme that rises to it from the deep one
in order to make of the life a song.
***
In DNA of the air that breath
there are traces of positive hatred,
but this will not be definitive:
confido in the love to which m'ispiro.
***
The thief scappa, nevertheless has not taken
that of the money in the drawer in room
the hope has not asked me
that it is for that they are surrendered to me.
( )
Infinite Times - Ivana Cantaluppi
Potsherds of joys
fragments routes from the turbinio of the time
weather and not
Prisoner in the affections
which to say I cannot
giaccio on sassolini grays
tempered and collection:
because mother: to incedere, prodigare, to retreat,
to learn, to get angry, to swell the good,
a invalidity.
because wife: to love, to favour, to obey,
to rasserenare, invogliare, to be solerte.
Not the flares to beyond the river
but brulicare of lighters
nell ’ wide sky mantle
they see with the eyes
where I do not know to arrive.
( )
Without return - Ettore Cappelletti
A spot rose, evanescente
like ’ odalisca a temptress
it whispers to me with suadente voice:
you take to me, I I will make you happy. ”
The strong desire fascinate to me
in fight with the residual one intelletto
that to go via it convinces to me,
I say myself, “ enough alcool promise, it. ”
I have thus decided d ’ to remove to me
in spite of l ’ uncertain condition,
but I renounce trying d ’ to raise to me
attracted from the sublime vision.
Resigned, but with much fury
I seize with the eager hands
and taste l ’ inebriante sapore
immergendovi the lips barren.
The drink wish grows in me,
with to great I confess it sincerity,
I have between the fingers an empty glass,
I see in the bottom a reflected ace.
And ’ the face d ’ a being ignavo
That to resist it is not convinced;
“ cursed wine, you have won to me,
I know that I will be your perennial slave ”.
( )
The world of Bébé - Egidio Cescato
In order stemperare the fatigue and the day,
after the job the sea is contemplated,
while to the shoulders the chaos reigns, but around
to the scogli and in the flutti to scompare here.
Behind of we rimbombano the failures,
but here l ’ all the immense ocean and to equal,
refusals and olezzi gratta as are known,
single it is the sand, humble, essential.
This is border, for light and respect
where in the wind our dream flies,
here it is perceived and the scorn is accumulateed;
l ’ immondizia that it covers the word.
Now you run with the feet in the spuma,
you are like fish or wild bird;
you open the arms, scrutinizes ov ’ is the moon
all d ’ silver, the beautifulr gift.
Beyond the sea, you know Bébé, to quest ’ now
in people Brasi them go laughing
because the sun it is scaldando still.
You turn the ace: Patron, that you are saying?
Which Brasi they? Which firmament?
Which sun goes elsewhere heating?
In this river I speak, live and feel.
This is the place mine. Not an other where.
Derrier Warf, Coast d ’ Ivory. 2007
( )
The beacons of the haste - Citterio Vat
Coriandoli of light
they surface
pieces of real estate
on dark waters.
The horizontal beacons
of the haste
lambiscono the wave.
Coming down from Nexus
a miracle seems
the slow one Hush of the lake.
More beyond
where Laglio bewitches the glare
they make fused
and a festivity
girls with the dreams in hats.
More beyond.
From this river
the nenia of the wave
it colors the quieter dreams.
Only now
that the time of the dawn
it is still far away
on this curve
brulicante of ribes
fiotta
a driven in star rain
over the spirit.
( )
Sunset - Frank Ciullo
S'apre to the vespro
my hat white man
to shadows, transparent skies.
The way returns
between cliffs and glasses sluices
within spaces
that they bring near the evening.
If sweet it is the sunset
the beam
that stinge
it puts down the night
and it crosses the time
towards goals
with various light.
( )
The rose of the desert - Maria Duval Grace
Therefore the desert
they are the men and the beasts
Rimpiccioliti, many times over a man
only, a single beast
to punctuate a spread sheet
a paper from package.
To little steps it stretches it to the bus
they are already toys within a turn
of concentric fable circles.
(The test dies poor and Saladino
knot was buried).
We, if about we speak ourselves,
we try antichi castles
like always boneses of the past.
Long shadows shrink the day.
