2 | Friday is for Poetry | Venerdi Poesia | "A Lake for the Heart | Il lago del cuore" | Luigi Anderlini

Hi lovely Earthlings!

Lago di Bracciano, photo by Ivano Pulcini

Here we come to the second episode of Friday is for Poetry.  The poem, "The Lake," from the collection, A Lake for the Heart, is by Luigi Anderlini, for yours truly's translation into English.  For you lovers of Italian--and there are many for this handsome language where so much beauty and knowledge is stored--please scroll down to the end and find the original.  The lake Luigi Anderlini was in love with is il lago di Bracciano, in the vicinity of Rome, the capital of Italy where Luigi's political career brought him.  The moving aspect of the poem is the way the lake is address like a body of water with a soul, with a will of its own, with a soul.  Echoes of Greek mythology where the forces of nature are treated like Titans whose power we humble humans must acknowledge, came to Luigi through his first wife Lidia's classical education.  You will get more of that as you come to know her through his poems.  Yours truly now leaves you with the poet's voice.

 

THE LAKE

“Your roar was but a whisper”

Eugenio Montale “Cuttlefish Bones” – “Mediterranean”

If I look at you from the crenels

of the castle above

the overhanging cliffs,

oh lake, you are in my eyes

a little bit of sky studded

in the gradually lowering valleys.

In the spring, a wide green bed grows around you.

Round like the mouth

0f the volcano you were millions of years ago,

your breath is now

light and secret,

an almost evanescent perfume.

I would like to slide

between earth and sky like your gulls

whose pale shadow is left on water

while the impalpable fluff

of time descends from on high.

On your shores today pile-dwellings like

a hundred centuries ago.  And if I appear

in the mist on the surface of your diaphanous waters

time runs backwards

and I am the animal who invents

the warmth of a home

on boards thrust in mud.

Like a vortex, funnel, or goblet

you descend deep in the abyss.

The north wind sweeps you from above.

It infuriates you, pushing you

to get rid of every impurity.

Or the east wind curls you up, mockingly.

Or the west wind flatters you, careful lover.

Amused, you vary your colors from

indigo to pale green.

The same and different always, across time you exist

and challenge it.  You challenge me too,

as in your presence

I am but an unruly, hopeless maggot.

Ploughed by your ferry’s prow

that heaves a huge whisker of water,

scratched by the keels of your boats,

annoyed by the blades of your rows,

you, lake, hang in there

impassible, and perhaps

in your turquoise summer,

enjoy the lavish colors,

the hundreds sails that bring

a festive glory to all your shores.

At night you smile at the moon’s

long, fringed dazzle, and in the dark

your undertow mumbles

its secret disquiet.

I’ve lived next to you for years.

Between the leaves your blue

arrives at my green shelter.  

I can’t see you but I measure your anger

as I listen to your mumble. 

You lay down large mats of water

on the soft, warm sand.

The curls of your wave

hit the cliff and break.

At night, your falling wave’s

deep thud upsets my heart.

I set off at dusk with my “Piaff.”

Cool form the sea, the west wind

blows into the sail.

The water swashes

around the hull. 

The shore becomes an arched sickle behind me.

A hustle and bustle of voices

follow me through the air.

Then nothing but

the wind’s soft blow into the sail,

my trip in the lake’s deep silence. 

The sunset still dazzles,

its light playing between my jib and spanker.

The hills look on in amazement.

The lake is the back of an enormous liquid animal;

The catamaran you catch a glimpse of

is just a tall shadow in the pouring light.

Silently, it ploughs the water without 

breaking the impending silence.

A voice softly pierces the darkening air

to reach you.

The words you hear are

miraculously new. 

“Ciao!  A cheerful ponentino, ha!  You still at it?  Ciao!”

You feel the hulls’ cut,

as you brush against

the other white spanker.

It’s your last rendez-vous, your last greeting

as the sun goes down behind the withered hills.

Among the thick black plants that mark

the boundary between earth and sky

A glimmer still shines.

