Each bee



pic from here


A crucible of many clichés
dissolves me and I foolishly agree
as dull people who aim to be accepted.
So I too am perverting the words

The emotion stirs up any instinct
without producing reasons but cravings.
In the gloomy molasses of cheating
I am what I want be: only a bubble

I can see the evil spread in the world,
I am into it, part of it too.
The sense market alters me, as
when tobacco turns in smoke: poison

As a prostitute, I resell thinking,
while I’m mixing banal whim drives
with poor aims to be free: only dreams
Yes: each bee deeply hides only a wasp


February, 16th 2017


Italian version



Thank you Leda: without you this text, like other stuffs of mine, would be less correct as grammar…




I liked a lot the beautiful poem “Catastrofi” by Marina Raccanelli. When I talked about it with my dear friend Leda, she had the idea to translate the poem into English. We did it and Marina liked our work and gave us the permission to post it here.
Well, I was impressed because the tranlsation was very easy and also a first automatic translation made by Google had an interesting result: when I try to tralslate my own stuffs into Italian or into English, Google does not work well and to respect rhytms and sound (as far it is possible)  a lot of work needs.
That consideration is probably stricly connected with the nice style of Marina: she writes about very important matters but in way simple, immediate, very easy to understand (even Google understands her!). She writes using a lovely music but her rhytm is without any strict cage of metric. On the contrary, my own style is complicated, convoluted, rigidly trapped in the cage of decasyllables; the risult is the contrast between the beautiful poems of Marina and my poor attempts to do something.
Anyway, this is the poem of Marina, translated into English by Leda and me:



by Marina Raccanelli

There is someone who shouts in the silence
and the great house full of echoes
now is empty:
the eraser of time bleached white
peevish cheerful voices, sounds sung
chattering children and hoarse old man

I do not know where they went
and who I am, where I live

beyond the dark screen
this is the no man’s land
place of everything, home of anything –
I do not understand the languages of the crowds
nor their gestures, nor clothes, tattoos

and they swarm in absurd rituals –
while I wait for the anguish of the minutes
I am my land, I am nobody
and I go on along this long way
cut off, I don’t know for how long
from the deafening catastrophes


Translation by LedaEuropa and Judy Barton




The words are magic runes: they can build
dreams and wars, love and fate, fairy tales.
Upon ancestral seas they were lives
in the God’s blessing hands, on his mouth

So the Word was with God and was God:
When the Word entered time we were made.
Seven words were the last breath of Christ
while the holy cross took him from here.

Words are life, words are death: we are words
pasted with wishes, hopes, lies and pains.
As a joke I play poor silly words:
I need paint myself so, to not die

June, 7th 2015


The Italian version is here

Eugenio Corti died

corti funerale

Eugenio Corti died. I did not meet  him, but once I red his “The red horse” and after that I looked for all his books. I liked a lot his words, his way of write. Yesterday there was his funeral, and some friends of mines went there: I had to work.
It is not useful now talking about him, his literary and social importance; he is one of the most important Italian novelist and perhaps even more.
He is catholic, as me.
To remember him, a lover of words, of his people, of the Alps, of the music and especially of Christ, I post the translation of a beautiful song, sang during his funeral.

God of the sky (by Bepi de Marzi)

God of the sky, Lord of the mountain tops
from the mountain you claimed our friend

But we pray you, but we pray you:
high in the Heaven, high in the Heaven,
let he can go
onto your mountains.

Holy Mary, Lady of the snow,
cover with your white and soft mantle
our friend, our brother:
high in the Heaven, high in the Heaven,
let he can go
onto your mountains.

A gap


Between thoughts and my things I’ve a gap
where I fall slowly during the day
Night the night so I wait sliding dreams
shadow thin towards homeless strange hopes

Sometimes loose I my words and a gap
I can see in my sheets, into me
often see I a gap between us
                   anyway I’m a gap

4th June 2013

There’s a music



There’s a music and I see it now
while each tree runs around me in the country
and green grass looks at spring light and life
and I am in my car in this world

There’s a music in your love and I can
touch it like your warm skin and your face
or see it as your eyes and black hairs
and I am facing you and your soul

There’s a music, I know it, in the world
even in this my winter I hear it
so I try to put it in poor words
in this strange language as in the mine


27th March 2013

Why in English?

I’m silly, but not totally stupid; I’m proud but not blind: I know how bad is my English. I studied this language only at school and hardly ever I used it.
So, why to write in English?

I like writing in Italian, my language, and I have a lot of that my stuff; only a few of these stuffs was read by people different from me; only one people knows both me, the real me, and the author of my stuff. My stuff was never published before I started to be online in the web.
Yes: and what connection between the English and what I’m talking about?

I usually don’t think to what  I want to write: are my words to come to me while I’m doing something: I only write them to fix them.
It seems fool, but sometimes I had written word in English about some arguments because  I was ashamed to write them in Italian, the language I know and understand very well. For instance, it was so about some love stuff, or some erotic stuff.
It is fool, but started so.

Then, I made curious to the sound of my words in English; so, specially using Second Life, I listened to readings of English poetry. I liked a lot that sound, which I never heard before.
Well: I started to write sometimes in Italian and sometimes (trying and with a lot of errors) in English. I usually don’t translate my Italian stuff into English and vice versa, even if I tried doing so with a series of words inspired to Virginia Woolf’s The waves.
My English stuff, right or (most probably) wrong, is quite born as English stuff, not as translation.

Most of that English stuff is on this site and you can read it, if you don’t have better things to do.
I know how bad my English is: please, if you want, correct me. Help me.
Thank you.


Judy Barton at Plusia (Second Life), during the presentation of  her book “Mitla”.
She is the cat like girl in black.