Of the caliphs one knows that they had
horses and papers of stars -
tracks of assiduous frequency
they touched the paradeisos,
the garden of many waters.
(Salah to din refused the water and the food
and the city was filled up of sadness).
( )
The love - Alfonsina Franzi Santini
The love
a currency
of fine gold,
coined from a great Mint,
the Heart.
It has a power
of purchase
limitless.
Its question
high
on the market.
The first one
emission day
laughed them to the day
of the Creation.
With all the feelings
of my heart,
I will acquire,
only investment,
the precious currency
of the love.
( )
There are. - Federica Frigerio
There are butterflies I have rested to them in your heart
There are daisies between the pages to wait for to me
There is I have seen it to the thunderstorm in your eyes
There are your thoughts sleep in your words
There is my future is written in yours PASSED .
You come is your preferred plate
Then I teach to read to you .
( )
Last tram to 31 December - Mariateresa Frigerio
It slips silent
l ’ last tram
it exits
between blue lightning bolts
for a year bisestile.
And ’ l ’ last race!
From the illuminated windows
and decorated with stars and auguries
it seeds sull ’ icy asphalt
the illusions and the promises dell ’ beginning.
It disappears in the night
with l ’ last beautifulst festivity
and ’ an illusion of happiness.
Tomorrow a new year
already without illusions
since the principle.
( )
Poetries breviums - Mauro Fogliaresi
6 August 1945
Four boys
exiting from the tempio
they thought to a thunderstorm.
To Hiroshima
that day
they did not open the umbrellas.
Al funeral
Our tears were not enough
it piovve.
And thus umbrellas kissed other umbrellas;
and thus tears knew other tears.
( )
Barbie " and pigota - the Luciana Galimberti Beretta
A Barbie is na pigota
to it knows trövan inscì for caas
to discuur sura 'n divan.
Driza and snèla
é Barbie
tacch to I spillo
and miniskirt
the cavej bén cutunaa
and cunt siluette
of one it donates that ago diet
Cunt a fä de cumpasiun
from diis to the pigota:
Brüta and vègia
you ta sée!
Gambètt and the tò brasc
balan via like strasc,
düü butuni ìnn the tò öcc
and cavèj faa cun the wool
of a vècc golf ch'éran between-via "
The respund without s'céncass
the pigota there visin:
Me, u I amused of istéss
fiöö ch'éran of alter témp
and cun me eran cuntént.
You feel indòss anmò 'l caluur
of dù man de quèla mama
that apèna cun düü strasc,
for Natal de every ann,
ul I dressed but it changed.
Incöö vaar dumè aparì;
you, of püür quèll that ta paar
but me, sun cuntenta insci ".
Giran the generaziun
to the fiöö ga piaas cambià
the pigota to it is in tebiaa;
for the mamm ch'ìnn tropp ciapaa
to it mèj andà to it is cumprà.
“ Barbie ” and the pigotta: A Barbie and pigotta (a doll of pezza)/are found for case/to discuss on a divano. /Straight and snella/it is Barbie,/heels to I spillo/and miniskirt,/the hats very cotonati/and with a “ siluette ”/of a woman who is in diet. /With making from compassion/one addresses to the pigotta: // “ Ugly and old/you are! /Gambette and your arms/are flosce like rags; /two buttons are your eyes/and the hats made with the wool/of an old discarded sweater ”. // Without to suffer itself answers/the pigotta there close: // ” I, have amused however/children of other times/that with me they were content. /I still feel myself I lean the heat/of the hands of that mother/that with hardly two pieces of material,/for Been born them of every year,/the garment changed to me. /Today it is worth alone appearing,/you, also what I to you seem/but, I am content thus ". // Turns the generations,/to the children appeals to change; /the pigotta it is in the solaio,/for the mothers who too much are engaged/are better to go to buy.
( )
That or those that will be - Adriana Gervasini
We walk together
holding to us for hand
in this confusion of thoughts
incessant travolgimento of ideas
towards that we do not see,
through daily fogs
and rains that frustano the road
and they smarriscono to us.
I am forgetting my name
between rovi inestricabili
of translate words
from a confused paraphrase,
and they are single
to indurmi understanding them.
