Lady Range. Domenico Iannaco


Milady of the Shapes,
Where the blaring of the sound
Tracks down the chest in which
The witch, who foresees the blue
Breaths of the shaped earth,
Perverts the hatred of a
Human mind. Yes, I mind the humble,

I mind the red scissors of grimy horizons,
Because the rage moved the range
Of my actions and, at the end,
I am a chemical reaction without
Hydrogen, without carbon. Now, I beg
Your pardon because I am that man
Who is the pretended Void and
Put up with avoiding the rests
Of a blond haired girl’s grave
When the soul is that girl
Who swirls in the fade away of
A too ancient sunken sky. Yes, the mind is
A mild girl who consists of contempt
And ravished thoughts because I sit and
Have just eaten the fired bird and speak.
There was a time when the future
Was a web of curly bloody senses and then
There was a conception of the Soul itself, while
I had a soul and loved
The rhythm of your fingers
But now there is no time for choking
In a polite puddle of reminiscences and fictions
And cigarettes and so, by boarding my horizons
I fell in love with the Void.
Then the mouth was a moth and so oozy
And spewed a perfect ring of human muscles
And there, there was the fascination of a woman
Who seemed to be Saint Clare, the saint girl
Of my sprung youth. Now it’s rare the
Fluxing of the nerves and where the rivers
Of melt beings fly away, the blond haired German girl
Stares her eyes of a hawk, and, awakened to herself ,
Would rather be given up the rotten gift of a world
And the epiphany of her Self. (18th January 2007)

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9 thoughts on “Lady Range. Domenico Iannaco

  1. Domenico Iannaco is a young Italian poet who’s passionate about writing. Lady Range reads to me as a sort parody of Renaissance poems. Enjoy.

  2. “the mind is /A mild girl who consists of contempt /And ravished thoughts” reminds me more of a Medieval/fairytale imagery of ravished maids lost in woods (why should be maids always get ravished by the way? didn’t they enjoy sex every now and then? but this is another story). The poem also reminds me of Gavin’s (posted some time ago) as, although very different in style, it too deals with phantasms of women who are no(t)one, and melt into each other…just like words do in this text. The last image evokes to me (though, i suppose, unwillingly) of Cixous’ sleeping beauty, who ‘maybe came, once, in a dream’. Quite an erotic poem, now that I think about it, yet quite an uncommon one! xs

  3. Eventually I would have gotten at the image of a circle in which the subject is the object of its love, but this object blows away. So the melting of the images is an attempt to describe the whole soul, in a particular moment, in action, because the girl, although is a gleam and he is pretty stylised, is the aim of the experience and the mirror where the energy stores up, the final “destination and direction”, stronger than the subject… maybe the door.
    I think that purity, as an unmixed substance, is not innocence because the former felt the experiences and then acted his drama. At the end there’s a kind of sadistic will.
    I don’t know if Lady Range works well, because I can only image its sound because of my English.

  4. The capitalized ‘Void’ is intriguing: the personification of a space, or lack of it, is rather uncommon; so VOID becomes backdrop of action , a proper agent as well as subjectb (object) of discourse. Remotely recalling the capitalization of nouns in German language, the ‘Void’ plays a crucial role in this lyric. I like it a lot actually.
    I agree with Serena about its eroticism coming accross in an ancommon fashion. The first stanza is very powerful; it is pervaded with synestetic references (‘sound’, ‘shapes’, ‘breaths’) setting up a complex scenario for the rest of the narration to play.

  5. Fedra, lovely to have you here! of course, the Void (I remember you similarly speaking about a V-shaped stanza in a poem of mine) may recall to mind the void to which every man (according to freud) longs to return to…and dom’s comment strikes this point quite well when he writes about the ‘finel destination’ who is also ‘stronger than the subject’…a sort of archetypal mother with whom the (male) subject longs to conjoin…or have, Oedipically, intercourse…Freud would definetly have loved it! xs

  6. welcome back mariangela, very sharp comment as usual..
    @dom: writing in an other language is like adopting another body. at times one feels clumsy but it’s a unique experience. Besides, Conrad, Nabokov, Pavese, Rilke wrote in ANOTHER language. All i can advise you is to follow your demon(s).

  7. We’ve been about this question of the ‘other’ language for a bit now, but one things sort of dawned on me as I was reading your last comment luca. Well, maybe it is not groundbreaking, but I’ll write it anyway: we are of a generation that, even if educated in a sort of ‘mother-tongue’ (say, Italian), have also lived caressed by English in tangential but maybe fundamental ways. Personal examples: first kiss (Another Day in Paradise, Phil Collins); first feminist awareness (Madonna, Express Yourself); endless nights clubbing…etc. In a way, then, I don’t think our experience can be superimposed on the one by poets who have written in languages other than their own ‘mother-tongues’ in the past centuries (although for other matters it can). English at this time is quite different from any other language in the world, for good or bad, considering the difference it harbours within itself – within the multifarious community of its speakers and random users.

  8. I totally agree with you Serena. I would add that pop music is perhaps one of the least aknowledeged undercurrents when it comes to poetry..

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