Claudia Piccinno (Italy)

Claudia Piccinno

Dr. Claudia Piccinno (Italy)

 

Claudia Piccinno is a teacher, poet and translator, she lives and teaches in the north of Italy.  Operating in more than 100 anthologies, she’s member of the jury in many national and international literary prizes. She has been the Continental Director for Europe in the World Festival Poetry from April 2019 to september 2021, she represents Istanbul culture in Italy as Ambassador of Ist Sanat Art Association. She has published 41 poetry books, among her own poetry collections and other poets' translations into Italian language.

She was conferred with the most prestigious award “Stele of Rosetta” in Istanbul in 2016, the Literary Awards Naji Naaman Prize 2018, “World icon for peace” for Wip in Ondo city, Nigeria, in April 2017; Global Icon Award 2020 for Writers Capital International Foundation, The light of Galata, Turkey 2021, Sahitto International Jury Award, Bangladesh 2021,Aco Karamanov festival in Radovish,Macedonia,2021.

She gained almost 250 prizes in Italy for poetry and cultural merits. Her poem "In Blue" is played on a majolica stele posted on the seafront in Santa Caterina di Nardo (Le). She is European editor for the international literary magazine Papirus in Turkey and for Atunis Magazine international.

 She is responsible for poetry in the Italian magazine called Gazzetta of Istanbul, printed in Turkey by the Italian community. She writes for e-magazine and literature newspapers such as Menabò, Verbumpress, Il Porticciolo.

Her website is https://claudiapiccinno.weebly.com

 

1-     In the alphanumeric code

 

You didn’t know you were

in the alphanumeric code

of my every access.

Dates, anniversaries, memories

difficult to decipher.

How anonymous is your face

behind a screen.

Quiet is the glitter

of the look.

Extinguished is my smile

of circumstance.

I receive every day

love letters

poems that swell

the book of flatterers.

I read them without surprise,

I catalog them in a protocol

which looks like a reptile house.

I prepare myself for silence.

My mind is looking for coolness

of an Augustan night and

everything else is noise.

 

 

2-     The art of subtracting

 

I’m learning the art of substracting

For a long time I have put in place forgetfulness,

I slavishly ignore names and surnames,

I mix the dates, I take out square roots

that decrease pain.

I wonder how many brackets I will have to solve

before finding the specific gravity of that boulder

that obstructs lightness to my heart.

I rely on automatisms and inertia

every time I lose my words,

I try to prove a statement

without memorized formulas,

I am reminded of the theory of variables

and I persist in looking for the x

lightening the constants

that will never equal the give and take.

 

---

Setu, November 2022

Women Poetry: Claudia Piccinno, Italy

Exclusive: Women Poetry: Edited by Padmaja Iyengar-Paddy

Claudia Piccinno

A STONE SPHINX

If even in this moment of connection

You decided to go away

I would understand…

If I kept writing with harassing pen,

and this fact would harm you,

I would stop.

If a microbe drags you away

on other shores

where interlocutors are not allowed,

as a stone sphinx I would become a wall.

New words are falling down as raindrops

without any sense, in order to measure

this emptiness that speaks outstandingly

waiting for a verse.

***

FROM THE MONOLOGUE OF CASSANDRA

The Carnival looks out at the same piece of sea,

right there where I could have been happy.

Foam of alchemical feeling carried me away

from everyday pain.

But then I went back to the crime scene

with the little lantern in order to not hurt me .

And yet the same crazy splinters

of an omnipresent love they rip old wounds

And it was only fault of my steps

trained themselves to reiterate trust

in the most sterile of illusions,

that of being loved despite my weaknesses.

***

Claudia Piccinno  is the Continental Director for Europe in the World Festival Poetry, and represents Istanbul culture in Italy as Ambassador of Ist Sanat Art Association. She has to her credit 36 published poetry collections that also include translations by her into Italian. A recipient of several awards and prizes notably: Naji Naaman Prize-2018 and Global Icon Award 2020 by Writers Capital International Foundation. Her poem "In Blue" is played on a majolica stele posted on the seafront in Santa Caterina di Nardo (Le). She is European editor for the international literary magazine Papirus in Turkey and for Atunis Magazine international.

