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Italian Wave


After it's all over Cassandra approaches

Horse horse do you recognize me?
I was the one who had more words than anyone here.
they only fell for you because you were big and beautiful in the moonlight
that you looked like the gods and the goddesses
but now I'm looking at you, close up you are full of cracks
and woodworms and you're pitiful
you're only a piece of wood
a shell of a ship's hull
you smell like seaweed
you're as wrinkled as an old man's belly
you aren't a horse that a god would want to ride
are you looking around horse?
you see I'm the only one here talking to you
the Trojans are dead
and the Achaeans couldn't care less about you
I'm the only one still looking at you and these are my last words
I spit them at your feet
who cares tomorrow I'll be gone
I'll leave as light as the cork of your wheels
I'll sail this enormous sea in silence
Until Mycenae I don't know what’ll happen to me there
nor do I want to know
nor do I want to see it in a dream
so I'll stay awake,
so I won't have any more dreams after you
the last
a horse-shaped dream.
I came all this way even though I'm barefoot
on this scorched earth that burns my feet,
only out of politeness and to welcome you
in the name of all those who no longer exist
to tell you that I had already seen you anyway
you weren't a surprise, horse
in my clairvoyant’s dream you were as you are
a bay,
even if you were bigger and shinier than you look now
you are so real and so fake
that you make me want to
never foretell the future again.

Translations by Gail McDowell.


A poem by

From Historias de Malo Amor

Dagboek (Diary) by Etty Hillesum

You see, a man has just bought a book about the history of the Third Reich,
on the cover, Hitler is writing on a piece of paper, maybe it's a document, next to
Albert Speer and between them the mayor of Nuremberg, Willi Liebel,
with that Dantesque half-sneer of his: I stare at the man with obvious disapproval;
he, with that glacial, mineral phlegm with which he observes the world through
Arian blue eyes, returns the favor with the gaze of someone who has
never doubted that certain things must be done: your hell was already
open, in full and frenetic rotation: I read that your diary begins on the same
day I came into the world, March ninth, and maybe, I tell myself,
that might mean something: what do you think? A white pigeon, with a few
black stripes, truly elegant, has pecked at the spine of the
cover of your book which had fallen: in another photo I saw you
flipping through a newspaper, holding a cat in your arms, probably
smelling its odor and listening to it purr: and holding a cigarette
between the index and middle fingers of your right hand: it took me a few minutes
to understand which hand it was: how many times have I fallen down the uneven
steps on the staircase of your writing (!) All the professions you have
practiced, page after page, the hieroglyphic men, who enter
in tandem with the chameleon and the crocodile women
meets in my days: the God you were trying to help to help
yourself, your body which you broke like the bread of Jesus Christ
at the last supper to distribute to the long-famished men:
I can’t pray to you and that's a blessing: my sacred world is made
of rodents who empty themselves out from within, to slip away without warning:
one day I will read you in your own language: of the two of us I am the foreigner

From Historias de Malo Amor

Translations by Gail McDowell.

( More poems by TIZIANO FRATUS)


October 18th

I escape casual chitchat
Insufferable to myself
I'm a hen forced to interrelate by caress
They can dupe me with anything
Blocked by com-passion against these bars
At four chitchat's over
In the lose a turn space
Wearing the urban uniform washed and ironed just yesterday evening
By the warm and competent bodies of silent cats
That sleep
Bringing folds of dreams of cat food and gardens
Into vulnerable buildings
Talking suffocates me it pastes itself on it dries
It’s humor, serum, pollution

Give me the glassex I'll cancel it right from the start



Tangoneon (Astor Piazzolla)

Astor Piazzolla
Oh stop pedaling
That deflated accordion

Astor Piazzolla
The solitary climber
En danseuse fleeing toward the mons veneris
Corn-stomping on crooked pedals
Your laced-up minions wheezing as they follow you
Creating monstrous creatures with four-wheel paws
That dance betrothed to terror
Courting certain disaster for certain
Miming certain throes of love
That not even you and your bandoneon

Astor Piazzolla
Detached from you
Detached from everything
Cheek to cheek with the echo of the parquet floor
Fumbling to keep up with the rhythm
Tic-tacked by the tapping heels
Not even you can keep up with them anymore

Astor Piazzolla
With those two frigging z's of yours
You're better at following the limited tempo
Of the moves of the queens of the kings of the checkmates
In the botched imitation
Of eternal love
In the moves of the knights
In the collapse of the rooks
In the irresolute stupidity of the lover
In the motionless idiocy of the hanged man
In the useless arrogance of the nameless mystery
In the surprise card of fatal abandonment

Not even you
Astor Diazole
Can't you see?
So stop pedaling that accordion
That gives itself the airs of an irresistible Carmen
Like an ultralight bicycle
Look at the banner of the Sacred Prize of the Mountains
And admit that you came in first
And as for us devotees of the heartthrob
Grant us at least the place of honor
Let us pedal a while longer
With the chain down
Let us relive in slow motion that love movie
Of the final leg of the tour it's already sad enough
But then that's it
Never touch those keys again

Astor Piazzolla

Translations by Gail McDowell.

( More poems by GIANNI MARCHETTI


Father mine who art in Heaven
a civil prayer


Father mine who art in heaven stay there
don't return to earth because there is war here.
I had hoped that you would be the one to atone
that I would be the one to pay in this life
for every war crime with your life.
That I would be the one to make amends with your loss
and bring peace back here on earth.


I deceived myself father that this sacrifice
could help on earth. You might be in heaven now
but you went to war like your father
without your father against yourself.
It doesn’t really matter war is war.
I don't have your stories to tell now
history doesn’t speak of you or of your father.



A  Poem by Pervin

Hole in my heart

Right at the centre, so absent you can't miss it
A hole that's widening
You pick your shovel and other perfected tools
Digging to the depths of that enormous heart
More love scooped out, more pain gushes in.

You try to reach the very end, patience oozing out
You underestimated your girl
Your labour doesn't pay off, no victory to show
The deeper you dig, the deeper you go,
Irreversibly lodged into my heart

Try and scramble again up and out,
You slip at every try.
Game's up. You’ve crafted your destiny
That's your punishment darling,
Eternity in a heart with a hole.

More Poem by Pervin)

A Poem by Janice Pariat

Her Silver Bangles

two in a red faux-velvet case
deep inside a wooden almirah.
a cave's forgotten treasure guarded
by ghosts of the sea.

two perfect outlines of an empty moon
that infinitely ringed your wrists.

since they fit, I like to think I am your
shape. imperfectly preserved creation,
travelling down the century like them
and you from Lisbon by the sea.

two vacant circles of light, halos
around the heads of saints you
prayed to at night. St Anthony –
to keep you safe on long journeys,
to find what's lost. like I did.

They fill in for you, my hands,
parcels of dust that do not
fold in grace. Nor long for
the touch of salt in the sea.

two hollow eyes that stare from
a resting-place, across unfamiliar
landscapes and unknown faces.

two perfect outlines of an empty noose
infinitely ring your wrists an

(More poems by  Janice Pariat )

A poem by Faramarz Moazzami


You went

And I

was lonely in the crowd

With my heart



My hands



after the sun

The untouchable

And love

like a story

told thousands times

of Scheherazade



Like a poem

Written on clouds

And gone with winds

And you

( More poems by Faramarz Moazzami )

A Poem by   Kranti

You have closed
All the doors, windows
And the ventilators too.

How would the light come in,
And how would the air?

( More Poems by Kranti )


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