sabato 25 maggio 2013
Un Picchio, un Poeta
Amiche dilette, amici cari, terzo appuntamento del dialogo intessuto tra me e Alvaro, amico di penna e Poeta d'Oltremare, che, come ho detto nelle mie precedenti introduzioni, dopo un idillio letterario durato quasi un anno, ha giudicato la mia evoluzione della scrittura inadeguata, o comunque non consona al suo gusto e alle sue personali più radicate convinzioni poetiche e filosofiche.
Ciò non toglie che egli rimanga un Poeta, in quanto scrittore in versi, spesso ispirati, a volte geniali, sempre eleganti.
Per questo, in occasione del suo compleanno, ho comunque voluto donargli una piccola lirica, che mi è scaturita nel corso di una delle mie passeggiate sulle alture sopra il Lago Maggiore, dove, come molte delle amiche più intime sanno, spesso mi rifugio per meditare e lasciare che il tempo, lì quasi privo di significato, faccia pace con il mio spirito agitato…
Dedicato a lui, e forse un poco per irritarlo - vieppiù - con la mia "prosa" in versi, e offerto ora in lettura a voi, amiche care e amici, come sempre, con amore.
M.P.
Un Picchio, un Poeta
Fine di marzo, l'alba.
Per la prima volta ho riudito
la voce del picchio rosso,
tamburellare alacre insistente
nella piccola selva dietro casa: trrrrr...
Cerca, ostinato, trapana le cortecce
delle betulle bianche, ancora ignude,
infreddolite e scarne,
o dei severi platani rugosi,
per ricavarne la sua esistenza,
o anche soltanto
per dichiarare al mondo
di essere in vita.
Difficile osservarlo.
Quando t'avvicini lui...
lui ti ha già visto,
e si sposta, ma non di tanto:
dall'altro lato della pianta,
schivo, riservato, scontroso,
o geloso di sè, a continuare
il suo instancabile intento solitario.
Questo picchio è il Poeta. Estrae
vermi di parole, crisalidi di frasi,
larve di pensieri, di sotto a dure croste,
rugose cortecce spaccate di anni,
sfuggenti sugheraie, impastoiate
dentro resine tenaci.
Le uccide, spietato e preciso
come un dardo,
per liberarle poi
nel suo volo.
(Per Alvaro in occasione del suo compleanno)
Marianna Piani
Massino Visconti, 23 Marzo 2013
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Thank You, my poet, for this thoughtful, belated, birthday present! I, too, thought of you, as I waited in vain for a redemptive something to happen. And so, on the last day of March I wrote the following poem to you ... for you:
RispondiElimina...I've often seen you
in the glimmer of a poem
clearly reflected, there–
sparkled, was my mirror
as I looked over your heart
and mind's nakedness
Transparent words became
coverlets for our limbs
Our eyes never saw past
those pages, we stood
next to Poetry, as book-
ends, immovable & free
Alvaro Tortora 03/31/2013
Destiny has it that, even for us..., "Galeotto fu il libro"!
And again, thinking of you and of our love of books, and
of the loving care we bestow upon them, and of the way
we keep them in our homes and hearts I wrote the following poem inspired by you, fugacious butterfly:
Books–
the ingots of wisdom
reside cozy & intimate
in open bookcases
the most secretive
are stacked
behind closed doors
in the dark
affectionately, I keep
some behind glass
As I gravitate towards them
they seem to smile at me
with child-like reckoning
and, as I open them
how well I'm reminded
of the splintering of trees
I tend to caress the poets
they keep within, whose
words often chastise me
while they kiss the pages
with the wisdom of the ages
Alvaro Tortora 04/14/2013
I didn't mean to hurt you, Mari, please, stop retaliating
even if, passively.
Can't we just: "Love, to love, LOVE"?
I leave you with some of our beloved Lorca's verses from:
"Romance sonámbulo" - somewhat appropriate, due to some of our past poetic themes and epistolary exchanges, most especially to yours, today's and then:
"Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verde ramas.