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The Myth of Medusa Deconstructed :: Setu, March 2021

Ali Gunvar poems

Born in 1953 in İzmir, Ali Günvar graduated from the Faculty of Architecture, Istanbul Technical University (1978). He was one the founders of Üç Çiçek – Three Flowers magazine. (1983). In 1986, he published Şiir Atı – Poetry Horse books at the Şiir Atı Publishing. From 1978 on, his poems and prose writings have appeared in magazines such as Birikim, Yazko Edebiyat, Yazko Eleştiri, Yazko Felsefe, Gösteri, Oluşum, Poetika, Üç Çiçek, Şiir Atı, İmge / Ayrım, Sombahar, Bürde, Yedi İklim, Kitap Zamanı, Est et Non, İpek Dili, and Kök Şiir.

His poetry collections: Çarpık Hüzünler Kantatı – Cantata of Distorted Melancholy (1984), Anthropomorphus (1987), Eyzan (1997), Nisyan/Rapsodi – Oblivion/Rhapsody (2002), Ricatlar Kitabı – The Book of Retreats (2013).

Prose: Doğru Yazılar – Straightforward Writings (1999 - 2017).

---

Lorca’ya

kargış sone

durdum... göveren sîm ağacın gölgesi ılgın

bir gündüzü beklerdi, çiçeklerle bezenmiş...

siccînde uyanmış gibi korkunçtu siren... çün

bâzîçe yıkık burçlarımızdan düşüvermiş

solgun tını... heyhat! ne bir işmâr, ne işâret,

her şey kaçınılmaz sona doğru akıyorken...

vurgun yedi genç günlerimiz... ah gül umarsız...

koylarda telâşsız gemiler battı... liman boş...

baktık ki dilârâ bize düşman... ve sularda

şol tekdüze im kendini tekrar ediyordu...

suskundu semâvât... hem o sonsuz kızıl akşam

yorgun ve tedirgin dönüşümlerle yıkıldı...

câm sırları gizlerken ufuklarda kırık... k'ey!

kargışlı duvaklarla donanmıştı visalin...

for Lorca

cursing sonnet

i stop… the shadows of silver trees

turning blue wait for a laureated morn

scary is the siren awakened in a deep hell valley…

our games are as faded timbers falling down

the ruined bastions… alas! neither a gesture left,

nor a sign when everything flows towards its doom…

crippled are my young days… o! hopeless rose

calm vessels sink down in the bays… empty ’s

the harbor… i see… my beloved is my enmy…

the same image repeats itself on the water’s surface…

silenced are the heavens… and the infinitely red dusk

is abolished with tired and gumbling rotations…

when the broken glass hides the mystries at the skyline…

o, sand islands! reunions decorated with cursed veils…

per Lorca

sonetto maledetto

mi fermo... le ombre degli alberi d'argento

mentre diventano blu aspettano una mattinata da premio

spaventosa è la sirena svegliata in una valle infernale profonda...

i nostri giochi sono come legni sbiaditi che cadono

i bastioni in rovina... ahimè! né un gesto è rimasto,

né un segnale di quando tutto scorreva incontro al destino...

paralizzati sono i miei giovani giorni... o! rosa senza speranza

navi calme affondano nelle baie... vuote

il porto... comprendo che... la mia amata è il mio nemico...

la stessa immagine si riflette sulla superficie dell’acqua...

silenziati sono i cieli... e il crepuscolo infinitamente rosso

viene abolito con rotazioni stanche e sgretolate...

quando occhiali rotti nascondono i misteri all’orizzonte...

o, isole di sabbia! Gli incontri li decoravano con veli maledetti...

francisco sanchez gomez'e sone

ağır ahşap kapı aralığından,

uykusu kaçmış bir rumba

dökülür sokağa çiçekli notalarla...

tül hafifliğiyle perdeler

üzerinde gezinen parmaklar

iner sessizliğe dolunay geceleri

şimdi belirsiz köşelerinde

algeciras'ın, her çocuk

bir  paco de lucia'dır.

kuşkulu gözlerle bakar

sisleri arasından geçmiş âfâkın.

bir nağme ışıltısı... entre dos aguas...

tumturaklı akdeniz kıvraklığı

tutuşturur tuzlu tellerin melodilerini.

sonnet for francisco sanchez gomez

a rumba bereft of its sleep

pours out its blooming notes onto the street

through a heavy, half open wooden gate…

fingers wandering on frets

sheer as a tulle go down

on the silence of the fullmoon nights

now at the ambiguous corners

of algeciras every child

is paco de lucia,

glancing doubtfully through

the mists of the bygone horizons.

