| POETRYrepairshop v06.06:070 |
| Roads of Songs by ROBERTO DEDENARO |
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comment/contact ROBERTO DEDENARO GERALD PARKS introduces Italian poets to PoetryRepairShop ROBERT DEDENARO, who lives and works in Trieste, has published in Trieste and Milan. ![]() PS : to sponsor poetry visit Poetry Sponsors Archives |
ROBERTO DEDENARO Roads of Songs(from the Italian)Observe: stripes of fine dust striking the sea shadows of land the lines opening on oceans fearful to sculpt the piers, beyond the lines hills the desire of loss the desire for walking harsh openings the desire gush out – of a sign to find that opens to the air – to find the things an air in which a little of you wanders of sulphurous roads noonday deserts leaning out of windows empty of you. Now we shall be you are they were noondays overflowing with emptiness. Let's go on paradoxical occasions crowded little lectures let's go please Needle compasses zero ticking of the instruments - on the eyelids hoarfrost let's go on the little paths along unrecognizable ridges, old with water veins and a few little seeds of an absurd hope let's go hopes and rejections and distant lectures like humped rivers of the village and a distant fire and long lines of birds on the horizon. Lights of villages like cities like plastic sheets like ensnared consciences cities like villages like lights like imperturbable buzzes, electric questions disappointing teeth and black nights like extinguished and shining like explosions of vitamins, buzzes of dogs where wisdom shows itself proves itself in the air, sine nomine in the caresses of the land in the razors of the dawn roads swarming-certainties of the roads. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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| Ghosts of the Dinner by ROBERTO DEDENARO |
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comment/contact ROBERTO DEDENARO GERALD PARKS introduces Italian poets to PoetryRepairShop ![]() PS : to sponsor poetry visit Poetry Sponsors ![]() |
ROBERTO DEDENARO Ghosts of the Dinner(from the Italian)And we speak besieged by moon-pale spectres, these ghosts bite barking in the evenings just a little bit warmer. We speak, disturbed by continual draughts of air wee wee men sailing, of minimal thickness snatching the food of the dinner instilling pain knowing that we cannot look too much around all this enormity of the dead on which we silently slide. Mechanical we get up mechanical - suddenly corroded by rust, the creaking mechanism shunning with the fastidiousness of ectoplasms this flying over suddenly the table suddenly we prepare and go to sleep there leaving everything ready as though it were always in November the day of the vigil. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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