Like enormous dinosaurs, with bristly backs

the hills chase one another.

Suddenly a yellow blaze goes off

in the shore’s circle.  A billion years’ jump

back into the past.

The foaming lava seethes

on the crater’s edges.

unconquered nature

Imposes its violent law:

“You’re just a twig in my hands”

she claims, “Then as now,

I am the one to assign destinies,

to keep a firm grip

on each and every life.”

A door closes yet again

in the sky’s vault.

The lance of time wins inexorably

and lets me know that on the shores

I see windows and city lights.

Life travels through time

slowly conquering it, raping it,

printing its marks 

everywhere and claiming them

like flags displayed in the sun.

The wind is down and the lights whiten

in the high silence.

I am alone with you,

lake, lord of the night.

The sail hangs flaccid from the mast, the water

is black with shiny tar,

far away are the stars.

It’s the time of wasted expectations

that one does not give up.

One’s frail hopes rise

the enlightenment of a decision is long to come.

Nor does resignation set in

to console one from pain.

One’s imagination is consumed

yet does not give up--the future still flickers.

The hills’ merry go round has stopped now.

Lake, for you it’s time

to rest, lie down, and steal the quiet

of endless dialogs.

Something different is preparing for me: my last

voyage into the dark.  This ultimate return

ashore feels disquieting. 

Now the wind shakes my sale again:

A light breeze that barely blows from the north.

The boat slides quietly.

Soft and persuasive,

my landing ashore is a

delicate incision on the sand. 

Lake Bracciano, Isotopes

 

Il lago

“il tuo rombo non era che un sussurro”

Montale “Ossi di seppia” – “Mediterraneo”

Se ti guardo dai merli

del castello, che sovrasta

a strapiombo la scogliera,

agli occhi miei tu, lago, sei

un po’ di cielo incastonato

nel lento degradare delle valli.

Ti cresce attorno, a primavera, un ampio letto verde.

Tondo come la bocca

del vulcano che fosti milioni di anni fa,

ora il tuo respiro

è lieve e segreto

quasi lo svaporare d’un profumo.

Tra cielo e terra vorrei

infilarmi come i tuoi gabbiani

che lasciano sull’acqua appena un’ombra

mentre scende impalpabile

– dall’alto – la lanugine del tempo.

Oggi sulle tue rive ancora palafitte come

cento secoli fa. E se nella caligine

affioro al pelo dell’acqua tua diafana

precipita il tempo all’indietro

e sono l’animale che congegna

il tepore di casa

sopra gli assi piantati nella melma.

Profondo – a vortice – come un imbuto

o un calice, tu scendi nell’abisso.

Sopra ti spazza tesa

tramontana che t’infuria e ti spinge

a liberarti d’ogni impurità.

O t’arriccia irridente

il tuo grecale o ti lusinga, accorto

amante, il ponentino.

Divertito tu vari i colori, dall’indaco

al verde pallido.

Sempre uguale e diverso, sei nel tempo

e lo sfidi. Sfidi anche me

che al tuo cospetto sono

ma indocile larva senza scampo.

Solcato dalla prua

del tuo battello

- alza grandi baffi d’acqua –

graffiato dalla chiglia

delle barche, infastidito

dalle pale dei remi,

tu, lago, te ne resti

impassibile e magari

d’estate ti godi nel tuo turchese,

lo scialo dei colori,

le cento e cento vele

glorianti a festa tutte le tue sponde.

La notte ridi al barbaglio

lungo e sfrangiato della luna

e la tua risacca borbotta

nel buio segreta inquietudine.

Da anni ormai ti vivo accanto.

Al mio rifugio verde arriva

– tra le foglie – il tuo azzurro.

Non ti vedo ma ascolto

il tuo mormorare, misuro

la tua collera: i grandi

tappeti d’acqua che stendi

nella rena morbida e calda,

l’onda arricciata che precipita

e si frange sulla scogliera

o il tonfo profondo

del flutto che s’abbatte

e che di notte mi annega

il cuore in subbuglio.