El barco sobre el mar
y el caballo en la montaña."
"Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata."
"Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la están mirando
y ella no puede mirarla"...
* * *
...Il Picchio Rosso ...o, forse, Verde?!:-)
...OK, I think I better... xo
Dear mine:
Elimina«Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is—that we no more may meet.»
(George Byron)
...Amare la stessa donna. Dello stesso intenso esclusivo amore.
EliminaUna donna di bellezza superba, una donna che è civetta, ed è regina, che ci attrae irresistibilmente, ci affascina, e nello stesso tempo ci appare inarrivabile, irraggiungibile.
Una Signora, elegante e distaccata, abituata a trattare da pari coi Grandi della Terra, e una fanciulla giocosa, leggera, pronta alla danza. Un'anima franca, libera, innocente, pura, e una seduttrice senza morale e spietata...
Tu ed io amiamo la stessa donna, caro.
Di fronte a ciò l'amicizia trema...
Marianna
Una piacevole scoperta. Una giornata triste che prova a sorridere.
RispondiEliminaGrazie, amica o amico, sono felice di accoglierti, intrevvedo passione, sento che mi comprendi, e ci comprenderemo...
EliminaTorna a trovarmi, ti prego!
Marianna
...very true, indeed, dear friend!!
RispondiEliminaPythagoras teaches us that Love finds its highest degree,
always, in "triangular spaces", immovable and free–180º
You, so compellingly write:
"In questo idioma
bizzarramente, e saggiamente
questo breve modesto segno
di due sillabe appena,
FI-NE
ecco: accomuna il finire
e il fine,
il destino e la destinazione,
è il sottile, fragile, diafano diaframma,
la fine sottile organica membrana
che separa, e insieme accoppia
lo sperare dal disperare."
...while I, so desperately write, trembling in the dark
confronted by an undesirable alternative:
My enemy, my friend
You strike
with the paradoxical
lucency found only
in a darkened mind
as an unseen thought
of an unfelt caress
Even a poem can wither
on a vast uninhabited
page without the counsel
of an accompanying
poet’s learned solitude
of whiteness
In its glaciation
nothing survives
not the frigid numbness
it brings along
nor the ghostly absence
in which to dissolve
Solitude
you are the artistic constant
in the boredom of the physical
a redeemer to the archers
of light; o Solitude
have I not found you?
Alvaro Tortora 04/25/2013
Marianna, let me conclude with another triangulation
by adding the song lyrics from "Anthem" by L. Cohen:
Anthem
The birds they sang at the break of day
"Start again", I seemed to hear them say
Don't dwell on what has passed away
Or what is yet to be
Now the wars they will be fought again
The holy dove, she will be caught again
Bought and sold and bought again
The dove is never free
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
We asked for signs, and the signs were sent
The birth betrayed, the marriage spent
Yeah, the widowhood of every single government
Signs for all to see
I can't run no more with that lawless crowd
While the killers in high places say their prayers out loud
But they've summoned up a thundercloud
And they're going to hear from me
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
You can add up the parts, but you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march on your little broken drum,
Every heart, every heart to love will come
But like a refugee
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in
Yes, like you said, we're in love with the same Lady,
Poetry, and yes, our friendship trembles but,
won't you rather join Her and me in an Equilateral
Triangle, (Pythagoras's symbol of perfection) by
becoming one of its independent sides?
If " There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in"
it will surely put a "FI-NE" to "Solitude"!
Since I've quoted you from "Z" the last poem of that long series, I'd like to congratulate you for bringing that difficult project to its wonderful completion!
Respectfully and with Regards
Love, always
Alvaro
«The Black Berry - wears a Thorn in his side -
EliminaBut no Man heard Him cry -
He offers His Berry, just the same
To Partridge - and to Boy -»
(Emily Dickinson)
Dear Alvaro,
I'm not your enemy, I love you...
I love your poetry, I love your words...
This is why and because I love you so.
I'm only my words, here in this world:
This is because and why you can't love me
and not my written words...
Sempre tua
Marianna