a melodious glitter… entre dos aguas…

a pompous mediterranean agility

sets fire to the melodies of salty chords

sonetto per francisco sanchez gomez

una rumba priva del suo sonno

riversa le sue note in fiore sulla strada

attraverso un pesante cancello di legno semiaperto...

dita che vagano sui tasti

pure come un tulle che scende

nel silenzio delle notti di luna piena

ora negli angoli ambigui

di Algeciras ogni bambino

è Paco di Lucia,

che dà un'occhiata dubbiosa

attraverso la nebbia degli orizzonti passati.

uno scintillio melodioso ... entre dos aguas ...

una pomposa agilità mediterranea

dà fuoco alle melodie degli accordi salati

Claudia Piccinno’ya

pervâsız sone

fersiz dağılır akşama sesler.

rûhundaki bîçâre hevesler-

-den yankılanırsa da pesler,

kalbin acı sürgünleri besler.

pürhûn, menevişlerdeki rûyâ

yorgun yüreğinde mücellâ

ıssızlığı yaydıkça havâya,

sarsar seni ürperti ve îmâ...

bellek ki, hazırdır yanılırken

can vermeye... sislerde ferâmuş

düşler açılır... yankılı meltem

gündüzleri sessizce savurmuş-

-tur. yaz, ağır akşamda yanarken,

ifşâ eder esrârını hâmuş...

for Claudia Piccinno

reckless sonnet

lusterless sounds spread into vesper tine.

your heart feeds bitter exiles

when the bass sound echoes

in the wretched enthusiasm of your soul.

as the bloody dream in the moire

spreads the polished desolation

of your tired heart into the air,

shudder and allusion rock you…

memory’s ready to perish when

it blunders… forgotten dreams unfold

in mist… echoing breeze

hurls the morning without a sound.

while burning all through the evening,

summer silently reveals its mysteries.

by Ali Gunvar

sonetto audace

Suoni opachi si diffondono al pomeriggio.

Il tuo cuore nutre amari esili

quando il suono dei bassi riecheggia

nell'afflitto entusiasmo della tua anima.

Come il sanguinoso sogno nelle venature

si diffonde nell'aria la lucida desolazione 

del tuo cuore stanco ,

fremiti e allusioni ti sconvolgono...

La memoria è pronta a svanire quando

prende un abbaglio... i sogni dimenticati si rivelano

nella nebbia... una brezza che rimanda l'eco

scaglia il mattino senza emettere alcun suono.

Brucia  tutto durante la sera,

l'estate rivela silenziosamente i suoi misteri.

Setu, May 2020

Dante Maffia: Translated from Italian by Claudia Piccinno

Dante Maffìa

Dante Maffìa was indicated by Aldo Palazzeschi and Leonardo Sciascia who, with Dario Bellezza, considered him "one of the happiest poets of modern Italy". This opinion is also shared by Magris, Bodei, Ferroni, Pontiggia, Brodskji, Vargas Llosa, Dario Fo, Borges. It is translated into 18 languages. He won the Awards: "Montale", "Gatto", "Stresa", "Viareggio", "Alvaro", "Matteotti", "Camaiore", "Tarquinia Cardarelli", "Circe Sabaudia", "Rhegium Julii", "Alda Merino ". "Eminescu". In 2004, Ciampi then President of the Italian Republic awarded him with a gold medal for cultural merits. The Regional Council of Calabria, the Spinelli, Guarasci, Farina, Di Liegro and Crocetta Foundations, and the University of Craiova, nominated him for the Nobel Prize. The volume of the Conference Proceedings held on his work, Ti presento Maffia, edited by Rocco Paternostro published by Aracne of Rome, is recent. He received the Honoris Causa degree from the Pontifical University.

---

Claudia Piccinno

Translator: Claudia Piccinno

Elsewhere

Elsewhere is me, that's why
I can not find
the years of youth.
I try to tidy up
poking in the waste bins
and I see that the corrupt angels
ended up in rags.
I smile at the fury of the vagueness

that I chased to possess the Truth,
the link to join me to God ...
But nothing ... only the pain of Absence,
the Loss, the Fade
that made me a stupid elsewhere.

Sometimes I pretend to be the Elsewhere
I wrote Jerusalem and Comedy
and I pretend I don't need
to exist, to have duties,
and I don't listen to the Acheron.
Other times I enjoy existing without existing,
like a child making his soap bubbles.
Don’t spy in my house,
be careful, you may lose your name,
you may become  an elsewhere with the lowercase.