Perhaps I will return to same me,
to my dreams,
to my simple way
and that or those that will be.
( )
Toa sira - the Francisco Gottardi Maria
(dialetto brianzolo)
It is the toa sira
ca but ago pagura
and quell ca restarà
de toa the history.
Ta cercaroo
in the vos
of every tramont,
in of canzòn
from the vent,
in of lusnad
of temporai of estaa.
And té
vos from rosada
it sends from sora the stell
toa the prayer,
cercom in on fil of grass,
in from the bruga
in from the nev
ca the penser quattarà.
É the toa sira
ca but ago pagura.
Your evening: It is your evening/that it makes fear/and those me that will remain/of your history. // I will try to You/in the voice/of every sunset,/in the songs/of the wind,/in the lightning bolt/of the summery thunderstorms. // and you/dew voice/send over stars/your prayer,/you try to me between the blades of grass,/in the brughiera/in the snow/that she covers the thoughts. // Is your evening/that it makes fear me.
( )
Encounter - Sandra Martoglio
My sky
it had been made
empty picture
without signs
neither emotions
then l ’ Encounter without signs
neither emotions
then l ’ Encounter
unexpected
unexpected
a lightning bolt has moved
l ’ indifference
the torpore
l ’ lack of appetite
I have found again the colors
and I have screaied
still screaied
of joy
d ’ love
of life.
( )
To live dreaming - Gabriella Melis
Knots,
my thin arms
they disperse in the wind
wandering shadows
of leaves
from the yellow color.
I live again thrilling experiences
and malignant prevailing
of grey pages
me they render absorbed.
The resonance
of my melancholy
it ristagna in the port
of suffering passages
and the blue venatura
of my anelito one of life,
now,
it relights extinguished live coal.
Meeting the tracks
of filigrees,
the joy of moss
to the feet of a chestnut tree,
the sapore of the ice
extolled in the barrels,
the lirismo of a moment
framed in the sky.
I love mine to live dreaming
and launch in sea
the anchor of the hope
for being before
to greeting the dawn.
( )
Fatina of gems - Alfredo Merlini
14 February 2006
It jumps of joy
embraced to the star
in order not to fall on the primula
capolina between the snow.
The chioma of spring
it blankets the paralysis of the mouth
in murmuring LOVE.
Lumcini far,
wrapping scents
they open the heart
to travedere pleasures
on it wastes of dreams
on the infinite sky.
The earth lacks on the supports
on the brulicante world
of buds kisses.
Scorda the bitterness
from solitudine tears
hidden from the happiness
the fatina of gems,
with the inzucchera smile
in love life.
( )
Dumà ieer the era april - Graziella Molinari
(dialetto comasco)
It knows cùran 'drée stagiùn and every passada
püssée thick ancamò ago the rind
that quata dént
the pétai delicaa of sentimént.
But, 'me radiis tachenta, the memory
it knows insediss, passes the filadüür to it
lasaa to the fiaa of the vent.
Vuus in surdina
rivaa from every témp,
sra the paper-müsica of the cöör
diségnan echoes de malincunii,
ognüna cunt ul sò càrich
de céel without cunfin and precipizzi.
And tùrnan an'mò to viiv lüüs and umbrii
and it knows indüina in of cavèj of argent
rizz the two know intardiva témp a lüna.
Memory
to it is stu sfarfalà legéer de zipria
arent to a raac de suu,
the orlu of munt, ul fiaa fresch de the breva.
It is st'aria ciara that ment the crosspiece.
Every stagiun that it passes
its company the lassa in sü the pèll.
But dèntar .
Déntar ghèmm ancamò sumenz of amuur,
gémm de ridaad, lümitt pizz to the puntiil.
Ghèmm giööch de lüna, gibigiann de stèll
on the velu blö of the laagh .
Fiurìss giamò sü ramm the galiverna.
Dumà iéer the era apriil .