Parto al tramonto così il mio “Piaff”.

Nella vela il ponentino

soffia fresco dal mare.

Sciaborda l’acqua a circuire

limpida lo scafo. S’innarca

dietro di me, larga, la falce

della spiaggia: tramestio

di voci che m’inseguono

nell’aria. Poi non resta

che il soffice soffio del vento nella vela,

il viaggio nel silenzio denso e assorto del lago.

Barbaglia ancora il sole che tramonta,

tra randa e fiocco gioca alterna la luce.

Guardano stupefatte le colline.

Il lago è il dorso d’un enorme animale liquido

ed il catamarrano che intravedi

è ancora un’ombra alta nella luce che spiove.

Solca silente l’acqua e non incrina

il silenzio che incombe.

La voce che ti arriva

perfora tenera l’aria che imbruna.

Miracolosamente

nuove sono le parole che ascolti.

“Ciao! Allegro il ponentino! Tu vai ancora? Ciao!”

Avverti il taglio degli scafi,

dolcissimo è il fruscio

dell’alta randa bianca.

È l’ultimo incontro, l’ultimo saluto

cala il sole dietro le colline stecchite.

C’è ancora chiarore

tra le piante fitte che – nere – segnano

il confine tra cielo terra e cielo.

Enormi dinosauri le colline

che – irsuto il dorso – immote si rincorrono.

All’improvviso scatta

nel cerchio delle rive una vampata

gialla. Si torna indietro

di miliardi di anni:

alla lava che schiumando ribolle

ai bordi del cratere,

alla natura indomita

che impone violenta la sua legge:

- “Altro non siete che un fuscello” – dice–

“Nelle mie mani. Allora come oggi.

Sono io che segno i destini,

che ferma mantengo la mia presa

sulla vita di tutti e di ciascuno”.

Ma un’altra porta si chiude

di nuovo nella calotta del cielo.

Inesorabile vince la lancia del tempo

e mi dice che quelle sono luci

lampioni, finestre accese sulle rive.

È vita che viaggia nel tempo

e lenta lo conquista e lo violenta

che stampa le sue impronte

ovunque e le reclama

come grandi bandiere esposte al sole.

Caduto è il vento, altissimo è il silenzio,

si sbiancano le luci.

Sono solo con te

- lago – che sei padrone della notte.

Dall’albero pende flaccida la vela, l’acqua

è nera di catrame lucido,

lontane le stelle.

È questa l’ora delle attese vane,

in cui non ci si rassegna.

Crescono gracili le speranze

e tarda il lume delle decisioni

e la rassegnazione non arriva

a consolarti della pena.

La fantasia si consuma

ma non cede, balugina ancora il futuro.

S’è fermata attorno la giostra

delle colline. Per te – lago – è l’ora

del riposo disteso, della quiete

rubata, dei colloqui senza fine.

Altro per me si prepara: un ultimo

viaggio nel buio, un ritorno inquieto

verso l’approdo estremo.

Ed eccolo il vento che scuote la vela:

soffice, da nord, appena una brezza leggera.

Scivola tacita la barca.

L’approdo è una incisione

morbida e persuasiva,

dolcissima sulla rena.

1996

Did you enjoy the poem?  Let us know!  Yours truly appreciates your attention.  The comments box is open.

The poems will appear every Friday at 11:00 AM.  Come back!  And get your copy of A Lake for the Heart right away!

Stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,


Serena Anderlini-D'Onofrio, PhD

Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire

Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

   

Follow us in the social media

Poly Planet GAIA Blog: http://polyplanet.blogspot.com/ 

Website: www.serenagaia.com 

Become a Fan: www.facebook.com/GaiaBlessings 

Author's Page/Lists all books: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JS1VKA 

YouTube Uploaded Videos: http://www.youtube.com/SerenaAnderlini
 

A Lake for the Heart

1 | Friday is for Poetry | Venerdi Poesia | "A Lake for the Heart | Il lago del cuore" | Luigi Anderlini

 Hi lovely Eathlings!

