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

Hi lovely Earthlings!

And here we come to the third episode of Friday is for Poetry, where yours truly introduces you to her dad's love life, "Women," a beautiful tapestry of many intersecting loves.  Luigi Anderlini always was handsome with the beauty of intelligence and the courage of hope.  But he was shy as young man.  Not a Don Giovanni at all!  He became a widower at the age of 46 as a senator in a country with no legal divorce, or at least, a very young divorce law that nobody knew how to practice yet.  No wonder there was that constant buzz around him of women, hopefuls, waiting to find out who the most papabile was, the next one to be made pope.  Luigi was always diligent, he didn't make promises, he sometimes ran into trouble, and was not very capable of or trained in discussing his love life openly with his kids, us.  partly it was the legacy of Catholicism, a religion he had repudiated, to imply that widowhood was the end of love.  Partly it was the very indecisiveness of the situation: was he going to form a new, blended family, find a companion for his later years, or both?  Partly it was the difficulty of assessing the loss of his first wife, your truly's mom, and the lack of attention that caused it as the family failed to see what was coming upon her.  Be that as it may, Luigi remembered his initiations into the practice of love, his everlasting desire to be a source of this magical energy as his life unfolded, and the women whose mark on his soul was most significant.  

As in the poem, so in life, Luigi Anderlini dreamed of women in his life who got along.  His is a dream of inclusive love.  

The occasion is also hospitable to sharing family images that yours truly hopes you will enjoy. 

 

WOMEN

“joy

that you all modestly bestow on earth”

Foscolo -  “The Graces”

                                              I still remember your warm hand

                                              Searching, impatient, as it opens up my fly.

                                              Your mysterious black shrub

                                              And your sweet invitation, “come on in!”

Luigi Anderlini at 21 or so

Tender milk the white of your skin,

Soft the round of your breast,

And unexpected the warmth of your sex.

You smile, hold me, and breathless

You almost cry from joy.  Then happy

You smack a kiss on my forehead.

I’m still looking for it among my wrinkles

Because that hot kiss is still there,

Last gift of my adolescence.

Nobody was expecting you.  We only

Knew your first name, Federica.

You arrived in the fall when the persimmon

Leaves had bared the tree’s branches

And the red fruits glowed in the sunset.

I fell desperately in love with you,

Beautiful cousin with wide gray eyes.

I sweated, I paled, I clammed up

As you displayed the unusual red

                                                 Of your lips next to the fruits.

                                                 Since then I’ve know that love breaks out

                                                 Suddenly, with no respite:

                                                 A pain piled deep in your chest

                                                 That makes your days feel light

                                                 And lifts you to the sky like a dragon-fly.

The room was cold.  An oilskin

Covered half of your red bed

To protect if from a boot’s mud.

You lay down, indifferent, accessible

Playing with your teddy bear,

With circles deep under your shiny eyes.

Throbbing, I land on top of you

- “Good for you” – you say – “You’re done.”

I quickly button up.  I pay and get out.

Resentful, I tell myself – “I won’t do this again” –

But I know this won’t be true.

Anderlini is second from right, World War II

On the Florence train while the war raged on,

You fell in love with my uniform,

With my youth, sad and muddled.

I read your trade in your eyes.

We went to Citerea and spent three days

In a world of our own.  For three nights,

My barracks and your brothel,

Your humiliations and my war

Did not enter the closed husk

Where we, stunned, affirmed  

Our right to be happy.

With your watery, dilated eyes

On the bed unmade, you persuaded me

That I was nothing but an invading

Soldier to your country in war.

Your lifeless smile, your tight lips

Persuaded me that love’s games

Do not thrive on conflict or scarcity.

You left crying and on the night table

I found the meager gifts with which

I had tried to apologize to you.

I was left alone, disappointed about

Myself, the world, and the war.

You and I got drunk on spring air. 

The war was over.  We discovered

The swelling river loops of the Velino,

A lake’s throbbing mirror, and the sunny

Afternoon light in the summer;

Your girlfriends in the nude, who,

Unexpectedly, camouflaged to excite us.

Since then, your name, Albertine, has been

A sweet mass on my anxious heart. 