Aancora ieriI era you open run after them the seasons and every still ago sturdier passage/the rind/that she repairs/the delicate petals of the feelings. /But like tenacious root, the memory/is insinuated and penetrated crosses/left the breath of the wind. // Voices submitted/committees from every time,/over the pentagramma of the heart/design echoes of melancholies,/ognuna with its cargo/of sconfinati skies and precipices. /And they return to live lights and shadows,/and s'indovinano in silver hats/the riccioli where for a long time indugiava the moon. // Memory/is this sfarfallio light of cipria/along a sun beam,/the profile of mounts, the fresh breath of the breva. /It is this limpid air that the mind covers. // Every season that passes/leaves its company on the skin. /But within /Within we still have love seeds,/buds of laughed,/lumini ignited to the wharf. /We have moon games, reverberates of stars/on the blue velvet of the lake // Already rifiorisce on the branches the galaverna. /Still yesterday era you open them .
( )
To Julia - Cesar Puppi
The comballo passed
from the cargo greve
silent
in its nobility;
it astonished the placid sail!
To the fresh breeze
I entrusted my dream
as in an embrace,
like in a unconscious trace d ’.
And it s ’ approached, s ’ approached …
nearly grazing my fragile limbs
and those mine to belong them
it was dived
in the tormented silver reflux
where my solitudine
it was extinguished
and in the grembo
dell ’ ancient porticciolo
s ’ it fall asleep.
( )
I and my brother - Raffaele Rigamonti
I AND MY BROTHER
WE HAVE THE FACE OF THOUSAND LANDS
AND WE ARE THE SUM OF THOUSAND WARS.
I AND MY BROTHER
WE HAVE ALWAYS PAID THE TAXES
AND WE NEVER DO NOT TRAVEL IN FIRST CLASS.
I AND MY BROTHER
WE ARE A MIND IN ORDER TO THINK
AND AN ARM IN ORDER TO WORK.
I AND MY BROTHER
WE ARE LIKE THE PEGASO AND ORIONE
AND WE DO NOT BELIEVE TO THE INCENTIVES ON THE PENSION.
I AND MY BROTHER
WE ARE A FOOTBALL WITHOUT DEBITS
AND A POCKETBOOK WITHOUT CREDITS.
I AND MY BROTHER
WE ARE CATHOLIC AND MUSLEMS
WE ARE ORTHODOX AND PROTESTANTS -
WE ARE BLACK WHITE MEN AND
WE ARE YELLOW AND ROSSI
AND WE DO NOT HAVE THE VIEW-FINDER
WITH THE INFRARED RAYS.
I AND MY BROTHER
WHEN WE ARE OUTSIDE PHASE
WE ARE ALSO HEBREW AND PALESTINIAN -
BUT WE DO NOT CONSTRUCT WALLS
IN ORDER TO DIVIDE IN TWO THE HOUSES
I AND MY BROTHER
WE ARE MADE WITH THE SAME MEAT
AND THE SAME BLOOD
I AND MY BROTHER
WE DO NOT IGNITE THE ROCKETS
IN ORDER TO GO ON THE MOON -
PERCHE' WE KNOW THAT It is ON the EARTH
OUR FORTUNE.
( )
You pin - Roncoroni Maria
I did not know like dressing itself
in the maze of the closet
I have found an old skirt
with the glares of my youth.
In Hush of the commotion
I have threaded the shoes of the first dance
with the heels golden and the gilé of velvet
then I have put the tuxedo
to the mirror
in order to find my man.
( )
Astronauts we are - Arming Rudi
The foam galaxy
that it rotates on if same,
lattea, in the cup
of the maculato coffee,
it transmits to me, drinking it.
bizzarra the impression
to feel astronaut to me
lost in empty the black one
of the infinite space.
Game of fantasy
perhaps it will say someone,
from psiche visionaria,
altered, excessive,
which benevolent indulgere
without darvi relief.
Also we in order indeed,
boarded on tolda
of boat vessel it spaces them
to terraqueous structure
(also of fire and blood),
we are annoying in the cosmos
solitary, in luck
of discoveries and mysteries.
With justice, for this,
astronauts we are.
( )
Pure joy - Dario Knows it
To live in the scent of a flower
and to breathe the feeling
of a caress.
To walk spiritually
knots, on foot most possible,
on the vellutati ones prati greens
of the vent'anni.
To believe, in order to possess
that far one
and nebula hope
of the definitive triumph
of the Good on the Evil.