Luigi Anderlini

for the summer yours truly has decided to share something really beautiful and personal.  Her dad, Luigi Anderlini, was a really extraordinary person.  A poet, memoirist, and intellectual who came from teaching and dedicated himself to politics, he was such a model of honesty that when the entire political class of his generation came under attack for corruption by the judicial system--in the early 1990s--yours truly never even doubted for a moment that he was at any risk of being found wrong.  And he wasn't!  

Today, with rampant greed pervading civil life, mainstream media, and politics, with a whole new class of nouveaux riches--the new rich whose money was made in the digital revolution and is now embezzled out of the economy and into some tax havens, or paradisi fiscali as they say in Italian--this is so rare as to demand celebration!

Because her dad was a poet, and because he so loved nature that one might say he almost feel in love with it like an ecosexual would do, yours truly happily celebrates this occasion with the forthcoming series Friday is for Poetry, or Venerdi poesia, as Italians would say.  The poems in this series are part of the collection her dad left for publication after his death, A Lake for the Heart, or Il lago del cuore.  Yours truly had the privilege of doing the translation and introduction to the bilingual edition for Gradiva Press in 2005.  This really helped her grieve the loss.  The death of Luigi Anderlini was a bit like the death of an age in the world where he emerged as a public figure, Italy, and later Europe and the world.  Her relatives kept asking, "aren't you missing your dad?"  She replied, "no, because I'm with him every day when I translate one of his poems."  Translators, especially good translators, really crawl under one's skin.  They penetrate our body and soul.  Yours truly never felt as close to her dad as when she translated his poems.  Many of them made her cry over and over.  And revealed to her aspects of life beyond death.  It was an intimacy forbidden in the secular world.  And so she kept telling herself that this translation process felt a bit like post-mortem incest. Oh well . . .

Here she will reproduce the poems that stirred her emotions most, "The Lake," "Women," and "Lydia."  You lovely earthlings who will read the series will become familiar with the poet, the fine, sensitive person whose emotions became chiseled in words.  The plan is to follow this with a short biography--the introduction to the collection--that will reveal more of the public figure and political person--the agent of change that Luigi Anderlini was in his era.  

Barak Obama and Hillary Clinton

Oh, if more poets came onto the scene of politics!  Obama, for one, is a good rhetorician, and--unlike his predecessor--he can spell.  He is literate, a cultured person.  And he can choose words.  Words, in politics and everything else, are not "just words."  They are what stirs the imagination to make a transformed reality possible.  Politics is a chiseling of words.  Or not!  Obama has distinguished himself as a chiseler, and yours truly's dad, who was known in Italy for crossing the color lines, would have been so happy to know that a man of two races followed the dark years of the shrub era.  When politics is not a chiseling of words, it can be a string of insults, a non-rhetoric of slander and offensiveness that only reflects the ignorance of those deluded enough to think that it it will benefit them, as in, say, the Tea Party Movement and its followers.

Poetry, however, is more than rhetoric, even elegant rhetoric.  Poetry is a search for the soul.  And that's what the collection yours truly translated was.  A man consciously approaching the last door, with the memory of a life lived in integrity, an authentic life, an imperfect life, a life that made sense.  A man who chooses to dedicate time before death to chiseling the literary legacy of this life.  A legacy where the most personal aspects and the most public ones are integrated, in a somewhat feminist fashion dare one say.

As you stay with the project, dear reader and lovely earthling, you will come across the premonitions of ecosexual love in some of Luigi Anderlini's poems, and the legacy of questions from her father's biography that came up for her, as yours truly explored the possibility of finding answers for them in the inclusive practices of love of which she is now aware.

The poems will appear every Friday at 11:00 AM.

Come back! And get your copy of A Lake for the Heart right away!