Rolling hills to the vanishing point, while

In the sunset we descend from the mountain top.

Big tits that surround the valley

Of a blue green dappled in pale ochre.

Suddenly you evaporate upon the hills,

You, enormous, lie inside those curves,

Wrapped around them, swollen, expanded.

When you come back to us, your hip

Is the short arch of a curvy circle.

My desire burns with the sunset fire,

Happy and full of light.

She was very short and dark, Maria

And she liked to take long walks,

Affectionate and chatty.

She loved the sunset lights.

She knew where she was going: she’d get

On top of a gray boulder and laugh.

Tall over me, she’d let go and

Kneeled to kiss me, complacent.

When she leaned against the boulder

She was ready for a sweeping fuck.

We’d read Montale’s poems together,

With Ungaretti’s and Quasimodo’s lines.

The charm of Hermeticism got a hold of us.

We realized the best thing was brushing

Our tops against each other, like palms,

And leave the smell of the roots for another time.

A sudden fancy enthralled the two of us

Then you got lost in the gray crowd.

When in bed you expected lewd words.

But your soft oval curves bewitched me,

With your swelling boobs, and the wonderful

Shape of your buttocks.  I would have rather

Yelled to you the pale pink

Beauty of your sweet ellipses;

But you did insist on the lewd calls.   

“I really like my husband” Algisa

Often said, laughing.  Affectionate,

She made sure I knew

With her I risked nothing.

It was just a beautiful game between us.

She brought up that connection over and over

And with her mind elsewhere

Our rendez-vous acquired a special taste.

They provided the evidence that life

Is much richer and complex than any logic.

Love is a blissful inconsistency

Of feelings, guilt, and jealousy.

In Mogadishu your black skin shines.

Over the sea a white-blue sky,

And on the beach a hundred somersaults for us.

Your voice beguiled me, Carla.

You, in the pit, locked in the translator’s cabin;

With your borrowed voice I spoke to others,

And inevitably we were tied up. 

Beijing, China.  A river island

And the Chinese mystery of a

Language in songs and ideograms.

You spoke Danish like Hamlet.

Tangle of unintelligible words!

Past the wall, happy, you laughed

At me dealing with the dictionary.

To speak with you I draw two lips,

A heart and an arrow, a shell;

I transcribe the notes of a nocturne;

Sol mi, re mi re, do sol. 

Enchanted, almost wordless night,

With a billion Chinese all around us.

***

A procession of you steps out

Of the past, and I meet you all

In the hallway of your whore-house. 

You are a crowd that whispers and laughs.

The madam is gone but her voice

Still echoes around: “Spineless guys!

You jerk up too much!  Get upstairs!”

I search your eyes one by one.

But gone from your face is the

Professional gaze of the harlot.

Here are Marina’s green eyes:

No longer a provoking challenge,

They show a tender and cold light.

And Minni’s humongous tits,

Once a generous proposition,

Now a soft, maternal cushion.

There are Carla’s lips;

A dazzling offer now turned into

Respectable red lacquer.

Lola’s swelling curves, once

The promise of a lewd fuck,

Now an impish game, harmless. 

Faces parade that I don’t recognize,

Women I met only once

Groping for a rapport

That wouldn’t be just fucking,

Trying to get to know each other

And find common ground.

***

The crowd disperses.  I am left alone

And surprised I declaim a line

That has been buzzing my soul for a while:

“Three women came around my heart.”

One summer afternoon

Anna broke into the circle.

On the Spanish Steps the sun inserted

Golden straws in the green of her eyes,

and I got lost in the soft flow of colors,

standing in front of Rome’s crimson dusk.

It was a brief season, for at twenty

You can still play hide-and-seek

With love, wounds heal in a flash.

And she left for far away lands:

An adventure that eventually gave her

Children and maturity.  Ten years later

She came back disillusioned. 

Suddenly the dormant coals revived,

The new days drenched in the old flavor.

Tenacious, she went back to dig her furrow

In the large meadow of life,

Up to our days, serene, sad

Humble yet alive, as old age

And habit require.

