London poems. Stefano Guglielmin

London poems


Sad is his face like the face of a poet

a poet without a song 

Virginia Woolf




The foxes are howling in the yard

while the barbarian shreds the tablecloth;

Mrs Dalloway finds her voice and says:

“Doesn’t life seem incredible?”





There is no song, I know. But the body

sometimes talks on its own, likes mud

more than light and wiping out traces

makes it sick…






Poetry means, here, stand still on the carousel,

bring yourself peace as your ship goes down.






She asks if I like laughing

if dying young is worse.


She repeats the sentences twice

so laughing and dying

become just verbs for me to learn






She says so many things in English;

sticking out her tongue, unraveling it:

her sex wouldn’t do any better.






She lays down something that sounds

like the breathing of a sick heart;

she seems happy to have followers

in this enterprise.




Translations. Arthur Coleman

Let us live, my Lesbia, love
Valuing the stringent judgements
Of frigid elderlies as no more
Than an old browned penny.

Each day suns may fall and
Rise again. When light for us
In brevity sinks, night blankets
Us sleeping into perpetuity. Continue reading

A chat with Pagliarani. Luca Paci

Elio Pagliarani lives in Rome, in an apartment block not far from the Vatican City, both a modern and a popular area.

He welcomes me in his sitting room, on our right a bookshelf which climbs up to the ceiling. After a long introduction on what I do, where I come from and so forth, Mr. Pagliarani begins speaking about himself, or rather about poetry. It is a strange interview, with few questions coming from me; the hoarse, lion-like voice of the poet and the smell of his pipe merge to create a unreal atmosphere, full of suspense. Outside the Roman traffic. Continue reading

The Song of the H.F. and of the U.M. in three parts. Elsa Morante

Explanatory Introduction

?What does H.F. stand for?     It’s an abbreviation
for Happy Few.
?And who are the Happy Few?      Explaining it’s not easy,
for the Happy Few can’t be described.
Whilst few in number
they come from every race sex & nation
epoch age society status
and religion.
From the rich & from the poor
(but, if born poor, they usually stay that way,
and, if  born rich, soon end up poor)
from the young & the old (yet
it’s seldom they get here in time to get old)
from the beautiful and from the ugly (although it’s true that,
even when they’re vulgarly regarded as ugly,
in REALITY they’re beautiful; but REALITY
is rarely visible….
Well then.  Impartially, to be fair,
we’ll certify here, in good faith,
that the H. F., all of them, are always
even if, for the most part, people can’t see it).
Anyway, it’ll do for the present
explanatory preamble to note
that amongst their many & various forms there are
the exalted and the notorious, the anonymous and the hidden
(although, in the case of the famous, Celebrity doesn’t
generally show any great hurry to embrace them while they’re alive,
taking greater pleasure in seizing them in its posthumous grip,
once they’re already
deceased). Continue reading

City of Panic. Franco Berardi (Bifo)

The urban territory is increasingly traversed by streams of diasporic, heterogeneous and de-territorialised imaginary. Panic tends to become the urban psychic dimension. It is a reaction of a sensitive organism submitted to a stimulation too strong and too rapid. A reaction of an organism urged by too frequent and intense impulses to be emotively and conversationally elaborated.

What is panic? We are told that psychiatrists recently discovered and named a new kind of disorder – they call it “Panic Syndrome”. It seems that it is something quite recent in the psychological self-perception of human beings. But what does panic mean? Continue reading