Haiku (Italian, with an English translation)

Image from Seven Ponds blog. Click to visit.

Sai la foglia
che sussurra la via
di cadere sù?

-db

This is my first haiku in Italian.

Translation:

Do you know the leaf

that whispers the way

of falling up?

-db

Poetry | Sospesa tra due cieli / Suspended between two skies

Cloud walk (Photo by D Blake)

Sospesa tra due cieli / Suspended between two skies (Photo by D Blake)

né giù né su
né là né qua
né avanti né indietro
né statica né in movimento
né trovata né persa
né giusta né sbagliata

né figlia né madre
né sorella né nipote
né bambina né adulto
né amante né amato (né amore)
né scrittrice né artista
né cantante né ballerina

io
sono sospesa tra due cieli

tra sogni e realtà
tra pensieri e sentimenti
tra ieri e oggi
tra oggi e domani
tra domani e dopodomani
tra io ed ego

mi metto me stessa
in una scatola di nuvoli

—–

neither down nor up
neither here nor there
neither forward nor backward
neither static nor dynamic
neither found nor lost
neither right nor wrong

neither mother nor daughter
neither sister nor niece
neither child nor adult
neither lover nor beloved (nor love)
neither writer nor artist
neither singer nor dancer

I
am suspended between two skies

between dreams and realities
between thoughts and feelings
between yesterday and today
between today and tomorrow
between tomorrow and the day after
between self and ego

I put myself
in a box of clouds

-db

Until Monday,

D.

Gli Occhi Aperti / The Open Eyes…

Cut Eye

Cut Eye (Photo credit: lindes)

Ho deciso di scrivere oggi in italiano (ma anche con una traduzione in inglese per i miei lettori che leggono solo in inglese).  Come mi sento in questo momento? Non sono sicura.  Sono stanchissima da morire, perché tante cose hanno successo questa settimana ed anche ho lavorato molto, almeno secondo me.  Continuo a scrivere il mio romanzo e oggi ho scritto una poesia nuova in italiano.  Vorrei condividerla con la speranza che voi mi diate le vostre opinioni. Come ho già scritto, ho scritto una traduzione in inglese, comunque l’orginale è stato scritto in italiano. Quindi la traduzione attuale è molta semplice. In alcuni giorni scriverò un’altra versione inglese. Ringrazio Matteo per la sua assitenza con la grammatica.

——————-

Today, I decided to write in Italian (but always with a translation in English for my readers who only read in English).  How am I feeling in this moment? I am not certain.  I am ridiculously tired, because many things have happened this week and also I work a lot, at least, in my opinion.  I continue to write my novel and today I have written a new poem in Italian.  I would liked to share it, with the hope that you will give your opinions.  As I have already written, I have written a translation in English.  However, the orginal is in Italian.  Therefore, the current translation is very simple. In some days I will write another English version.   I thank Matteo for his assistance with grammar.

——————-

Gli Occhi Aperti 

Ci sono momenti in cui mi domando perché.

Perché ci sono tante persone che si sentono perse? Perché?

Soprattutto quando sono in piedi l’una accanto all’altra.  Perché?

Perché ci sono tante persone che non hanno la consapevolezza

che la vita non è la realtà che può essere vista solo con i loro occhi?

Hanno bisogno di capire che

la loro realtà si allontana…

verso la corpulenza del mondo,

contro la verità dell’anima.

Realtà non è reale.

Realtà non è vera.

Non è neanche un’enigma,

né uno specchio oscurato

in cui non vediamo noi stessi.

Realtà è appena una manifestazione delle nostre paure

che sono state sviluppate dall’assenza

della saggezza in ognuna delle nostre vite.

Comunque questi pensieri sono solo una parte di un racconto vecchio.

Dall’inizio della nostra umanità, non abbiamo noi forse sempre detto

le stesse cose di nuovo, di nuovo e di nuovo?