Lidia and Luigi in Paris, on honeymoon, 1952

Lydia was instead

A mature choice, and irrevocable;

A confident giving oneself for life;

A precise desire to blossom in our children,

In the entwining of our two lives

To share our blood with other lives

Like two separate wisterias

That interlace their branches in the garden.

And for fourteen years it was like that:

Love baked like bread,

In the generous heat of the oven.   

She had decided to marry me

Almost too rationally (“an experiment” she called it).

Yet she fell happily in love with her husband

And with her I so dazzled

Like one lost in a sweet labyrinth.

Days of long reveries paced by the beat

Of our twin hearts. 

Then life’s fury engulfs us:

The kids, my political career, your school.

I become mayor of Narni.  TV school hires you.

Serena is born.  I get into Congress.

Life gets full of spice, like a soccer game

Where we win, playing as a couple,

And all defenses are routed out.

Luca is our happiness for another life.

Politics fills our every moment

But Quasimodo still tempts us, Visconti

And Brecht intrigue us, Calvino seduces us.

Then the tragedy explodes, sudden.

Almost one year of anxiety as a tumor

Convulses your bowels. 

It’s the end for you, in a mode of everyday life;

the bitter, piercing cut of our separation,

The goodbye with no return. 

Since then you’ve been sitting in the cold,

alone under the hill.  The bloodstained

Furrow of your life has been left half done. 

The years we’ve lived together lay deep

In my tired but unbeaten heart.

Luigi at a Golden Doves for Peace event

And you, Colomba, arrive when ochres,

Reds, and yellows have already tarnished

The green of my garden.

On the horizon that is opening up

Your sweet image has been growing for a while.

The garden opens up again at your smile.

In the winter, camellias bloom again

In my expanded heart,

And my feelings are again in flower.

Then springs comes back, all of a sudden:

Large bunches of broom flowers

In our room at Vicolo del Giglio;

your colorful thread and sharp needle

(barely flashing between you fingers)

doodle a string of griffins on the fabric.

New friends warm up our lives.

Your surrender is new and sweet every time:

An embrace, forlorn and supple.

And your tenderness is a nice pillow

Where I rest my bitter thoughts.

You are paving my difficult path

To the nameless nothing.

When death arrives, I hope

It has your dry, smiling eyes.

I know that at times my three circles of love

Have almost overlapped. 

They look like the Greek sign

That the Olympic Games are played under.

Sometimes the aftertaste of these complicated

Entwinements is bitter in one’s mouth;

Wonderful, demanding, unique,

Like the story of any human life.

***

And now, women, you are all here

In these lines, beautiful and impalpable.

You are one half of this sky and other ones.

Life on the planet bears your sign,

It pours from you like water from the fountain

And it crosses, transparent, the large meadow

Where any adventure blossoms and dies.

Donne

“gioia

che vereconde voi date alla terra”

Foscolo – “Le Grazie”

Ricordo ancora la tua mano calda

che mi fruga impaziente e mi sbottona.

Quella tua misteriosa macchia nera

e l’invito dolcissimo: - “Su, vieni!”.

Tenero latte il bianco della pelle,

morbidissimo il tondo del tuo seno

ed insperato il caldo del tuo sesso.

Tu sorridi, mi stringi ed in affanno

quasi gridi di gioia; poi felice

mi stampi un bacio a schiocco sulla fronte.

Io me lo cerco ancora tra le rughe

perché è rimasto li – caldo – quel bacio:

ultimo dono dell’adolescenza.

Nessuno t’aspettava. Sapevamo

di te soltanto il nome: Federica.

Arrivasti d’autunno che le foglie

spogliato aveano nel giardino il cachi

e i frutti rosseggiavano al tramonto.

Mi innamorai di te perdutamente,

bella cugina dagli occhioni grigi.

Sudai, sbiancai, ammutolii sconvolto

dal rosso inusitato delle labbra

che esponevi al confronto con i frutti.

Da allora so che amore si scatena

all’improvviso, senza darti scampo:

una pena ammassata in fondo al petto

che pure fa leggere le giornate

e in ciel ti libra come una libellula.

Fredda la stanza. La tela cerata

ricopriva a metà il letto rosso

a difesa del fango delle scarpe.

