was already time to turn his desire
and those who sail the 'core ntenerisce
(Dante Alighieri - Purgatory Canto VIII)
THE IDEA
have a sweetness here, locked in the heart ...
a sweetness that is pleasure and pain
I do not know if calls should be "love"
but I do know, however, that the soul I'm sick!
My baby, you are my hope,
my dream, the hope, the 'ideal'!
you who by the fragrance to life
heart and make you feel good and bad.
When you look at me with those eyes blacks
(rice in beautiful, beautiful in tears)
turn in my blood to be desired.
Lover and my bride You're the love
light, my eternal youth,
the sweetness that I have closed here in the heart:
love you, with infinite tenderness !
G. TRAVAGLINI
WHEN
When you look serious and thoughtful ...
a reflection of melancholy,
seems to want to tell me something ...
and yet you remain silent, my child!
When the smile on your face almost
feel a great joy in my heart
because you are more beautiful than the paradise
your eye and reflects the splendor!
When your eyes show surprise,
for something I did wrong,
I see a shadow pass between your eyelashes
and your beautiful face looks disfigured.
When sucks the honey from your lips
feel the pride I feel in me the glory,
I think as big as San Michele
and you are my prey to victory!
Preda beautiful, magnificent, superb,
Gioria you know me and the pain ...
ripe fruit and even more bitter ...
you are the altar of my great love!
March 10, 1943 - G. TRAVAGLINI
THE SOCERA
Respected, fuckin ', or bersaijata
dde personality sign more ...
is' is sòcera, wherever appointed
is to give women who give poor man.
course is 'no big deal of his life,
is' very sensitive issue na ...
nun and the matter will be over
Er even days that have dislodged!
Why, that he is near or far,
is that judges and she always has,
you that you will always count er
relentless, and without forgiveness!
nun And it should trattalla co 'them gloves
faje or compacting and courtesies ...
you not, is always on top of all those
vo 'dominates' genera and fije them!
Quanno you speak, trembling all around ...
Er s'azzitta pure song of the birds;
is a long endless ... poem
(but they talk, then, so 'than ever!)
She is the woman infallible, perfect ...
full of arrogance and pretensions of
believe me, that the only prescription ...
is de mannalla straight to hell!
G. TRAVAGLINI
These poems come from the past ... " GRANDPA! How long
who do not speak more the word. My grandparents are all dead for so long.
... it's been so long since I lost that part of me that I connected to my childhood and my adolescence, then I found these poems of love that my grandfather (my mother's father) dedicated to my grandmother and all ' Suddenly, everything I came back to him like the wave of a stormy sea and I breathed in deeply that air pure and fresh, full of vitality, which has awakened in me a thousand memories.
who do not speak more the word. My grandparents are all dead for so long.
... it's been so long since I lost that part of me that I connected to my childhood and my adolescence, then I found these poems of love that my grandfather (my mother's father) dedicated to my grandmother and all ' Suddenly, everything I came back to him like the wave of a stormy sea and I breathed in deeply that air pure and fresh, full of vitality, which has awakened in me a thousand memories.
images crowd my mind ... short pieces that, at any time in my life belong to, are limpid and emotional. ... I remember ... I see a child less than 5 years, in that "his" old house in Via Acireale, where in a strange ritual, I and my grandfather did a sort of little train him in the head, from the bedroom to the dining room, to bring a box full of coins that was bouncing with each step producing a cheerful jingle and then we sat at the table, we opened the box, I handed him the money and he counted them, squaring the proceeds of the workday, and that the next day should have been delivered to his office. Those were the money in the collection of arrears of electricity bills, which his grandfather used to go from house to house (one of those jobs gone and forgotten), to be honest I've always heard that people from which it appeared to recover and to which, if unpaid, would have to discontinue the service, people were lucky: it was a good grandfather, a "gentle soul :" before the pain of families really need to write in the relationship, it has not found anyone in the house and agree on when it would have been able to revise.
... the image fades and another comes to life, always in the house, when, for Christmas, we gathered all. Suddenly he heard a knock at the door, someone said, "... soon children hide "and me and my cousin Maurizio ended up under the table dining room, solid wood. We wanted to believe that Santa Claus was coming, but I only remember the trepidation and his heart was pounding, so as not to understand that it was all a farce, assembled by his grandfather to us, and there was no Santa Claus to door.
... and again, when me and my cousin sitting on two chairs, side by side, we were live, to recognize the ground that his grandfather would have mentioned by voice, to ring a bell and run to see who would first guess the title of the song. At that time there was a TV game show presented by Mario Riva functioned in this way and that was called "Musicians .
remember ... when we were with his grandfather's talent shows in the long corridor of "my" first home in Via Acireale, where I lived until the age of 5 years (but I will speak of this in another post): a small toy piano, down the hall, strummed wildly while the other came out of a room on the opposite side, improvising a dance and then we switch roles ... and I enjoyed it so much.
... and what about those traveling by train or car to go in Umbria? Each cottage is a bit 'part (if it had a tower was even better), lost in the countryside, was the home of a fairy tale character: there was the home of Snow White, the Three Little Pigs, that of Cinderella and Puss in Boots, then there was a house with a small tower, which still today every time I see that piece of highway: this was the home of the Blue Fairy of Pinocchio.
