FROM GREECE: GIORGOS SEFERIS

Giorgos Seferiades (Seferis, nom de plume) ( ) (Smirne, 1900 - Atene, 20 september 1971) has been a Greek poet, Prize Nobel for the literature in 1963.

It studied Jurisprudence to Paris where it followed the father, insigne giurista and well-read. It is 1922 when in the slaughters of Anatolia every dream of Greek power dies. That disaster recorded deeply in the mind of the young person, than later on would have suffered in its poetry for all polulates and the civilizations in exile. It returned to Atene. It entered in the diplomatic corps. In 1941 it followed the risen ones of the Greek government to the Cairo. It had had to Paris intense relations in the artistic atmosphere. To London it was met with the poetry of Eliot who, through the translation that it made some several times helped, it to the definitive discovery of himself. Ours fine is sure, said the instruction of Kavafis, nevertheless the poetry is still useful asserted Seferis in a famous speech. Convinced that the abyss will be always a sink without bottom, it instead dared to sing the gelsomino that white man remains even if annotta.

Nobel for the literature in 1963 was insignito of the Prize.

Who raises hard sandstones strains to peak, its incisive words against every form of tyranny: these hard sandstones I raised end that I could/these hard sandstones I loved end that I could (from the Wikipedia site)

The last day

The day was gloomy. Nobody took decisions.
An light wind blew: It is not Greek, is sirocco
    it said someone.
Some lean cypress nailed to the declivity and the sea gray,
with lagoons of light, laggiù.
The soldiers introduced the crews when a rain came
    fine fine.
It is not Greek, is sirocco: the only decision that s'udì.
Also we knew, it that the next day we would not have had
more nothing, neither the woman who drinks to our flank the sleep,
neither the memory of being be men, once,
more nothing, the next day.

This wind gives spring idea said the friend to me
walking to me to flank and watching far away
of that spring that decreased unexpected
of winter near the closed sea.
Much unexpected one. Many last years. Like
we will die

It turned a funeral march in the thin rain.
How dies a man? Strange, nobody has thought to us.
And for who it has thought to us has been like a reminiscenza
of sure old reports
of the time of the crusaders or the naumachia of Salamina.

Also, the dead women are a thing that she succeeds: as she dies
a man?
Also, the dead women earn it to everyone, its dead women who
it is not of no other:
this game is the life.
It declined the light on the gloomy day. Nobody
it took decisions.
And the next day we would not have had more nothing: a total
yield; not even more our hands;
our enslaved women of aliens to the Fontanas
and our sons in the latomie.
Walking to me to flank a song sang the friend
cripple:
The spring, and then the summer, slaves
Masters came to the mind old who
they left orphans us.
A brace passed chatting:
The evening m'ha stew, we go to house,
we go to house to ignite the light.

***

From ITALY: ANDREA TEMPORELLI

As same it holds to say to us, Andrea Temporelli does not exist. This that exists is a book, the Mars sky, published from Einaudi in 2005, and a quarterly poetry review, Atelier. Why Andrea Temporelli does not exist? Simple, it is a pseudonym behind which Mark is hidden Merlin, 33enne of Borgomanero. I leave you to introduce from has made it who better than I could make, from Alex Cases, in its book review to the book on the review Poetry 2006.