Sdraiata, indifferente, disponibile

giocherellavi con il tuo orsacchiotto,

troppo affossati i lucidi occhi neri.

Ansimante finii sopra di te

- “Sei proprio bravo” – dici – “Hai già finito”.

Mi riabbottono in fretta. Pago. Esco.

Mi dico astioso – “Non lo farò più” –

anche se so che non sarà mai vero.

Sul treno per Firenze, in piena guerra,

ti innamorasti della mia divisa,

dei miei vent’anni, tristi e scombinati.

Io ti lessi negli occhi il tuo “mestiere”.

Partimmo per Citera e per tre giorni

fummo fuori dal mondo; e per tre notti

la mia caserma e la tua “casa chiusa”,

le tue umiliazioni e la mia guerra

non scalfirono il guscio sigillato

entro il quale, storditi, proclamammo

nostro il diritto d’essere felici.

Con l’acqua dei tuoi occhi dilatati

mi convincesti sul quel letto sfatto

che io altro non ero che il soldato

che aveva invaso in guerra il tuo paese.

Quel tuo sorriso spento, a labbra strette

mi convinse che il gioco dell’amore

mal sopporta i conflitti e la miseria.

Te ne andasti piangendo e mi lasciasti

sul comodino i poveri regali

coi quali avevo tentato di scusarmi.

Solo mi ritrovai, solo e deluso

di me, del mondo intero e della guerra.

Ci ubriacavamo d’aria a primavera.

La guerra era finita. Scoprivamo

le anse gonfie d’acqua del Velino,

lo specchio trepido di lago e luce

nei meriggi assolati dell’estate,

il nudo inaspettato delle amiche

che in costume giocavano a eccitarci.

È da allora, Albertina, che il tuo nome

sul mio cuore affannato è un dolce peso.

Colline morbide al tramonto in fuga

mentre insieme scendiamo dalla vetta.

Intorno alla pianura mammelloni

verde-azzurro, striati d’ocra pallido.

Tu a un tratto evapori sulle colline,

distesa, enorme, dentro quelle curve

tonde avvolgenti gonfie e dilatate.

Quando torni tra noi su quel tuo fianco

- arco breve d’un cerchio sinuoso –

si brucia il desiderio mio nel fuoco

d’un tramonto felice e tutta luce.

Piccolina, nerissima, Maria

aveva il gusto delle passeggiate

affettuose lunghe e discorsive.

Amava assai le luci del crepuscolo.

Aveva la sua mèta: un sasso grigio

sopra il quale saliva sorridendo.

Alta sul sasso, si lasciava andare,

si chinava a baciarmi compiaciuta.

Se si appoggiava all’albero era segno

ch’era pronta a un amplesso travolgente.

Leggemmo insieme i versi di Montale,

le poesie di Ungaretti e di Quasimodo.

Ci vinse la malia dell’ermetismo.

Ci convincemmo che come le palme

era meglio sfiorarsi per le cime

ignorando l’afror delle radici.

Un capriccio ci avvinse all’improvviso

poi ti perdesti, grigia, nella folla.

Volevi a letto, tu, parole oscene

ma io ero ammaliato dalle curve

morbide, ovali, gonfie del tuo seno,

dalle forme stupende delle natiche.

Gridarti avrei voluto la bellezza

delle tue dolci ellissi in rosa pallido.

Tu preferivi invece frasi oscene.

Amava molto suo marito Algisa.

Lo ripeteva spesso sorridendo.

Voleva farmi certo – affettuosa –

che con lei non correvo rischio alcuno

e che il nostro era solo un gran bel gioco.

Quel legame più volte ribadito

e quel sentirla col pensiero altrove

davano un gran sapore ai nostri incontri.

Fornivano la prova che la vita

è più ricca e complessa d’ogni logica,

che l’amore è felice incoerenza

di sentimenti, colpe e gelosie.

Lucida pelle nera a Mogadiscio.

Bianco-azzurro del cielo sopra il mare

e sulla spiaggia cento capriole.

Fu la tua voce, Carla, a circuirmi.

