Women In Art by Philip Scott Johnson

Damned girls!

Young Leaders of the Pack -

let yourself be fascinated by the intense, deep stare of this most young man

O mito della conquista

O amore che muovi ogni cazzo

Verso le altezze

O mito della conquista

Innamori cavalieri e cani,

O donna portatrice di sogno,

Alziamo gli occhi e vediamo

O mito che rendi la donna torre,

Che governi le maree che scelgono

Coloro che saranno.

Halvhari

Waterboarding

I want to find some information about what is Amnesty International demanding. Before to hope for human-rights groups to be successful in their fight, and actually succeed in making waterboarding part of the past, it should be carefully considered whether this is a good thing.

Immediately after new regulations came into force, torture professionals would immediately find new, more cunning and hidden ways to perform their soul-shrinking job.


The option of tolerating waterboarding cannot be compared to accepting torture.
One thing is a policy which aims at solving the issues linked to governmental violence, and one thing is assessing the least evil. To me, the choice MIGHT be between knowing WHAT they do to special prisoners, and NOT knowing anymore, until in some years the public opinion will be informed of the new method.
More cunning ways of torturing prisoners might favour the development of chemical drugs,
mind-altering and brain-washing practices, in addition to more imaginative approaches which I can't think of but they can.

I was having a conversation with a friend about this.
The core point seems to be the ethic vs real politik clash: we know we cannot realistically put an end to torture as a practice: I wonder what any of us would do in a worst-case scenario, if he was entitled to decide whether to torture or not a prisoner who knows for instance where a bomb is located

On the other hand, a democratic mind-set cannot accept the practice of torture without renouncing its social principles, or at least creating a precedent for further exceptions to Western Standard Ethics.

Unable to carry out a thourough analysis, and very uncertain about the ways the world goes and should go, me and WB began listing some tortures, present and past. How can a torture be better or worse than another? It is just torture. Yet, if the degree of injustice does not change, what changes is the rate of physical brutality.

Cutting and mutilating are gone in the west, as most techniques which permanently damaged the body of the victim. Psychic traumas and consequences are many, unfathomable and varying from case to case.

Certainly between waterboarding and most other types of torture, I would be induced to think that waterboarding probably is the least traumatic both physically, and mentally too, for I guess there must be some direct proportion between the physical pain endured and the extent of the mental trauma: this certainly is not true generally, as I said I am just jotting down some uninvestigated ideas.

I have a very poor opinion of desicion-makers around the world, and am very jaded about most things happening recently. So I expect to see something fixed out of good intentions, and then distorted into something even worse. Any action for prisoners should be sure that the reaction, however righteous, won't worsen their actual conditions.

here you can find out more: http://waterboarding.org/
and in this washington post article

Leaking Out - 1

I F
stoned,
high,

drunk, drive
jacked up,

iiit's "thinking bit: avoid" TIME!

Listening activities, cook, sing:
If I take pictures and rationalise them,
maybe I can help the painful bit.


If I wait, and, and.

Halvhari

anti reggaeton en contra del degrado musical

Please join with wholeheartedness the World Against Raggaeton community!

One guy who's got patience

Britain's worst professional tennis player finally wins his first match after 54 consecutive defeats

British tennis player Robert Dee won his first game after 54 defeats in a row

He has spent three years and £200,000 striving to be Britain's next Big Hope for Wimbledon glory.

But after losing every one of his 54 professional matches, Robert Dee had the dubious honour of being the world's worst player – until now.

The 21-year-old from Bexley, Kent, today told of his relief and delight at finally tasting victory.

He beat American Arzhang Derakhshani in two sets, 6-4 6-3, on Saturday in a qualifying match at a Futures tournament near Barcelona.

But his winning streak did not last long – he lost his next game the following day.

Having turned professional in 2005, Mr Dee had previously never even won a set at tournaments in countries as diverse as Rwanda, Iran and Colombia.

Speaking from his training camp in La Manga in southern Spain, Mr Dee, who despite the victory has still not collected any prize money, told the Evening Standard: “Now I have my first win I just need to push on and get a second one.

“It is only in the past few months I thought I could beat some of these people. I just knew I could do it.

“This is only a small step on a very long journey. I am very determined. I never thought about giving up. I always knew I had more in me and I would always improve.”

Mr Dee, educated at fee-paying Eltham College, entered the record books as tennis's worst player after losing his 54th consecutive match earlier this year.

The Guatemalan player Diego Beltranena had also gone 54 matches without a win between 1997 and 2005 but in those eight years had at least won the odd set.

Mr Dee had played 108 straight sets in the professional game without winning one, until Saturday.