Esiste sempre una ragione per la quale viviamo noi

le nostre vite nei modi in cui lo facciamo.

Esiste sempre una ragione per la quale diciamo noi

che non possiamo scegliere in modi diversi…

Mai…

le vie nuove,

Mai…

le intese nuove,

Mai…

le parole nuove.

Mai…

Mai…

Mai…

Mai…

Mai…

Mai…

E in questo modo rimaniamo

le stesse persone

con le stesse domande:

<<Perché mi sento perso?>>

<<Perché mi sento solo

quando sono in piedi accanto a tutti?>>

Realtà non è realtà.

Devi aprire la tua mente per poter aprire gli occhi.

E poi, crei la realtà in cui vuoi vivere.

————————————————–
————————————————–

The Open Eyes

There are moments in which I ask myself why.

Why are there so many people who feel lost?  Why?

Especially when they are standing next to others. Why?

Why are there so many people who do not have the awareness

that life is not the reality that can be seen only with their eyes?

They need to understand that

their reality is moving away…

toward the corpulence of the world,

against the truth of the soul.

Reality is not real.

Reality is not true.

It is not even an enigma,

nor an obscured mirror,

in which we cannot see ourselves.

Reality is just a manifestation of our fears

that have been developed by the absence

of wisdom in each of our lives.

However, these thoughts are just a part of an old story.

From the beginning of our humanity, have we not always said

the same things again and again?

There always exists a reason for which we live

our lives in the ways that we do.

There always exists a reason for which we say

that we cannot chose different ways of being…

Never…

new paths

Never….

new understandings,

Never…

new words.

Never…

Never…

Never…

Never…

Never…

Never…

In this way we remain

the same people

with the same questions:

“Why am I lost?”

Why am I alone

when standing next to everyone?”

Reality is not reality.

You must open your mind in order to open your eyes.

And then, create the reality in which you want to live.

————————————————–
————————————————–

Grazie a tutti per prendere tempo per visitare e leggere.

Thank you everyone for taking time to visit and read.

Alla Prossima Volta,

Until Next Time,

D.

Le poesie nuove

Lasciare il passato

L’ ho abbandonato
lo specchio

insieme con le storie
Dopo tutto,
chi vuole essere una storia?

Al contrario,
(e la vita è sempre contraria)
chi non vorrebbe piacere di avere una storia?

Non importa.
In questo momento l’ho trovato.
Qualcosa più importante,

cioé ho travota la mia belleza

nascosta
Come la verità
che credi io non dica mai,

 forse.

Comunque guardami
se vorresti scegliere
di sentirti come me.

Scoprimi mentre
comincio a sconvolgere,
a frantumare

il mio comportamento
il mio specchio
me stesso esterno

insieme con tutte delle storie
in cui noi crediamo che possiamo
 trovare la nostra belleza,

in cui noi non possiamo
trovare ci stessi
o la nostra verità.

-db

La nera

Ogni giorno
io indosso
qualcosa di nero.

Ogni giorno
mi guardate,
qualcosa di nero,

qualcosa di strano,
qualcosa di cui dovete
avere paura

come l’oscurità
della notte quando,
anche, voi diventate

qualcosa di nero.
-db

Melancholy

“Her Name is Melancholy” by FlyPi  (http://flypi.deviantart.com/)

L’ombra di me stessa

Che cos’è questa?
La tua casa dell’anima,
lo specchio perso, anche il tuo,
la finestra dimenticata a cui non possono
la vedere attraverso i tuoi occhi… come me.

Per te tutto è buio, un’oscurità
in cui siamo sospesi tra il cielo e la terra,
dove non si può ritrovare se stessi
senza la sofferenza dell’attesa
inutile, di niente.

Questa, dicesti, è la verità della vita,
in cui possiamo sempre credere.
Comunque ci sentiamo sicuri?
C’è pace qua nella realtà costruita
dalla paura vivente?