Tu, in fondo, chiusa nella tua cabina;

io che parlavo agli altri con la voce

che mi imprestavi: vincolo, spessore

per un rapporto forte e ineludibile.

Cina-Pechino. L’isola sul fiume

e il mistero cinese d’una lingua

quasi cantata e per ideogrammi.

Ti esprimevi in danese come Amleto.

Garbuglio di parole incomprensibili!

Di là dal muro tu lieta ridevi

di me alle prese con vocabolario.

Per parlarti ti disegno due labbra,

un cuore ed una freccia, una conchiglia;

ti trascrivo le note d’un notturno:

sol mi, re mi re, do sol. Fu una notte

incantata, quasi senza parole

con attorno un miliardo di cinesi.

***

Vi vedo uscire in fila dal passato

e vi ritrovo tutte nel “salone

d’ingresso” della vostra “casa chiusa”.

Siete una folla che bisbiglia e ride.

La “maitresse” non c’è ma la sua voce

stagna ancora nell’aria: - “Smidollati!

Vi fate troppe seghe! Andate in camera!”

Io vi scruto negli occhi ad una ad una.

Nei vostri volti non c’è più il sorriso

professionale della meretrice.

Eccoli gli occhi verdi di Marina:

non sono più una sfida provocante,

hanno una loro luce fredda e tenera.

E quelle tette enormi della Mìnni

non sono una proposta generosa.

Sono un cuscino soffice e materno.

Eccole lì le labbra della Carla;

una offerta che allora ti stordiva.

Ora un bel rosso lacca rispettabile.

Le curve gonfie e morbide di Lola

non promettono più l’amplesso osceno,

ma un gioco malizioso ed innocente.

Sfilano volti che non riconosco,

di quelle che incontrai solo una volta

e con le quali ricercai un rapporto

che non fosse soltanto freddo amplesso

ma sempre un tentativo di conoscersi,

di scoprire comuni le radici.

***

Il salone si sfolla. Resto solo

e mi sorprendo a recitare un verso

che mi ronza nell’animo da tempo:

“Tre donne intorno al cor mi son venute”.

Anna irruppe nel cerchio un pomeriggio,

d’estate a Trinità dei Monti: il sole

inseriva pagliuzze d’oro pallido

nel verde dei suoi occhi: io mi perdei

nel morbido fluire dei colori,

davanti a Roma rosa nel tramonto.

Fu una breve stagione ché ai vent’anni

si gioca a rimpiattino con l’amore,

le ferite guariscono in un lampo.

E lei partì per terre assai lontane:

un’avventura che doveva dargli

figli e maturità. Dopo dieci anni

disillusa tornò. L’antica brace

si ravvivò ad un tratto, le giornate

di nuovo intrise del sapore antico.

Lei tenace tornò a scavare il solco

nel grande prato, fino a nostri giorni

sereni, tristi, poveri ma vivi

così come comandano vecchiaia

ed abitudine.

Lidia fu invece

una scelta matura e irreversibile,

un confidente darsi per la vita,

una voglia precisa di fiorire

nei figli, l’intrecciarsi di due vite

per altre vite nel comune sangue

come talvolta intrecciano in giardino

due glicini diversi i loro rami.

E per quattordici anni fu così:

crebbe l’amore come cresce il pane

nel caldo generoso della madia.

Lei che aveva deciso il matrimonio

quasi a freddo (“esperimento” – disse)

s’innamorò felice del marito

ed io di lei tanto storditamente

quasi perso in un dolce labirinto.

Lunghe giornate trasognate: il ritmo

era quello del battito del cuore.

Poi la vita s’infuria e ti travolge:

i figli, la politica, la scuola.

Sindaco a Narni. Tu a telescuola.

Nasce Serena. Arrivo in parlamento.

La vita si fa piena e il gusto forte

di viverla in coppia vince e sfonda

come talvolta capita allo stadio

che sbaraglino in due ogni difesa

Luca è felicità d’un’altra vita.

La politica impegna ogni momento

ma ci tenta Quasimodo, ci intrigano

Visconti e Brecht, ci seduce Calvino.

Poi la tragedia scoppia all’improvviso.