At match point against Derakhshani, Mr Dee admitted to nerves. “I didn't think about winning the match until I was 5-1 up.

“I had a match point but didn't take it. I then had a really poor service game and started to worry a little but managed to pull through,” he recalled.

Mr Dee – who began his professional tennis career at 17 and is funded by his parents – then phoned home to tell of his success.

He said: “I phoned my parents straight away. I told my mum I had lost again.

“Then I said 'put dad on' and I told him I had won. For me it was a little bit of a relief. I knew I could do it but there were times when I wondered.”

He now hopes his world ranking – which had peaked at 1,466th but is currently non-existent – will start to improve.

Mr Dee's father, Alan, managing director of shipping firm Bell International, said: “It is a tribute to his perseverance.

“He doesn't drink. he trains five hours a day. He is an absolute tribute for any young tennis player.”

The article is from Thisislondon

The Celebrated Jumping Frog

This short-story by Mark Twain has got an extraordinary side-story, an appendix, definetely a must for any translator.

Let me summarise the plot. Uf. This is the wiki: "The narrator retells a story he heard from a bartender, Simon Wheeler, at the Angels Hotel in Angels Camp, California, about the gambler Jim Smiley. Twain describes him: "If he even seen a straddle bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get to—to wherever he going to, and if you took him up, he would foller that straddle bug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road."

Now, apart from the humour in the actual story, Mark Twain says he ran into a French version of his story, and presents a word-by-word translation of the French text. You can find it here together with the original.
I actually read this story for the first time in Italian, and was rather amused by thinking at how the Italian translator had to work around this complex knot of languages and humour.
The work however was so good I almost find funnier the French-to-Italian literal translation than Mark Twain's.
His version ends with the following words:

"Such is the Jumping Frog, to the distorted French eye. I claim that I never put together such an odious mixture of bad grammar and delirium tremens in my life. And what has a poor foreigner like me done, to be abused and misrepresented like this? When I say, “ Well, I do’t see no ’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog,” is it kind, is it just, for this Frenchman to try to make it appear that I said, “Eh bien! I no saw not that that frog had nothing of better than each frog”? I have no heart to write more. I never felt so about anything before. "

Maybe one morning

Maybe one morning, walking in a dry air of glass

I’ll look back and see the miracle happen:

Blank, the void behind,

Like a drunkard’s terror


Then, like on a screen, houses, hills, trees will rush

And cram together to stage the usual trick.

But too late, and I’ll leave and walk on silent

Amid men who turn not back, with my secret

Forse un mattino - by Eugenio Montale

Forse un mattino andando in un’aria di vetro,
arida, rivolgendomi vedrò compirsi il miracolo:
il nulla alle mie spalle, il vuoto dietro
di me, come un terrore di ubriaco.

Poi come s’uno schermo, s’accamperanno di gitto
alberi case colli per l’inganno consueto.
Ma sarà troppo tardi; ed io me n’andrò zitto
tra gli uomini che non si voltano, col mio segreto.

Maybe one morning, walking in dry, glassy air,
I’ll turn and see the miracle occur:
nothing at my back, the void
behind me, with a drunkard’s terror.

Then, as if on a screen, trees houses hills
will suddenly assemble for the usual illusion.
But it will be too late, and I’ll walk on silent
among the men who don’t look back, with my secret.

(from Eugenio Montale, Collected Poems 1920-1954, bilingual edition, translated and annotated by Jonathan Galassi, Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, New York, 1998)

Among my favourite authors, and among the most groud-breaking Italian poets, Montale touched my imagination and permanently changed my way to look at poetry.
I am in love with this very famous piece for a reason you might find strange: it reminds me of cyberpunk, or in better words, it sounds to me like the writing of a poet from the future much more than from the past: its references to screens and emptyness (how not to think to cyberspace, to some scenes from "the matrix"), the jaded persuasion of inhabiting an illusion...I make very far-fetched links probably hehehe...


If you wish to find out more about Montale's poetry, you could start from here

SPY TUNES - by Greg Pattillo

I am so glad someone gifted thought beatboxes could go on a flute. On top of my mind there's just Jethro Tull. Today is one of the first days of real nice weather. Greg Pattillo perfectly matches with a cold Fransziskaner.

Another real good video by Greg Pattillo is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GMUlhuTkM3w&feature=related

Telamin! Telamin!

Telamin! Telamin!

O Fashioned by Zoos,

Mad as a Wolf,

Weeniest of Childe

keenest insight

king in itself

He knows no rest

His peace is a fumble

at war. He wishes to portray

dishes on a tray, flinging a staircase.