To be atheist or indifferent
é to live of instinct
on a road without goal.
Arrived in the pressi
of the obliged end
to watch in our past
and if no black spot
it makes company us
purer joy
it cannot exist.
( )
Fior di Sambuco - Susy Salvadè
The prayers early risers
chewed from your mouth
they check hurt
borings in the room ing
diradando in the fatigue
that it shades the thoughts
of the daily paper to live
Circles force invochi the faith
it speaks about life of it extols castità
sgranando the rosary of your doubts
nell ’ incomprensibile litania
with l ’ smarrita spirit
it distills to drop
hidden fears
dall ’ alambicco
of the heart.
You pray
and I eat marmellata of sambuco
( )
Clouds in the sky to December - Roberto Sampietro
Those that I wish escapes to taken mine:
perhaps to the capacity d ’ other hands.
And you?
You do not remain
nell ’ to harden itself sterile of the days
that the ices cover with the spread hand
to lock of the contours.
And c ’ you were,
you were in the world,
l ’ you were attended
that it crosses the present and support.
But
if the course of the things dumb law
and dumb l ’ existence in the deep one
its meaning, and is crushed
in a chaotic one to disperse itself of schegge,
what hard, what it remains
it is this effort supported to empty
that it is accumulateed in layers, like snow,
and as snow will have
to melt itself to the fire.
You say not to be necessary
like l ’ air to the awakening tomorrow,
and therefore your memory will fade,
in one of the dawn that will come,
as it vanishes the rivederti in dream.
Instead I know of what I would have need:
more than d ’ ’ a dawn
d ’ ’ an other spring.
But the clouds in the sky of December
they slide gray-iron towards the north
to tramontare.
Before the sunset
a short space takes
the sun, and s ’ makes red-hot
sull ’ horizon where hung to evening.
And then
it comes down.
( )
Saint Martino di Val Masino - Antonietta Sormani
Country from the late sun
and impending mounts
with gashes of rombanti mines
and to friare of is known.
Country that svendi wealth
in those to crush of cliff.
Nevertheless it is there, your force
country that challenges self-confidence
on roads marked from nail:
it arranges to dare and precaution:
not sian sunsets the ways,
but rising moon paths
Country of rovi and sterpi
on fields a time cultivates,
and atavistic hay history
collected on the erta of mounts:
it seizes of rope I ask for.
I do not pick regretted of sour hards work
but only sadness in the eyes .
and tangle of sterpi and ortiche .
That they make from side
to the water that runs
in the majestic bed
of wide torrents.
Of vergine, intact, wild
you restan the tops of mounts
the firs, the larici, the faggi,
the long valley of the Mello
that to every twilight, it seems,
it transforms its giant masses
in beasts of an ancestral era:
on pastures they go browsing
pacific, immovable. .erranti, .
between musics of waters and songs
. But this is a secret that it reveals
to those which they know to see
Or slow country from, ferrous one, to imbrunire.
( )
Valtelines Pecator - Maurizio Tiberi
(Poetry in Vernacolo Valtellinese)
To sò nassùt
pecator
but poet.
With them tears
in dell cöör
and inn of màà
'na matita that
to uolti the scrìff ciààr
and to uolti the scrìff scüür.
To sò nassùt
pecator
but poet.
With them steles de the nòcc
in of öcc
chìli de my Valtèlina.
Mine scàrsèla
the é full de böcc
but ùl destin
to but ago sciùùr
püsèè de cent king
Valtellinese sinner: Sinner/but poet has been born/. /With the tears/in the heart/and the hands/matita that/sometimes it writes clear/and sometimes writes dark. /Sinner/but poet has been born/. /With stars/of the night/in the eyes/those of my Valtellina. /My pocket/is full of holes/but the destiny/has made me rich/more than hundreds king.
( )
The thunderstorm - Mansueto Villa
Rabid it rolls to me on the back
the acciottolio of nocturne
summery thunder.
I stir to the thousands of the rain
the warm tears
of my sad source.
Recorded within the frontal bone
your ace
indelebile and far away.
Embraced to this pillow
imploro some hour of oblivion
till the torment
of the sun tomorrow.
( )
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