Quasi un anno d’angoscia col tumore

che sconvolge le viscere. La fine

vista con gli occhi d’ogni giorno, il taglio

amaro e lancinante del distacco,

l’addio senza ritorno. Tu da allora

sei sola al freddo, sotto la collina.

È rimasto a metà – insanguinato –

il solco. Gli anni che vivemmo insieme

sono come adagiati – ora – sul fondo

d’un cuore affaticato ma non vinto.

E tu, Colomba, arrivi quando l’ocra,

il rosso e il giallo inquinano il giardino.

Sull’orizzonte che si va schiudendo

cresce da tempo – dolce – la tua immagine.

Sorridente riapri tu il giardino.

Nel cuore che s’allaga, le camelie

fioriscono di nuovo in pieno inverno

e tornano a sbocciare i sentimenti.

Poi a un tratto è di nuovo primavera:

gran fasci di ginestre nella stanza

di Vicolo del giglio; quella serie di grifoni

che il filo colorato e l’ago aguzzo

(ti balena appena tra le dita)

sciolgono in ghirigori sulla tela.

Nuovi amici ci scaldano la vita.

Nuova ogni volta e dolce è la tua resa:

un abbraccio smarrito e flessuoso.

E la tua tenerezza è un bel cuscino

in cui distendo amari i miei pensieri.

Stai spianando per me la via difficile

che porta al nulla senza nome.

Quando arriverà la morte, io spero

Abbia i tuoi occhi asciutti e sorridenti

Lo so che i miei tre cerchi dell’amore

si sono a volte quasi sovrapposti.

Somigliano a quel simbolo sportivo

sotto il quale si celebrano “i giochi”.

Un intreccio di vite complicato,

che lascia a volte molto amaro in bocca,

stupendo, faticoso e irrepetibile

com’è la storia d’ogni vita umana.

***

E adesso, donne siete tutte qui

in questi versi, belle ed impalpabili.

Siete metà di questo e d’altri cieli.

La vita sul pianeta ha il vostro segno,

scende da voi come acqua dalla fonte

e limpida attraversa il grande prato

dove fiorisce e muore ogni avventura.

1999

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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

   

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A Lake for the Heart

3 of 7 - Bisexual Epistemologies: A Journey from Nausea to Commitment

Bisexual Epistemologies: A Journey from Nausea to Commitment 

An occasional piece by

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD

For The Journal of Bisexuality’s 10^th Anniversary Issue

Hi dear readers!

This seven-in-one piece will be great fun--yours truly promises.  Find out all the ins and outs of 10 years of Bisexuality!  What does "epistemology"mean?  Big word, right?  Well, all it means is that when you're making love you're producing knowledge.  A good thing!

We follow the Introduction with The Journey, and will have five more posts.  Really revealing of all those things about bi you've always been curious about.  Why is it so good?  What can it do for you?  For the planet?  For the future?  For authentic intimacy?  It's all here, spiced with a bit of irony and critique of why we're so behind on our agenda.  What's keeping us from being more efficient.

Also arcane words you've been told have no meaning unless you got a PhD are explained--made very easy!  "Nausea," "existentialism": it's all about the chakra system--really.  Commitment?  It's not about going to jail (as in, "being committed").  But rather, it's about "being-in-action" about things.  Being the one who makes the difference!  No mysteries.  Woooooow!  Come back for more, will you?  We'll post every week, on Tuesdays.

Namaste,

Serena

3. The Journey

Solitude, community.  Separation, intimacy.  Nausea, freedom.  Nausea, a manifesto of 20^th century existentialism in Europe, is the first novel by Jean Paul Sartre, the French philosopher who was offered the Nobel Prize in Literature and had the gall to refuse it!  The novel was published in France in 1938, the fatal year when all bets were off for peace in that region.  The protagonist, Roquetin, felt nauseous from inaction in a world where love for love was disappearing, and was being replaced by fear of love, or erotophobia.  In trying to respond to the invitation to contribute, my mind went to this book.  What did Sartre’s nausea have to do with me?  Was I trapped in an existentialist dilemma like Roquetin? 