***

L’ALTROVE

L’Altrove sono io, ecco perché
non riesco a trovare
gli anni della giovinezza.
Tento di riordinare
frugando nei cestini dei rifiuti
e vedo che gli angeli corrotti
sono finiti in stracci.
Sorrido alla furia delle vaghezze che inseguii
per possedere la Verità,
il nesso per congiungermi a Dio…
Ma niente… solo il dolore dell’Assenza,
la Perdita, la Dissolvenza
che di me fecero un altrove stupido.

A volte m’illudo che essendo l’Altrove
ho scritto la Gerusalemme e la Commedia
e che non ho bisogno
d’esistere, d’avere doveri,
e non dare retta all’Acheronte.
Altre volte mi diverto ad esistere senza esistere,
come un bambino che fa le bolle di sapone.
Non spiate mai nella mia casa,
siate prudenti, potreste perdere il vostro nome,

diventare un altrove con la minuscola.

----------

ANNA ACHMATOVA to MODIGLIANI            

PARIS

1910

You didn't hide the shadows,

the wounds, the tame sharks

in the heart, the flattery placed

on the broken window sill.

Under that window the hyenas gathered,

they defied the moon, they tormented it

with belches and insults; clumsy singsong

like brush strokes impressed with remorse.

Could I not have loved you right away?

Could I have left you in the open

and without my hands on your forehead?

Modì, now it's late at night

In the Russia of frost and memories;

punishment is now the voice of the devil

and nothing can fill the disaster of

Your absence that barks and hurts.

I shouldn't have abandoned you,

your colors told me, rainbows

that you gave me they warned me,

also the shadows and the barking of the dogs

when we came back late at night

holding each other up, singing Baudelaire.

My body was united with yours

like a blade that while cutting gives shape

a new order, the supreme truth.

Volcanoes know of love like this,

the witches of the virgin forests,

the Ural wind when it becomes glass

I left. Silly, afraid,

foolish, foolish, broken, helpless, unprepared

to enjoy the tales of the abyss,

the stars that owls stole from the sky.

Forgive me, Modì, I couldn't stand the impact,

the pawing of wild herds

that ran wild inside you.

I should have drank the Seine, swallowed the Louvre,

your old sweaty shirt,

the bottles you crushed

against the irons of the Eiffel Tower.

I had to have the courage that Jeanne had at the end.

Forgive me, Modì, I was too young a girl,

too crazy about you and already married.

I went back, you were already another; I deserve this agony

in the grayness of Petersburg without your colors.

***

ANNA ACHMATOVA A MODIGLIANI
PARIGI 
1910

Non nascondesti le ombre,
le ferite, gli squali addomesticati
nel cuore, le lusinghe poggiate
sul davanzale rotto della finestra.

Sotto quella finestra si riunivano le iene,
sfidavano la luna, la martoriavano
di rutti e d’insulti; cantilene maldestre
come pennellate impresse con rimorso.

Avrei potuto non amarti subito?
Avrei potuto lasciarti all’addiaccio
e privo delle mie mani sulla fronte?
Modì, adesso è notte fonda

nella Russia di gelo e di ricordi;
adesso la pena è voce del demonio
e niente può colmare il disastro
della tua assenza che latra e fa male.

Non avrei dovuto abbandonarti,
i tuoi colori me lo dicevano, gli arcobaleni
che mi davi me lo sconsigliavano,
anche le ombre e il latrare dei cani

quando tornavamo a notte fonda
reggendoci a vicenda, cantando Baudelaire.
Il mio corpo era unito al tuo
come una lama che tagliando plasma

un nuovo assetto, la verità suprema.
Un amore così lo conoscono i Vulcani,
le streghe delle Foreste Vergini,
il vento degli Urali quando diventa vetro.

Sono andata via. Sciocca, impaurita,
sciocca, sciocca, scornata, indifesa, impreparata
a godere le favole degli abissi,
le stelle che le civette rubavano al cielo.

Perdonami, Modì, non ho retto l’impatto,
lo scalpitare delle mandrie selvagge
che dentro di te correvano scatenate.
Dovevo bere la Senna, ingoiare il Louvre,

la tua vecchia camicia con il tuo sudore,
le bottiglie che frantumavi
scagliandole sui ferri della Torre Eiffel.
Dovevo avere il coraggio che poi ha avuto Jeanne.

