blogging us out of harm’s way? Zgia

i recently started to think about the incredible amount of information that is forwarded even by our ”tiny little” poetry blog. who can digest, process or even develop an unflagging stay ”on (the) line” as regards the enormous amount of information=input given? there is on the one hand this incredible medium internet, its rhizomatic spreadability, its billboard or blackboard facility: one simply shows up (= logs on) and leaves a note. and i truly think that’s partly fantastic. on the other hand the ”ciao and then ciao again” (= we’ll have to get on with our real lives) makes ongoing and in-depth dialogue really difficult. i take myself as an example: i have posted 2 poems, a some-page-long translation, a translation of a poem, and some comments (again a poem among those) in the course of  let’s make it  two weeks. if i take myself seriously, considering myself a poet-cum-writer-with-translation-facilities, i’d say, well that’s probably enough for the discussion forum already. of course there have been a good many and deeply thought and felt entries apart from the ones i posted. (as i ‘m babbling on you’ll already start to think: oh well now, get to the point! … very well:) i want to stand up for slowing the whole thing down! do you remember the soulfulness of the slow food of thoughts that might be called ”letters”? well, i think  no!: i am convinced that there is something about the slowness of dealing with, going into and entering into something that has been said, and i have got the impression that the internet and its fabulous possibilities are too short-lived, too ciaociao (chiedo scusa alla communità italiana ma è ormai diventato un’internazionalismo) to become seriously engaged in in-depth dispute. i would wish that rizoma was growing at a slower pace and was putting down roots in the depth rather than the velocity of response of its deeply soulful members.

(please, do tear this apart, to pieces, kick it, hit it … i’d love to invite strong opinions, feelings .. you name it!)


Funeral Blues. W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


Translation: intellectual property of J Ghebrezgiabiher

i         The precocious moon pushed ricketycrookedy across the embankment; for once a good bellyful of meat. Shrubs still with trinkets of fresh rain; and start smokin’ again. A fat cloud-trollop lolled grey shoulders at the back of duskwoods; macaroni and that hard wedge of Swiss cheese, grated. Two whirlwinds came wooing me with tender dusty tresses, translucent yellow bodies, erred awkwardly nearer, gathered up their train, spinned about and delightfully sighed (but then the van from Trempenau already arrived. My two windbrides had to follow, were pulled away with wild long maenadic small of the back: bloke wi’a car stands better chances, always.)
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