Sother: the father of nather,

how it mexes the words,

enthusing old shards,

fills - how amazing he is -

the beautiful stars

It gathers the mothers

musical tits appear on sunrise

it brothers decaders,

decoders’s dicasters

All ship it

but no one uses it, the plenty

of words decreases of world this

crisis of world’s decreases of words

it’s crisis.

When was it done in the premises’

den: so the acorns

become oaks and a cornish bell

reminds it us all.

How it mexes with the words

enthusing all shards

so gentle

gentle to walk, under a summery sky,

in the cynnamon mazes

How it mexes the words

enthusing all shards

so gentle

gentle to walk, under a summery sky,

in the cynnamon mazes

Halvhari

Belarusian I - by Valzhyna Mort

translated by Franz Wright and Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright. I read today this piece for the first time. Love the first stanza. even our mothers have no idea how we were born how we parted their legs and crawled out into the world the way you crawl from the ruins after a bombing we couldn't tell which of us was a girl or a boy we gorged on dirt thinking it was bread and our future a gymnast on a thin thread of the horizon was performing there at the highest pitch bitch we grew up in a country where first your door is stroked with chalk then at dark a chariot arrives and no one sees you anymore but riding in those cars were neither armed men nor a wanderer with a scythe this is how love loved to visit us and snatch us veiled completely free only in public toilets where for a little change nobody cared what we were doing we fought the summer heat the winter snow when we discovered we ourselves were the language and our tongues were removed we started talking with our eyes when our eyes were poked out we talked with our hands when our hands were cut off we conversed with our toes when we were shot in the legs we nodded our heads for yes and shook our heads for no and when they ate our heads alive we crawled back into the bellies of our sleeping mothers as if into bomb shelters to be born again and there on the horizon the gymnast of our future was leaping through the fiery hoop of the sun

Deep Kick

How not to quote the beautiful opening of Deep Kick by RHCP?

It started when we were little kids.
Free spirits, but already tormented by our own hands
given to us by our parents.
We got together and wrote on desks
and slept in laundry rooms near snowy mountains
and slipped through whatever cracks we could find,
minds altered, we didn't falter
in portraving hysterical and tragic characters in a smog filled universe.
we loved the dirty city
and the journeys away from it.
We had not yet been or seen our friends, selves,
chase tails round and round in downward spirals,
leaving trail of irretrievable, vital life juice behind.
Still, the brothersbloodcomradespartnerfamilycuzz was impenetrable
and we lived inside it
laughing with no clothes, and everything experimental 'till death was upon us.
In our face, mortality.
And lots of things seemed futile then, but love and music can save us,
and did, while the giant grey monster grew
more poisoned and volatile around us,
jaws clamping down and spewing ugly shit around.
Nothing is the same.
So we keep moving.
We keep moving.

Chris Iemulo

Chris Iemulo is an independent musician, who loves to experiment with sound and words, electronic and acustic. He is a unique mixture of anarchy, Sicily, Germany and other States of mind.
Potete ascoltare delle tracks su http://www.myspace.com/chrisiemulo
This you are watching is "Solo guitar Weddingsalon, Berlin 8/07/07 Part II".

I Like Thee Much More Than You

This is a little and humble experiment at writing in a Middle English fashion. I only know a few words...just for the fun of trying to find a mixture of old and new.

For the love of thee or me collide/
And as the stars did see not
sucha spectacle tonight for an age's nights/
Leave to me
explaining the facts/ that the things
I dare see thee call thine and beloved/
Are certainly the same I will for me.

Apart from the fact that noone reads my blog yet, if anyone wishes to correct and add shakespearean flavour to this, please do. Oh, also, sorry William. I can't help trying.

The Moose mingles

This is so famous i think.

Lasse

Lasse Gjertsen is among my most loved and odd findings. I wish to toast to his postmodern craftmanship.

Te Quiero Puta!

Rammstein.

Like a cup of tea

"Bohemian Rhapsody" arranged for solo guitar by Edgar Cruz

Sei la spada non la mano

Sei la spada non la mano.

Da mantenere, solo

il filo tagliente,

immaginare

ogni dettaglio

che serva a questo

segno di spada.

Sei la spada non la mano

Non è nel polso

Che segue i cerchi

Della mia punta nell’aria

Che sta la mia responsabilità

Sta non nelle carezze

Che il suo piatto conosce,

non dove si incastra,

tra ossa e muscoli:

non è mia quella forza,

la forza che mi ha conficcato

tra le lastre fino all’elsa,

non era mia neanche

la diversa natura di quella possenza,

Quello che

Libera la lama dalla terra,

Che impedisce, solo,

a ogni suono

di avere aura per vibrare.