The DEAD WOMEN ENTER In the EROS

A collection of Temporelli - to the registrar's office Mark Merlin - has been published in 1999 with this same title it from editions of the review Atelier, of which the poet it is founding and associate manager. It comes ripresentata now from a great publishing house like Einaudi, that it is truly happening for a poet been born in 1973 and therefore the still young one. Certainly, in the course of the years Andrea Temporelli it has been known to conquer with patience a public of readers and criti, demonstrating to a decidedly appreciable costanza and a engagement to us. On the anything but serene pseudonym - Andrea for a brother died before its birth, Temporelli as the last name of the passed away mother anch'essa - Umberto has said well Flowers speaking about double lapide and a consequenziale poetry that is constructed on this double loss.
The language of this poet does not arrive but from the lyric staff, intimista, but it reaches to the poetry of civil pain, of narrating introspection of a poet like Vittorio Serene, become master of a precise generation. From threatening esergo the sereniano one (I could/with this kill, with the single joy) brought back at the beginning, can be found a point of ideal departure, for a poetry that is constructed on the continuous fight for the survival. From a part the poet in its daily paper, in a framed existence public and privately, from the other part a series of figures sometimes vanished like the Fable child, other times clearer and delineated like the doctor protagonist in the song of Sergio. In these thirty poetries from the breath of a poemetto alternate narration gashes, the understatement prosastico one of the Lombardic line - like from quarter of cover - at moments of real philosophical volplanes that trasfigurano the story in abstract reasoning. Sometimes it succeeds also the contrary, like in the poetry that closes the collection, where part from an improbable image: Sometimes it happens (thinks next to the first man/on Mars) to find itself within to an angle/of the universe overflowed vergine and/of light, in order to arrive to a something more earthling, like a Prato, a parking, a courtyard. Remaining on this poetry, I could add like intrinsic characteristic, between meanings and meaning, a sense of ineluttabilità. A discovery that does not exist no place in which going or making return, does not change nothing if it does not have neither guilt neither merit, if it cannot be influenced in no way on the course of the things. This that must happen happens however: this me seems in synthesis the vision of the poet.
Also in the rhythm these poetries proceed with a inevitabilità sense: a bitter litania that it does not become macabra or grotesque, but remains fixed in backs sobri, nearly always sometimes mysterious. In they the rhymes - when there are - like in a cantilena become ipnotiche. In a poetry like the conspiracy, while three friends are seated to the bar discussing on the end of the 1900's, the poet declines the thought elsewhere: Even own now, in some angle/of the universe, dies/a planet or a molecule chain is formed incredible/. In the second part of the poetry foga of one of the three men in launch its proclama must itself/be said this that he knows, this that we know, appears in contrast with a become dimension by now irreale, where all he appears already marked, in the life like in the dead women.
Speaking about the job of Temporelli, Matteo Marchesini annotated on these pages that the dead women are indeed everywhere: like possibility, and therefore like task, in the sense of suspended sword, pervasivo dream to open eyes and to the contempo of responsibility of which it is necessary it is made loaded heideggeiramente. This continuous one to make the accounts with the margins of the life walking taken in the binary gift rhythm/and loss, never is not felt like threat, but like unavoidable consequence, if life and died for the poet is tied since the origin. The sereniana joy that can kill, is not a paradox, but the grip border line on which the poetry of Temporelli moves. I must confess that before reading these thirty poetries, these Serene backs of me seemed the premise to something of annoyance. The joy, a become departure point - and not conquest - could constitute the altar mellifluo from which pontificare on the life, like on the dead women, without it makes the accounts too much us, and the poet, feeling itself hard of this armor, could have said any thing. This impression is refutation to the reading.
Temporelli indeed writes of gift and loss with a responsibility sense, making truly the accounts with the dead women. Simply, for he it is all deciding, all is written and nothing, not even with the good purposes cannot be made. The dead women even enter in the eros: you seduci to me, but for a long time you have decided/my risen ones. Temporelli composes its poetries like a photographer who knows every detail of the photography that he has as soon as released, but he waits for the verification of the press. The slobbers - little for the book of a esordiente - are sometimes the focusing bad one of the details, and the pulls-up rhetoricals that surprise the reader in some passage, the vezzo that it comes, we say, feeling itself too much to the sure one on the land of the tradition. When Temporelli succeeds to leave from part this more high plan, and the responsibility remains tied to the vital obsessions of its poetry, the result is sure worthy of famous, and like in the beautiful poetry the voice and the time, the energy of the backs is referred directly to the force of the thought.

IN FIRST SLOWLY
	Proposed new: a page modernized monthly, in which showing new a poet of the Italian scene, and the international scene. 2° competition Literary Group classified Acàrya to under the 35. Expiration: 30 July 2007

The AcàryaUn 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
because they are with you.

Mariateresa Frigerio