While in the throes of this, through the research networks that serve me I came across the latest report on bisexuality by the San Francisco Human Rights Commission: Bisexual Invisibility.  The Report identifies the bisexual contingent as the largest segment in the population that constitutes the LGBT community.  In this contingent, the majority are women to a much higher degree than in the general population.  The Report also establishes that biphobia, or the fear of bisexuality, runs rampant in LGBT institutions and the population they serve.  Last but not least, the Report also quantifies this invisibility in terms of US public funding earmarked for knowledge production and dissemination related to bisexuality.  Of the several millions in public funding received by the LGBT community, not one round cent was earmarked as bi in recent years. 

Of this I can give personal witness.  My period of collaboration with The Journal of Bisexuality  largely coincides with the probationary and tenured period of my academic career at the University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez.  Its internally funded research programs have been quite generous until last year.  The Journal has benefitted from UPR’s internally funded research programs a great deal.  How else would I have edited four issues?  What is more, by choosing to fund and tenure me based on my guest-edited issues, the UPR Mayaguez campus has perhaps inadvertently produced the only known full professor based at an institution of the Western Hemisphere whose tenure is significantly based on bisexuality research.  The other two academics, also women, are quite well known and respected in the US, but they are from other hemispheres.  Public US grant institutions classify Puerto Rico as UMI (United States Minor Outlaying Island), which suggests scarce awareness of the island’s population of about four million.  US-based public and private funders have turned down my recent grant proposals, predictably.  In addition, the assault on the public sector the Republican governor Fortuño has been perpetrating in the past two years has wiped out any vestige of human rights at my institution.  It is causing all international colleagues to flee, with the likely effect to plunge the university in the throes of parochialism and fear.[1]  As a scholar activist, I have publicly embraced the project of educating the Federal Government grant institutions that have invited me to resubmit.  “Biphobia is not in the public’s best interest,” I’ve claimed, “let’s use public funding more efficiently.”  The mentioned report Bisexual Invisibility: Impacts and Recommendations, has been the reference document for this.  Here, I am offering my reflection as a way to educate private funders too, on the difficulties and life-threatening risks of doing the bisexuality research we do.  Thanks Human Rights Commission!  You are saving my life too.

Fritz Klein

Feb 8, 2004, Dawn at Auroville

Anniversaries are occasions to celebrate.  And the rhetoric I needed to get started on this piece was just not channeling in.  What should I do?  With this context in mind, dear reader, perhaps it won’t be too difficult for you to empathize with my predicament.  What sustainable course of action could I choose that would correspond to authenticity?  Five years have passed from the “In Absentia” semi-trance piece.  Where was Fritz Klein?  What about his legacy?  My mind went to my extended research visit to Auroville, in Tamil Nadu, India, also funded by the UPR system in its golden years.  Auroville is an oasis of international creativity and a “city of dawn” founded in 1968 and named after its spiritual leader, decolonization activist and eclectic avatar Sri Aurobindo.  There, in 2004, I studied patterns of organization, expansion, and sustenance in intentional communities.  I noticed a certain staleness and indecisiveness.  Some would call it lack of vision.  I listened to local informants in the best cultural anthropology, cultural studies tradition.  “What’s the problem?” I asked the ones with most acumen.  “Dead guru syndrome,” they chimed, “we’re stuck between interpreting his word and allowing the vision to evolve as the world does and as he would if here.”  Ouch! 

“Perhaps this applies to my case too,” I reflected, “where is my copy of Fritz’s book?” Maybe that’s where I’ll find inspiration for the right rhetorical mode for this.  I own a copy of the second edition.  And yes, it was all there, the eclecticism, the dialogic ambiguity, the irony and sometime irreverent humor, the admixture of registers from colloquial to erudite, and the searing fearlessness.  The dead often visit me.  And when they do, a magnetic force gets me to open their books and listen to the voice that’s alive still beyond the page and is witness to a life spent in the endeavor to write what has the makings of a classic, something that speaks across time and space to new generations of readers.

---

[1] The issue of human rights in Puerto Rico has been addressed by the ACLU and Rep Luis Gutierrez, D-Illinois, among others: http://derechoalderecho.org/2011/02/14/human-rights-crisis-in-puerto-rico-aclu/

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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
 

 

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