Sei la spada non la mano

Non il pugno chiuso che

Rende inafferrabili da altri,

sprezzando la ruggine di acquitrino.

Né ricorda la spada

Chi forgiò

In un unico insieme

Leghe diverse,

la sua durezza e flessibilità

lucenza e bellezza,

in un unico gesto

si fusero cose diverse

per mai più riconoscersi

come distinte: non fui io

Affilare

Fendere l’aria

Toccare;

Affondare nel ventre

sembra alla punta della spada

l’essere giunta

in un luogo chiuso

buio

sporco

inutile. Ma la mano sa

quando finirò l’affondo,

mi pulirà con un panno, dopo,

e dell’acqua:

issarmi al sole.

Halvhari

Rainy Day

Liquid particles of liquid

attraction for the ground.

They generate unceasing flush,

blackened waves of heat and cold

burst

crush above and darken the skies.

Neurons

deliver orders to hold on,

hold a wake

electricity is static now,

on the eve of discharge.

Thunder

keep

beat cut...

silence(!)

From the middle of

cemented

hollow

cube.

PC low buzz

panicked flies jazz.

Outside

swooshes

burning gas,

and shifts of gears.

Eyes

scurry across fields of letters

letters like atoms

or tendons

or burglars.

Silence. It pours down.

The taste of it, sprayed all over,

expanded,

blade-sharp, clear.

Halvhari

Il disordine sono

La luce sono sui muri,

l’odore, ma non il luogo.

Scompongo per natura

me stesso, non è lei l’esistenza a entrare in me,

sono io a entrare nei luoghi

che compongono la sua essenza.

il disordine sono, senza

la maglietta,

un nudo improvviso sono,

-Copriti!-,

(prenderai di certo un colpo).

la luce sono sui muri,

l’odore, ma non il luogo.

trasformazione,

leontiasi, licantropismo:

vibrisse e code,

armonia che pago

con instabilità,

io il più solido masso

che mai abbia incalcato la terra.

la luce sono sui muri,

l’odore, ma non il luogo.

luce sui muri sono

e fede: spada, calice, cuore,

avidità per tutto:

sento con orecchie tese

il sussurro di ciò

che continuamente potrebbe essere,

e sono istigato a dargli vita:

schiavo sono, ma per mille notti,

mai visto libertà allontanarsi

perchè sono schiavo:

di notte io sono il padrone delle materie,

reggono universi, sono

il cambiatore di ritmi,

l’incudine pestata dall’incessante martello.

la luce sono sui muri,

l’odore, ma non il luogo.

Halvhari

Un'alba d'inverno

Bruciati i segni

E gli angoli delle pagine

Messo in risalto dalla sua assenza,

un incredibile cielo si fa ricordare.

“ogni vita abbastanza lunga”

è il fatto che porta con sé.

Quando ieri si è alzato

Sopra la spianata di ghiaia

(nel chiuso del capannone

continuava invece la notte)

io ero da molte ore

già via da me stesso,

perché in quell’alba apparsa

senza che la attendessimo

nessuno si conosceva

che per l’incontro scorretto

di tempo e infinito:

è tutto consumato

ora, il grande piatto vuoto

ieri era fumante.

Se nulla si è aggiunto,

ove si è tolto

regna il dovere dell’oblio:

non è a questi timori

che la lingua materna

mi ha insegnato.

Bruciati i segni,

e gli angoli delle pagine,

messo in risalto dalla sua assenza

un incredibile cielo si fa guardare:

non sarà lui a soffrire

i segni della disgrazia:

nel mio essere medico

non si contemplano cure infinite,

ma rassegnazione d’albero

fatto di più rami, felci marcite

ricoperte dal loro futuro,

da rami tagliati e ricresciuti.

Alcuni anelli fissati nel gelo

Pare che siano come cert anni:

Io sono,

senza dover far nulla,

parte del gregge,

nella misura in cui

non so chi sarà l’Ulisse

che trafugherà dai ciclopi:

nela misura che mi è congeniale sarò mangiato

per il peccato più sereno,

il meccanismo del sacrificio

(…- Dalla grotta fuggirà chi merita?)

Non prevedevo

che nelle mani

avessi una vita,

è diventata mia solo quando l’ho incisa,

graffiata,

(- Gli scoperchiatori delle piramidi,

i ladri delle lamine d’oro.)

L’unico timore

era riportare le uova intatte a casa.

Ma non prevedevo

che nelle mani

avessi una vita:

quando lo vidi,

incisi sul banco, ruppi ogni guscio,

e ieri,

sopra la spainata di ghiaia

e nel chiuso del capannone.

bruciati i segni

e gli angoli delle pagine,

messo in risalto dalla sua assenza,

un incredibile cielo si fa ricordare.