Non dovrò abbracciarla,
la casa senza futuro,
l’anima senza passato.
Lasciami ai miei sogni d’oro.
Non pensare mai più di costruire.

-db

Seasons’ loss and reason

You, like falling leaves upon a lotus
pond.  I, a heart entombed in winter’s frost,
fading circles of love circuitous
as my fingertips create ripples lost.

Then crystal-iced, sunlit, dew-touched, loved.
Unknowingly caught enraptured by id
wrought.  Encompassed as a seed beloved
but stifled by unnourished earth unwanted.

But knowledge and keys to hearts once given
prove only useless tools to fools who know
naught of winter’s cold. They harden, unrisen,
unwisely plant seeds in autumn with hope

of a lotus blossom amidst snowfall,
frost, and grasp at love formed, fading crystals.

-db

(The above poems are revisions.  I would be appreciative of any feedback, including corrections on the ones in Italian.  Thanks!)

Until next time,

D.

Feeling a bit late…

Lavori in corso" Photography by Diedré M Blake, 2012. (Primavalle neighbourhood, Rome)

It’s a wakeful morning, a bit too early.  Yet still, it is not early enough for me to justify returning to sleep.  I turn my mind to thoughts of my plans for the day, which inevitably leads me to broader thoughts about my plans for my life–I won’t get into that here though.  It is about one of my thoughts, a simple plan really, upon which I would like to reflect today.

You see, after spending some months tackling the Italian language and feeling a bit bruised and battered by the process, I have finally made a decision.  I have decided to learn Italian.
At this point, you might wonder what in the universe am I meaning, considering that my previous statement suggested that I was studying or “tackling” Italian.  No, I am not completely off just yet.  What I mean is that my morning reflection led me to realize that I have not been truly wanting/desiring to learn Italian… that is, until now.
I understand that some, perhaps many, people have this edict regarding the language:  i.e., Italian is one of the most beautiful languages to speak, to write, and to learn.  I have not been of this mindset, and am not certain that I am now.  What I am is appreciative of the nuances of the language and I have come to enjoy its melodic quality.  I am still more inclined, however, to Germanic languages… but that might have a lot to do with certain aspects of my personality and how those languages complement them.
The point is that after all these many months of my studying and my 16-month love affair with Rome, I have only now opened myself to truly connecting with the people and the culture–I was a bit too busy living and trying to extend the pseudo-reality of the honeymoon phase in my relationship with Rome.
What I realize now is that I can accept Rome and that Rome can accept me.  More importantly, a most wonderful aspect of this acceptance is that we will finally come to understand one another. Yes, it may sound a bit strange to speak of a city in this way, but…
A bit late…

Cover of "A braccia aperte" (Image found at http://www.fermenti-editrice.it/iride_p_z.php)

I’ve spent a great deal of time roaming the streets of Rome.   From the very start, what appealed to me the most, beyond the monuments, was that I understood little of what was being said by those around me.  I wanted to be lost in a crowd of people, with whom I did not have to share my thoughts and to whom I did not need to react.

