Corpus Domini

Pic found here

 

This my present is maybe described
using runes, so I can’t find its key
hidden into such alien strange seasons
full of mystery, dryness and shadows
 

Algorithms made by an abstract coldness,
betray each our human awareness,
liquefy any real essentials
and give up themselves to bestial instincts
 

Deviant morals gain day by day death
while our reason is pray of deep sleep
and so wavers and more monsters come.
Everything is due, claimed possession
 

The reality lies low as dream,
a delirium of insipid wishes.
Violence is so a normal thing
everywhere: echo and terrible scream
 

 
Existences
we shuffle around as in slippers:
only pale and blind shades
of those who lost their role in the world.
My Church seems also a joke
 

I’m a jump of acrobatic cripple
and pretend and hold me toward nothing
while each thing falls down all around here.
Make us real, me too. Give me sense

 

June, 27th 2017

 
Italian version

Stormy weather

 

pic by sellsworth, from here

Paris, London, Kabul, Teheran …

 

Stormy weather again on the lake
as the troubles I keep in my mind.
People run to look for some repair;
I still here wait for cool on my face
 

Stormy weather again in this world.
Someone somewhere is preparing wars
in the middle of eastern warm lands
where the mankind knew how to eat grain
 

Stormy weather again in lost towns
where no one understands to see sense
in his acts further what he can see
with his eyes or touch with his own hands
 

Stormy weather again in my soul,
in your one and wherever a man
or a woman can live or can stay.
Without horizon there all falls: rain

 

June, 6th 2017

 

Italian version

The rope

pics by JB 2017

 

Strange world, so different
from mine

All the skyline is changing: the city
is rebuilding herself without worry
about old stones. A church
sadly rests in the shadow

Over me there’s a climber, a worker
on an ice building made with glass, steel.
He clings on overhanging surfaces
without fear: in a thin rope he trusts

Strange people, so different
from mine

I like your so laborious constancy,
your smart way to be alive organised
I am only a poor provincial person
and can’t try to explain my sensations

I don’t know what you tell me while speak
your strange language or where is your God,
where you really are going toward,
what you quite want to build with your love

In the cold morning where I am walking
also I overhang all my claims
and a rope from above is my hope
to be safe despite bad, foolish drives

I am like those church wrecks on the tarmac
under new, haughty, bright towers now.
I beg that all these ropes can hold up
you and me. Can the hope bear our weight
 

London, April, 19th 2017

They come back

img_1822_web

photo by JB, 2017

Now, again, they come back
piercing soft mosses and dried twigs,
the life buds are a new erect sign,
a new spring maybe possible soon

fast

In my little, thin world,
where I live, in the plant rack, I see
in spite of the wind running still cold
something green now grows up young and strong

fast

Now, again, also I
could be back, as new hope of a start
in spite of all the world evil, strong
maybe spring does my beauty return

soon

February, 9th 2017

Italian translation

Catastrophes

 

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:

 

Catastrophes

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

Cologne and Regensburg

Now the beasts want mass rapes
also here,
while we silly
celebrate foolish rituals,
and we dance
within Europe
that is faltering, sleeping
that is missing.
They said "Use them anyway you want"
Anybody but women
and not muslim:
we.
Me.
It must not be said,
however,
in a war,
it is normal. It is regular, usual
and expected.
They did do their test.
Benedict
asked them at least clarity.
How did they want treat him?
And us, how?
Those who has no more face
those who lost their honour
and their faith,
those who buried their ideas
as the shit in the fields,
those who go on anyway
- and are only an illusion -
those who no more exist
have no voice and are waiting for death.
I'm so pissed for this
nasty state of affairs!
and for us and me too.
Where are you, girls and sisters?
So I prey, I hope so:
Our Lady, Holy Virgin, help us.




Italian version here

To …

William G. Congdon, Crocefisso 2, 1960

 

To all my brothers and my sisters.

To all the Christian people.

To all the men and the women under persecutions.

To all the humanity who lost herself.

This Vivaldi’s sweetness could enter soon in this our poor world.

Please, Jesus, resurrect now!