Halvhari

Pulcinella

While looking for sea puffins - pulcinella di mare- I ran into the beautiful works of Marco Cazzato: take a look at it on www.marcocazzato.it

Sleepy Eyes

It is the promise of the mornig worded with squeezed eyes.

The promise yntaxed with squeezed eyes

It stems out of somewhere near birth

With its clustered, tensed abdominals and legs spreaded.

and urge

to assess

a sound

in time

and space,

but all of this untouched.

o seed.

now...a spill of oversweetend eyes-tea,

is it a Saxon root, whitelinen tablecloth?

Progressively people and cars

begin to buzz but still inconsistent,

as if hesitating to step.

Then a rush or a

spasm.

While these people dressed up these people were still asleep.

This neat action calling for actors,

it is the promise of the morng

to be as short as possible,

to squeeze out into daytime

the promise slamming you out

of the past

every 7 o’clock: spitting-

careless of your churning-

A rough savior, but one that I can greet:

sink I wash my face in

I must not loath.

Halvhari

Observing a Punk

Shy smiles under the surface of the walkingside,

exhaust gas,

red walls,

wet ground.

Could it all evaporate as in

An invisible caress.

Worryless of structures, he gains

the illusion of freedom, dressed-

down, sparing spits and crumbles and coins.

The means to master day by day

new knowledge cool-pressed.

Two towers of Bologna

beat, beat fast paced, unranked:

it’s a

cradle of paths:

some already sink instead, unsung and worthless,

some jest and jerk,

In front of me, he fake punk

-bolted belt-

bends over to kiss his girl.

And I can see through, through the air

Calvin Klein, Calvin Klein underwear, oh my god,

Calvin Klein underwear.

Halvhari

EMILY

A friend told me she was trying to translate this amazing song by Joanna Newsom, and I got into it too. It was great fun to translate: it is full of rare words and really elaborate images. Here's my translation.

The meadowlark and the chim-choo-ree and the sparrow
Set to the sky in a flying spree, for the sport over the pharaoh
A little while later the Pharisees dragged comb through the meadow
Do you remember what they called up to you and me, in our window?

L'allodola dei prati, il chim-chu-rii ed il passero

Si alzarono in un gioco di voli nel cielo, per allietare il faraone

Poco dopo i Farisei passavano i prati al setaccio

Ricordi a cosa ci chiamarono, dalla nostra finestra?

There is a rusty light on the pines tonight
Sun pouring wine, lord, or marrow
Down into the bones of the birches
And the spires of the churches
Jutting out from the shadows
The yoke, and the axe, and the old smokestacks and the bale and the barrow
And everything sloped like it was dragged from a rope
In the mouth of the south below

C'è una luce di ruggine tra i pini stanotte

Il sole versa vino, Signore, o midollo

Fin nelle ossa delle betulle

E le guglie delle chiese

Si protendono oltre le ombre

Il giogo, l'ascia, le vecchie ciminiere, le balle e i carretti

E tutto scivolava come tirato da una fune

Giù nella bocca del sud

We've seen those mountains kneeling, felten and grey
We thought our very hearts would up and melt away
From that snow in the nighttime
Just going
And going
And the stirring of wind chimes
In the morning
In the morning
Helps me find my way back in
From the place where I have been

Abbiamo visto quei monti in ginocchio, di grigio feltro

Pensavamo i nostri cuori crescessero per poi scorrere via

Da quella neve nella notte

Andando

E andando

E l'onda dei rintocchi del vento

Al mattino

Al mattino

Mi aiuta a ritrovare la strada

Che porta a dove una volta andai

And, Emily - I saw you last night by the river
I dreamed you were skipping little stones across the surface of the water
Frowning at the angle where they were lost, and slipped under forever
In a mud-cloud, mica-spangled, like the sky'd been breathing on a mirror

E, Emily – ti ho visto ieri notte al fiume

Ho sognato che tiravi piccoli sassi sulla superficie dell'acqua

Accigliandoti nel punto ove si perdevano, affondando per sempre

In una nube di fango, luccicante di mica, come il respiro di un cielo su uno specchio

Anyhow - I sat by your side, by the water
You taught me the names of the stars overhead that I wrote down in my ledger
Thoough all I knew of the rote universe were those pleiades loosed in december
I promised you I‘d set them to verse so I'd always remember

Ad ogni modo, ti sedevo accanto, vicino all'acqua

Mi insegnavi il nome delle stelle lassù, che scrivevo sul gran libro
Pure se quel che sapevo dell'universo meccanico, erano quelle pleiadi in dicembre slegate