Yours truly appreciates your attention.  Stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D'Onofrio, PhD

Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire

Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

   

Follow us in the social media

Poly Planet GAIA Blog: http://polyplanet.blogspot.com/ 

Website: www.serenagaia.com 

Become a Fan: www.facebook.com/GaiaBlessings 

Author's Page/Lists all books: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JS1VKA 

YouTube Uploaded Videos: http://www.youtube.com/SerenaAnderlini
 

A Lake for the Heart

4 of 4 - Oh the Power of Ecosexual Poetry! - It's Not Called Labour for Nothing - Yemisi Ilesanmi

It’s not called labour for nothing!

Ouch, what is that kick

That makes me sick

Breaking in sweat

Oh mine, I am wet

Is that mucous

Oh just focus!

It’s coming, go get the doctor

Stop looking at the buttocks

Tis no time for old wives tales

For I am in pains and already pale

I am coming, I am coming, you screamed

Keep pushing, keep pushing now you screeched

Oh nurse, this hurts, please do something

It’s not yet time, she keeps snorting

Tis was sweet but now it’s a dilemma

Oh no try a push and a dilation

Those sweet contractions

Are now a contradiction

That leaves me frustrated

No longer besotted

Push, Push, you are all preaching

I am the one that is screeching

The baby must not come breeching

Oh what, I am bleeding!

Maybe I need an epidural

Or is this just procedural

Heavily I breathe

Now I seethe

Not cumming in ecstatic  orgasms

But pushing a human organism

Oh, I see a head

Quick I need a lead

Oh nurses stop laughing

Maybe try fawning

This isn’t funny

 I don’t feel sunny

This is no botox

Where is the doctor

I might need a suture

To give me succour

Oh dear, here comes my baby

All wet, slippery and bubbly

Beautiful as the morning dew

You have come to pay your due

Ha, tis looking for the boobs

Ready to start the smooch

In my arms tis nestled

All ready to suckle

I am ready to nurture

I guess tis in my nature

Tis suckling, You are rustled

Dad is rippling but bristled

Those boobs are mine alone

On my terms I give and loan

I do all the labour

You get all the flavour

Never again will I be pushed

This was agony I am flushed

I need science of equality to share

Our baby together we should bear

Mommy is that my sibling

Oh no, I must be blinking

Can’t afford to miss my periods

Cos things can get too serious

Little bump and grind and the baby pops

Now all I have is a pushing tot that sobs

But then I should know

One, two, three years now

I can see a rounded tommy

Ready again to be a mommy!

BY YEMISI ILESANMI 22 MARCH, 2011

Biographical Note

Yemisi Ilesanmi

Yemisi Ilesanmi is a trade union/human rights activist. She has a Masters of Law (LLM) on Gender, Sexuality and Human Rights from Keele University, Stadffordshire, UK and a Law degree(LLB) from Obafemi Awolowo University ile -Ife, Nigeria. She works with the Nigeria Labour Congress . She has served on many national and International labour/ human rights committees including as Vice president of the International Trade Union Confederation (ITUC) 2006-2009 and President of the ITUC Youth committee (2004-2009) 

Yemisi Ilesanmi is a passionate human rights activist, bisexual, atheist and an unpublished poet and budding writer. She is interested in and often make public presentations on gender issues, sexuality rights, workers rights, youth representation and environmental protection. She is commited to a world of peace where justice reigns supreme.

Text originally published as a Note on Facebook, republished here with permission.

3 of 4 - Oh the Power of Ecosexual Poetry! - I Am a Single Mother - Yemisi Ilesanmi

I am a Single Mother

I am a single mother

Proud like the other

I was a young mummy

Now wise and yummy

Yes I have a son

As bright as the sun

You say he needs a daddy

For him to be dandy

But I need no ring

To make me sing

I am a single mother

Sleek as the otter

I need no rows

To take the vows

I work and toil

But I don’t spoil

I spare the rod

But he is not rot

Sometimes I smack

Never leave a mark

I am a single mother

That is not a murder

So stop the blunders

Enough of your slanders

You need a man

Like your Nan

Soon you will sag

Funny how they nag

I really don’t know for what

Certainly not for my want!