Perdonami, Modì, ero troppo ragazza,
troppo pazza di te e già sposata.
Tornai, eri già un altro; merito quest’agonia

nel grigio di Pietroburgo priva dei tuoi colori.

Setu, May 2020

Poetry: Claudia Piccinno (Italy)

Exclusive European Poetry: Curated by Agron Shele

Claudia Piccinno

Claudia Piccinno

cippinna@hotmail.com

Claudia Piccinno born in Lecce in 1970, she moved very young in Lombardy and then in Emilia Romagna (north east of Italy) where he she currently lives and teaches in a primary school. Operating in more than sixty anthologies, she’s a former member of the jury in many national and international literary prizes. She has published “La sfinge e il pierrot”, Aletti Editore, 2011 “Potando l’euforbia” in Transiti Diversi, Rupe Mutevole Edizioni, 2012 “Il soffitto, cortometraggi d’altrove”, La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni, 2013 With english version also “Il soffitto, cortometraggi d’altrove” La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni maggio 2014 – in serbian “Tabahnha” ed.Majdah luglio 2014. – “Ragnatele Cremisi”- La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni, settembre 2015.Honorary member of the non-profit “With the eyes of Geggio” association.she chaired the jury of the contest of drawings “From your eyes to the pencil”facing the young patients of the children’s hospitals throughout the country and ended in April 2015.She has participated in numerous poetry readings and marathons, including those held in Bologna for the International 100 poets for change.Author foreground with effect in June 2015 the World Group Pentasi B ,she works to promote poetry based on respect and appreciation of differences. Scholastic referent land for education at reading. She has received awards in major national and international competitions of poetry, (including a mention of honour in the Paris 1st Word Literary Prize); her poem “In Blue” is on a majolica stele posted on the seafront in Santa Caterina di Nardo (Le).

---

And now it's winter

She didn't deserve sloth or sadness.
But by now she knows that
her triumph of emotions
never knew reciprocity.
It was the dazzling
of another dimension,
an inthymate need for an escape.
And it will pass
like a meteor on an August night,
because the happiness
is the illusion of fools.
And now it's winter.
***

Roaring rails

Filters the light from the cirrus
in the interspace of parallel solitudes.
Accomplice the sea to muffle silences
to the looks of the absent-minded traveler
his nose is overlooking from roaring rails
to steal any lost perfumes.
The fence reminds me how long the winter is
in the heart of our Europe ...
***

UP HOUR X

If I could sit in the hollow of your arms
like a mollusk in a concave shell
without thoughts or anxieties to obey.
If I could believe in fairy tales,
in Trilly's magic dust.
If only I could count happy commitments,
instead of filling out health bulletins.
If ... If ... If ...
Infinite and the ramble of mind
when prospects are others.
I have counted the reserves for the winter
that you had accumulated in the garage
and I wonder if they will be enough
until the hour x.
What a heavy load you left us,
the preparations for another farewell.

Setu, December 2019

Claudia Piccinno, ITALY

NERINA

Nerina rode her bike,
pretending to be in a little hurry.
The shots touched her saddle,
her heart creaked in the trash.
She swallowed messages
and ink many times
in order that the words
were not extracted from her.
She did not like to remember
her fear while running in the barn,
the adrenaline of dissent
shone in her eyes
and euphoria of the revolution
was swinging.
This epitaph Nerina wanted
- I did not do anything special
the strength of emancipation
it must be our habitual courage.-

(This poem is about Italian women who helped partisans to free their country from German soldiers during 2nd World War)


ASPASIA 

As Aspasia with Pericles,
on binary complementary systems,
she aspired to be half of the double
when she realized to be half of nothing.
The study of letters
and her dreams in the drawer
were not enough to stay in the circuit.
Even if she was an infinitesimal particle
of an only feeling,
she was considered without soul and without honor,
disregarding joys and promises.
The "don't leave me" that Pericles screamed at her,
contradicted by calculations and fractions,
was a very bitter gall for her dignity.
Herodotus, Socrates, and Phidias
wanted her,
but Pericles did not oppose the Athenians,
who pointed out to the pillory
the only lady who
would never feel shame
of being true and honest.