Ti promisi che ne avrei fatto versi così da ricordare per sempre

That the meteorite is a source of the light
And the meteor's just what we see
And the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee

Che il meteorite è la fonte della luce

E la meteora, solo quel che vediamo

E il meteoroide un pietra priva del fuoco che lo spinse verso di te

And the meteorite's just what causes the light
And the meteor's how it's perceived
And the meteoroid's a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee

E il meteorite è solo ciò che causa la luce

E la meteora è come è percepito

E il meteoroide un osso scagliato dal vuoto che quieto giace a te offerto

You came and lay a cold compress upon the mess I'm in
Threw the window wide and cried, "Amen! Amen! Amen!"
The whole world - stopped - to hear you hollering
You looked down and saw now what was happening

Venivi a stendevi un panno freddo sul disastro in cui mi trovo

Spalancavi la finestra e urlavi, “Amen! Amen! Amen!”

Tutto il mondo – si fermò – per udire il tuo grido

Guardasti giù e ora vedesti cosa stava accadendo

The lines are fading in my kingdom
(Though I have never known the way to border them in)
So the muddy mouths of baboons and sows and the grouse and the horse and the hen
Grope at the gate of the looming lake that was once a tidy pen
And the mail is late and the great estates are not lit from within

Le linee svaniscono nel mio regno

(anche se mai trovai modo di farle restare)

E allora le bocche fangose dei babbuini e delle scrofe e la pernice e il cavallo e la gallina

Vanno a tentoni al cancello di quel lago oscuro che fu una volta un recinto curato

E la posta è in ritardo e non ci sono luci da dentro le grandi magioni

The talk in town's becoming downright sickening

Le chiacchiere in paese sono diventate ripugnanti

In due time we will see the far butte lit by a flare
I've seen your bravery, and I will follow you there
And row through the nighttime
Gone healthy
Gone healthy all of a sudden
In search of the midwife
Who could help me
Who could help me
Help me find my way back in
There are worries where I've been

Verrà il tempo, vedremo accendersi una fiamma sul poggio

Ho visto il tuo coraggio, e ti seguirò là

Remerò nella notte

Sarò in salute

In salute tutto a un tratto

Cercando la balia

Che mi aiuti

Che mi aiuti

Mi aiuti a ritrovare la strada

Che porta a dove una volta andai

Say, say, say in the lee of the bay; don't be bothered
Leave your troubles here where the tugboats shear the water from the water
(Flanked by furrows, curling back, like a match held up to a newspaper)
Emily, they'll follow your lead by the letter
And I make this claim, and I'm not ashamed to say I know you better
What they've seen is just a beam of your sun that banishes winter

Dimmi, dimmi, dimmi qui al riparo della baia, non preoccuparti

Lascia qui le pene, dove i rimorchi tagliano come forbici l'acqua dall'acqua

(I solchi sui fianchi si arrotolano come carta vicina a un fiammifero)

Emily, ti obbediranno alla lettera

E io qui giuro, e non provo vergogna nel dire che ti conosco meglio

Che quel che hanno visto è solo un raggio del tuo sole che scaccia l'inverno

Let us go! Though we know it's a hopeless endeavor
The ties that bind, they are barbed and spined and hold us close forever
Though there is nothing would help me come to grips with a sky that is gaping and yawning
There is a song I woke with on my lips as you sailed your great ship towards the morning

Andiamo! Anche se è uno sforzo disperato

I lacci che legano, sono irti e spinosi, e ci tengono per sempre vicini

Anche se niente mi aiuterà a venire alle prese con un cielo che si apre e sbadiglia

Mi sono svegliata con una canzone sulle labbra mentre salpavi sulla grande nave

Verso il mattino

Come on home, the poppies are all grown knee-deep by now
Blossoms all have fallen, and the pollen ruins the plow
Peonies nod in the breeze and while they wetly bow
With hydrocephalitic listlessness ants mop up-a their brow

Torna a casa, i papaveri arriveranno alle ginocchia ormai

I fiori sono caduti, il polline rovina l'aratro

Le peonie ondeggiano nella brezza e mentre si inchinano umide

Con incuranza idrocefalica, le formiche asciugano loro le ciglia

And everything with wings is restless, aimless, drunk and dour
The butterflies and birds collide at hot, ungodly hours
And my clay-colored motherlessness rangily reclines
Come on home, now! All my bones are dolorous with vines