I am a single mother

I am proud to utter

He has a father

Who is just farther

You should know

It takes Two

Not just a procreator

To be his creator

A baby a community can scold

It takes love a human to mould

I am a single mother

Stop your muttering

He is not a bastard

Don’t be a retard

He is not a furnace

For your social menace

He is not a barnacle

But a special miracle

Landing on your moon

To make you swoon

 I am a single mummy

Both sexy and yummy

 I can date, I will get a sitter

Don’t be late, I need no cheater

Just be ready  

To go steady

No drinking late

That leaves you stale

Three is a number

That leaves me somber

I am a single mother

That can go yonder

I am proud to mutter

That I am no nutter

My son praises I sing

For he is a gift I bring

I need no wedding ring

Not even a big bling

Get out of your cove

For it is time to love

BY YEMISI ILESANMI 19 March, 2011

Biographical Note

Yemisi Ilesanmi

Yemisi Ilesanmi is a trade union/human rights activist. She has a Masters of Law (LLM) on Gender, Sexuality and Human Rights from Keele University, Stadffordshire, UK and a Law degree(LLB) from Obafemi Awolowo University ile -Ife, Nigeria. She works with the Nigeria Labour Congress . She has served on many national and International labour/ human rights committees including as Vice president of the International Trade Union Confederation (ITUC) 2006-2009 and President of the ITUC Youth committee (2004-2009) 

Yemisi Ilesanmi is a passionate human rights activist, bisexual, atheist and an unpublished poet and budding writer. She is interested in and often make public presentations on gender issues, sexuality rights, workers rights, youth representation and environmental protection. She is commited to a world of peace where justice reigns supreme.

Text originally published as a Note on Facebook, republished here with permission.

2 of 4 - Oh the Power of Ecosexual Poetry! - My Genderless Love - Yemisi Ilesanmi

MY GENDERLESS LOVE!

I don’t walk straight

Not even for the bait

 I am merry yet not gay

 I am bi and I can bay

 But saying goodbye

Is not my hallmark

Yet you all smack

Like I always play

Our goal is acceptance

Where is the tolerance

I am not gay enough

To be enfolded

Not sufficiently lesbian

To be embraced

Do I even talk Trans

Can’t brace the rants

You preach diversity

As community necessity

Yet you sneer

While I leer

When in the mall

Yes I want it all

With the dick

I play and lick

And the boobs

Makes me smooch

The big breasted

Leaves me besotted

With the hermaphrodite

I am a smitten Aphrodite

With the pussy

I get all fussy

The shaven sight

To suckle all night

The pert bums

Makes me bowl

The bouncy balls

I love to maul

With the Pecs

I need no specs

I am bisexual, not a player

So don’t make me a slayer

Like you I choose my partner

It is a natural attraction

And not just a selection

A sex you choose

My love I embrace

It matters not the gender

All I want is tenderness

For my love is genderless.

By Yemisi Ilesanmi 17 March, 2011

Biographical Note

Yemisi Ilesanmi

Yemisi Ilesanmi is a trade union/human rights activist. She has a Masters of Law (LLM) on Gender, Sexuality and Human Rights from Keele University, Stadffordshire, UK and a Law degree(LLB) from Obafemi Awolowo University ile -Ife, Nigeria. She works with the Nigeria Labour Congress . She has served on many national and International labour/ human rights committees including as Vice president of the International Trade Union Confederation (ITUC) 2006-2009 and President of the ITUC Youth committee (2004-2009) 

Yemisi Ilesanmi is a passionate human rights activist, bisexual, atheist and an unpublished poet and budding writer. She is interested in and often make public presentations on gender issues, sexuality rights, workers rights, youth representation and environmental protection. She is commited to a world of peace where justice reigns supreme.

Text originally published as a Note on Facebook, republished here with permission.