(The poet says, she wrote this poem thinking about the old Greek leader Pericle and her partner Aspasia)


CRUCIFIED BY SHOULDERS 

Circular volutes
in the slanders of others
put her by shoulders on a cross.
She died thus,
stoned by lies,
vilified by the women of her team.
Proud her eyes turned to the Eternal,
for all the witches who ended up at the stake,
for all the martyrs of the mediocrity of others.
She denied her smile to those who pointed out at her
wearing the burka of submission.
She left like that,
crucified by shoulders.

(This is a poem about moral injuries and real female killings perpetrated with complicity of jealous women)


Claudia Piccinno (b.1970), a primary school teacher, is the first Italian poetess to be awarded The Stelae of Rosetta, World Literary Prize in Istanbul in November 2016. She was conferred the prestigious “World Icon for Peace” Award by WIP in Ondo city, Nigeria, in April 2017 and the Naji Naaman Literary Prize-2018, LibenoShe has 7 published books to her credit and is the Italian Editor for the international literary magazine Rosetta World Literatura in Turkey and for Atunis Magazine in Albania. She has received awards in major national and international competitions of poetry, including an honourable mention in the Paris 1st Word Literary Prize and a 3rd prize in Lugano, Switzerland, 3rd prize in Albania. She strives to promote poetry based on respect and appreciation of differences. Claudia’s poems have been published in over 100 international anthologies and translated into Arabic, Spanish, Turkish, Serbian, French, Chinese, Hindi, Greek and Polish languages.

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Women, Power & Creativity :: Setu, March 2019

Poetry: Claudia Piccinno, Italy

Exclusive: Poetry from Europe and other Western locations: Curated by Agron Shele

Claudia Piccinno

Claudia Piccinno

cippinna@hotmail.com

Claudia Piccinno born in Lecce in 1970,  she moved very young in Lombardy and then in Emilia Romagna (north east of Italy) where he she currently lives and teaches in a primary school. Operating in more than sixty anthologies,  she’s a former member of the jury in many national and international literary prizes. She has published “La sfinge e il pierrot”, Aletti Editore, 2011 “Potando l’euforbia” in Transiti Diversi, Rupe Mutevole Edizioni, 2012 “Il soffitto, cortometraggi d’altrove”, La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni, 2013 With english version also “Il soffitto, cortometraggi d’altrove” La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni maggio 2014   – in serbian “Tabahnha” ed.Majdah luglio 2014.   – “Ragnatele Cremisi”- La Lettera Scarlatta Edizioni, settembre 2015.Honorary member of the non-profit “With the eyes of Geggio” association.she chaired the jury of the contest of drawings “From your eyes to the pencil”facing the young patients of the children’s hospitals throughout the country and ended in April 2015.She has participated in numerous poetry readings and marathons, including those held in Bologna for the International 100 poets for change.Author foreground with effect in June 2015 the World Group Pentasi B ,she works to promote poetry  based on respect and appreciation of differences. Scholastic referent  land for education at reading. She has received awards in major national and international competitions of poetry, (including a mention of honour in the Paris 1st Word Literary Prize); her  poem “In Blue” is on a majolica stele posted on the seafront in Santa Caterina di Nardo (Le).

 The ceiling

Elsewhere short films

on my ceiling,

as at a silent cinema.

Butterfly trapped

in the amber… it’s my mind.

They weigh as a condemnation

to the eternal lack of love

those caresses ever bestowed.

I stand

in my body shortages

despite an intimate wandering

changes in pollen my thoughts.

Blankets of oblivion

Arms lengthen themselves,

hands intertwine,

fingers that scratch

to pierce

a melancholy tulle.

Sharp and gaunt branches

look for the blue of the day

buried under blankets of oblivion.

Chinese shadows dance

reflected in the mirror

of a suspended sky

between how it is

and how it would like to be!

Mare Nostrum

Ode to you

liquid cradle for the dreamers,

“Muse” for painters and for novelists,

“Promised land”

for seagulls and fishermen!

Ode to you

silent mirror

for rebels and for pioneers,

“Caronte”

for the inflatable boats of strangers!

Disturbed is your frenetic pulsing

because of the dross of the nuclear power plant.

Ode to the sparkling laughters

of bathers!

Ode to the tickle

that Grecale and Maestrale

test on the innocence of the wave.

Deaf and mute are the consciences

of the brave nocturnal helmsmen.

Ode to you, Mare Nostrum,

ode to your improvising yourself

pentagram of a several voices chorus,

sounding box of quick lullabies,

main road of hope,

vibrant warning to avoid the mattanza.

Setu, May 2018