E tutto ciò che ha ali è senza posa, senza meta, ebbro e mogio

Le farfalle e gli uccelli si scontrano in ore calde e inique

E il mio colore terreo e senza madre ampio si distende

Pa pointed out to me, for the hundredth time tonight
The way the ladle leads to a dirt-red bullet of light
Squint skyward and listen
Loving him, we move within his borders
Just asterisms in the stars' set order

Pa, per la centesima volta stasera,

Ha indicato la direzione dal mestolo verso un bossolo di luce rosso-terra

Strizza gli occhi e ascolta

Amandolo, ci muoviamo entro i suoi confini

Solo asterismi nell'ordine fisso delle stelle

We could stand for a century
Staring
With our heads cocked
In the broad daylight at this thing
Joy
Landlocked
In bodies that don't keep
Dumbstruck with the sweetness of being
Until we don't be told
Take this
Eat this

Potremmo restare così per cento anni

Fissando

Con la testa piegata

Questa cosa in pieno giorno

Gioia

Senza sbocco

In corpi rimasti

Senza parole per la dolcezza dell'essere

Fino a che non venga loro detto

Prendi questo

Mangia questo

Told
The meteorite is the source of the light
And the meteor's just what we see
And the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee

And the meteorite's just what causes the light
And the meteor's how it's perceived
And the meteoroid's a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee

Dicevi che

Il meteorite è la fonte della luce

E la meteora, solo quel che vediamo

E il meteoroide un pietra priva del fuoco che lo spinse verso di te

E il meteorite è solo ciò che causa la luce

E la meteora è come è percepito

E il meteoroide un osso scagliato dal vuoto che quieto giace a te offerto

Uf per oggi basta!

queste erano le cose da LastFM.

Ho un mucchio di cose sparse da mettere su, da anni.
Se le metto qui almeno non prendono la polvere.

Ricordato dagli angeli

(5 Apr 2008, 13:59)

Come l’età ispirata, pesando le parole, dagli angeli, il momento in cui venne è ricordato: scossa la schiena
si inarcò, stringendo concentrata, strizzando, i piedi, le caviglie, le ginocchia tese
stringendo, trattenendo il fiato, sentendo l’aria calda uscire dalla bocca in soffi, lunghi,
le parole succhiate quasi senza voce,
mordendosi le labbra. I capelli, scossi,
stesi sulle lenzuola: fresco, e il sole tutto benedetto.

Halvhari

Ricordato dagli angeli

(5 Apr 2008, 13:59)

Come l’età ispirata, pesando le parole, dagli angeli, il momento in cui venne è ricordato: scossa la schiena
si inarcò, stringendo concentrata, strizzando, i piedi, le caviglie, le ginocchia tese
stringendo, trattenendo il fiato, sentendo l’aria calda uscire dalla bocca in soffi, lunghi,
le parole succhiate quasi senza voce,
mordendosi le labbra. I capelli, scossi,
stesi sulle lenzuola: fresco, e il sole tutto benedetto.

Halvhari

Eaten

(4 Apr 2008, 12:56)

he been browsing far longer he should have
he been swarmed by instant shots, flooded by
a thick water like resin sticking so hard, choked

he been struggling to not think superhuman
endorsing higher, truest compassion acceptance,
which the correct definiton of will, of aware,
yes all was plunged deep

and he been browsing, he been browsing asterisks
with things and fiddled in puddles with a stick
and watched the shapes as they morphed.

Halvhari

The Rock

(29 Jan 2008, 16:17)

The place where he came from
was a narrow place,
aset from ruin,
yet unfriendly
but to the smallest creatures,
to those that could find shelter,
those who could slip in the cracks:
it was a steep island, too large to call it a rock, too small to call it anyone's land.
And still, it did have dry patches, there in a stretch of grass snatched from the battering winds, where saved stems could even paint a delicate spring-time hue under the sharp shadows of the looming cliffs.
It would be dreadful to portray the tides crushing on the rock in the dead of a winternight; but none is there to bear such memories:
The small inhabitants were safe in their holes, or on top a a robust, stubborn bush, the airborne seed of irretrievable will to live.

The crabs have never been afraid of seastorms, for they lack the perception of the grand scale of tempests: it was to them all the same, splashes, foam bursting up open like a fan through the cracks in the rockwalls. Very much likely, but for different reasons, the seagulls were not concerned of storms either, nor did the albatross, who stopped there at times, as he fared the face of the world.

Halvhari

Seeing cooking

(10 Jan 2008, 20:40)

She stirred in the bowl
a number of thoughts
- todo's, washing, deadlines, dates -
with the close-ups of springs.

The close-ups of springs did come from
a bygone March, it was blurred sights
of bedsheets and skin, stretched on bones.