Of course, it is hard for someone like me to be invisible anywhere in Europe, where my dark skin certainly contrasts with the norm of whatever society in which I am presently.  I did, however, achieve a sense of my own private world, away from the some of the harshness of the reality that I had been living prior to my first visit.  Rome gave me a chance to see myself again, to hear my own voice, to listen to my thoughts, to believe in the possibility of building a beautiful and touchable future.
I suppose that I had thought that if giving up this “separateness,” this self-imposed “isolation,” this ignorance of the world moving around me would mean losing everything that I had gained.  I believe I have written about this very issue before, i.e. how our thoughts (sometimes highly irrational) can prevent us from embracing that which is can actually enhance our lives.
So, here I am.  This morning I have woken with the desire to read an entire novel in Italian.  It is my favourite novel from my adolescence.  I even went so far as to purchase the book in Italian on Kindle, so that I could immediately begin the process.  No, it is not A braccia aperte by Mario Tornello.  It is Intervista col Vampiro (“Interview with the Vampire“) by Anne Rice.
 A braccia aperte
The reason for the image of A braccia aperte is that this book of poetry was what ignited the desire within me to learn the language…  It is also another reason why I am feeling a bit late.
I discovered the book on a random walk one early afternoon through my neighbourhood, Garbatella–this was before the snow.  There is a small bookshop just before the roundabout that leads to one of the major roads in Rome, Via Cristoforo Colombo.  I am not quite sure what possessed me to go inside the shop, but go inside I did.
It was quite dismal and suitably dark.  Here and there were smatterings of stationery and schoolbags.  From what I could tell, many of the books had been bought either at the start of the new millennium or in the decades before.  The owner of the shop, a lady, was engaged in a long conversation with a customer, regarding the latter’s family–that’s as much as my Italian could tell me.  When she did finally notice me, she came over and in halting Italian I explained to her that I wanted to find a poetry book of Eugenio Montale.  I had imagined that given the fame of the poet, finding a poetry book of his in a bookshop would not pose a problem.  I was wrong.
After much conversation, during which I was offered every romantic novel the store had to offer (now folks, do I seem like the romantic novel type to you?), the owner finally left me to wander about… although there was not much wandering to do as the shop consisted of one very tiny room, which currently included all its merchandise (both offered and stored), the owner and her customer, and me.  Still, I hovered near the entrance and allowed my eyes to scan over a number of books that were easily visible to me, and that is when I saw it…
The small cream-coloured book with its Times New Roman font and its single graphic design of a winged eye appealed to me.  Perhaps I thought that it would be easy to read, because it was not a large book, or perhaps because of the simplicity of its design.  Who knows.  Whatever the reason, I picked it up and opened it to page fourteen.

"Trasfigurazione," Mario Tornello, acrylic, cm. 60 X 80, 1995. (Image found at http://www.museum-bagheria.it/mariotornello.html. Art dated as 1996)

Parlerò di te

Parlerò di te

che mi riconosci il passo

sui mattoni di cotto,

di te che rubi sulla mia pelle

pensieri rappresi, sospesi tra due cieli;

di te, dei tuoi spenti desideri

ormai chiusi in arcani pensieri.

Di te che ho voglia di dire

e di sentire curiosità sopite,

di te che mi sfuggi

come un sabato che se ne va.

Parlami, perché io varchi la tua soglia

sotto l’ibisco che accende lanterne rosa

tra giardini a mare.

Stringi tra le tue dita

di cristallo d’arte

queste mani che ti dicono

quale luogo profondo

hanno scavato tra le mie carni.

E tutto si perde

nella sofferenza dell’attesa,

nelle parole pronunciate e spente

a fil di labbra,

nella palude delle idee

dove ritrovare se stessi

è come avere un poker tra le mani.

Without knowledge of the meaning of all the words, I understood the poem.  When I write “understood,”  what I mean is that the poem connected with some core part of myself that allowed me to grasp its meaning.  Whether reading it in silence or aloud, the poem (for me, at least) elicits a profound experience.

Caro amico

Ho letto il tuo urlo senza voce

e m’è caduto il cuore.

Mi dici che i morti in riposo,

sospesi tra due cieli bruciano

sullo scoglio vestito di sole.

Non saprò più immaginare

sulla cenere di ciò che fu.

Siamo inermi nel delirio

di chi non sa amare

ciò che l’alba del tempo

ha inciso per l’uomo.

Mario Tornello was a painter, a poet, and a writer.  He was born on October 21, 1927 in Palermo and died on February 2, 2010 in Rome.  He was all that I hope one day to truly label myself to be.  At present, I am a bit of a lavori in corso (“work in progress)… but then again, aren’t we all.

Now, I am off for my walk; kindle, Italian/English dictionary, poetry book, and pen; for which I am already late… but happily so.
Until next time!
Best,
D.