While the bowl got sticky, and the ladle warm,
she mixed plastic instants
with a number of words
- her mother was asking, the phone was beeping-

The phone was beeping as a call to live
dismissed, yet there, wouldn't you know now

How to mix it too,

the close-ups of springs
and the care of thoughts
not finding no more
a place to grow?

As they modestly receed
the cream gets thick
the taste gets sweet,
you're free.

Halvhari

You are my X

(9 Jan 2008, 17:39)

You are my X. Am I your Y?

Dreaming Exeter, green like Wyoming

I exceed in words, you wipe your tears
While I curl your locks

Ex means from,
Y is also wife, white.

Wider than one, fields left fallow.

Halvhari

Admit

(7 Jan 2008, 14:28)

Admit
that the scarce voices far
away in the kitchen,
of friends, mutual smiling witnesses
of friends restoring the standards of behaviour,

Admit
that the voices calling once seemingly magical
of moments, clicking fantasies,
the faces wrapped in the winters
the first sophomore winters
the shoulders shaking in
the dead of the night of crowds careless
in the summers

Admit
that the thousand times thousand thoughts
in daze, in booze, meant and winced

Admit.

Halvhari

Er....I don't actually like very much this one nor Doppio

Doppio

(6 Jan 2008, 08:48)

doppio,
metti in conto
per cento altre volte,

sempre tenere
finestre aperte-

mondo assurdo
mondo assurdo
quando ogni piombo si abbatte sordo
tu ridi

ed io scopro di avere un orecchio
solo per il tuo sorriso,
scopro di essere doppio.

scopro che il tempo non è passato
nel suo correggere,
non è un lago,
eppure! Il suo viso è fermo
mentre mi specchio,

e vi trovo argentina,
trovo antiche ali inchiodate
che sbattono ancora.

Non mi avrà il cinismo dell'era
non confonderò dolore del cuore
e pesi della terra.

Sono doppio e sono salvo,
un equilibrio imperfetto
mi trova sveglio di notte.

Halvhari

Few Pages

(5 Jan 2008, 06:17)

few pages left, pages read while still dark
waiting for the teapot's steam puffs

few pages left growing warmer,
sleep, sleep, sleep little pages,

few pages soaked in few sounds, small things to grow out
of these days.

early as quiet night-scurriers, pages wait and be seen.

these few pages served slow, theirs is the dawn's
welcoming winter, as it checks for a green dot,
it'd witness someone's there, but no, little pages, know
it's still dark.

rolling a cigarette: the teapot's calling
for me to pour more in my cup,
the six o'clock update, the green dot that's not there,
it's only plunged into those pages, peace,
a few left to this night's becoming light,
As a chanceful falling of vest-string, revealing
skins stripped, bare light unseen's there.

as noon will speak, we'll be almost there already,
back in those cover days, when
under was game, under a covenant of silence
we'll be back in the long sleep, little pages,
bear on once more, by the time it's dawn again
someone's call, steam out of teacups,
and be read again, but sleep, now, know
it's still dark.

Halvhari

Purposes, tea-time, SEO

4 Jan 2008, 08:57

Excellent morning teatimes:
one and a thousand night, some few pages

then, war, then,
the horrid discovery
of wrong metatags,
the hammering of SEO,
this wearing game -
and not one man to call,
in this forlorn trench:

the grey icons stating solitude,
left alone in the anger of crumbling ranking.

Halvhari

echo

(3 Jan 2008, 21:19)

in far Morocco
there are no mindful things
as the shift takes its proud stance

in far Morocco
dreams are woven otherwise perhaps
echoes and smells do too.

Halvhari

Riddle - What is it

(22 Dec 2007, 05:02)

bleached scorched and thrown
follows the gaze as it rolls
it flashes and pumps
it stumbles and parts
it crushes and starts.

Halvhari

what is it

I'm going to publish here the stuff I write. It is mainly poems. Comments are open. I've never kept a blog before, I tried but got bored after a while, or ran out of inspiration.
i've always been jealous of my poems, and did not like the idea of being stolen, reused and soon, but lately I do not really care anymore.

Very rarely my poems are good-mooded, my inspiration is familiar with jadedness and being upset about something, although all in all, it's more like i feel overcome by a dilemma: the fact that on a large scale things make sense and it is futile to suffer, but denying sufference is not healthy. This is all I could say about why I write like this if you asked me.

hope you enjoy the sound and the wordplay, which are one great fun to me when i write.

For a start, I think I'll begin posting my previous poems published on lastFM, in the journals section of my profile, halvhari.

if you send me comments and poems i will very much enjoy reading them.

take care.