There are things all true, I heard about my grandfather so many times, and with such emphasis, to become almost a legend. Legend has become the choice of my name: my name is, in fact, Maria Claudia because my godparents are Aunt Mary and Uncle Claudio, but I heard that my grandfather always tell when my mother was pregnant, tried in every way to impose its preferences in the case had been born a girl. He had, in fact, read a book and had been affected by the protagonist, whose name was Nicole, but, as often happens, for she was used a diminutive " Nicla . That's why my youngest daughter the middle name Nicole brings and what the name " CREATIONS NICLA that still use the notes that accompany the designs I do for a hobby. legend ... and extravagant dinners that were prepared based on her grandmother's "seasoned confetti" of course, completely false, but I really believe it, and every night I wonder about that strange meal.
Grandpa was a man of few studies but was able to build his knowledge by reading a lot. Was succeeded in writing a book, " CRISIS", a story of love and politics between an Italian and a Spaniard, set in Spain during the Second World War, obviously never published, that I cherish written on pages of sheets of tissue paper, whose characters are now a pale violet, and that I should make up my mind to write down before fading completely. He wrote articles for the newspaper " Rugantino " and once even won a prize: a door powder of gold (or gold-plated), which I do not know what happened to, and then wrote poems of all kinds of satire , Romanesque and love.
Grandpa was a strong character, one who wrote on the window sill where knew it would be facing the mother-in-law "It breaks BUT I DO NOT FOLD . Grandfather was a socialist, although not to bend the rules of the time, had resigned to take the Fascist Party card, which would allow him to feed the family. He was (in this case a bit 'unconscious, as his wife and children were at risk if it was discovered) that hid the partisans and, worse still, carrying weapons in the house, which her grandmother, when detected, dismounted and patiently he then liberation brought out of the house hidden in the shopping basket.
Bel temper not! ... But he was also the one who brought me the fans of puff pastry (which I love now), bunches of spring with lots of "trumpets" yellow (so I called them) that my grandmother forced to smoke a cigarette (since he could no longer do), sitting in their tiny living room, because he wanted to smell it and it pleased him to see my grandmother as he smoked.
Sometimes, when I went to visit them in their new home, Cinecittà, he would sit in an armchair in his " lounge area (with two small chairs in dark green leather, with a small table in the middle), I asked to sit on the other (at the time I was a teenager) opened a book of poetry and began to read, praising the verses with great theatricality. What I liked best was the book of sonnets Trilussa ... all beautiful and deeply felt interpretation, and one of which I was particularly impressed:
Sometimes, when I went to visit them in their new home, Cinecittà, he would sit in an armchair in his " lounge area (with two small chairs in dark green leather, with a small table in the middle), I asked to sit on the other (at the time I was a teenager) opened a book of poetry and began to read, praising the verses with great theatricality. What I liked best was the book of sonnets Trilussa ... all beautiful and deeply felt interpretation, and one of which I was particularly impressed:
FABLE
Pe 'on my own, the story shorter
is that if called Youth:
because there was a Vorta
... and now there's more!
And the longest? And 'that de Life:
feel it says' I'm from ar Monno,
and one day, perhaps, give sleep
fall, before it's over!
is that if called Youth:
because there was a Vorta
... and now there's more!
And the longest? And 'that de Life:
feel it says' I'm from ar Monno,
and one day, perhaps, give sleep
fall, before it's over!
(Trilussa)
I still remember how much emphasis he pronounced with the last lines.
In the dining room, on a mobile, I put on a reading a book that I got to his house when he died: it is an anthology of Italian Giovanni Pascoli " FLOWER FLOWER . It 's a book all fell apart, out of layout and yellow, which I keep open the page of a poem that my grandfather read me often called " PIERINO " about a grandfather and a grandson (orphaned), who lived for each other
When he closed the school year in June, I moved for a week at my grandparents' house in Cinecittà. I slept in the kitchen on a cot that we opened every night, and I fell asleep watching Lucette lit the framework of the Sacred Heart hung above the kitchen door. I remember in one of those times I read a book " How Green Was My Valley "I liked it so much, and now every time I find him in his hands or see the old film (which I found on the DVD version of course) in front of my eyes I see pictures of the house and faces of the grandparents.
I remember that his habit of wearing a hat style borsalino "... when we went to do the snacks in the basement, to the castles of ... when I completed a commentary on Dante, I was doing for school, I left the book open on the table to go to the bathroom ... and the " idle ramblings of a grandpa that dedication to Claudia, small great writer of the future": a written some 'bitter full of weariness and regret, that I still have ... and, finally, always remember that his breath panting (she had pulmonary emphysema), which led to his death.
And I remember our last meeting: he was hospitalized in Castiglione del Lago, we were there on holiday and he had felt ill, in a room of the new pavilion overlooking the lake, the side where the sun sets. That afternoon, when I went to see the sunset was beautiful and had painted the sky and water in many colors, which are blending and blurring in the red-orange of the setting sun. As I was leaving the room, after kissing him, he called me back, and I turned in a weak voice (he had the torch oxygen the nose) he said, looking out the window: " Pupa ... is now drawing to a desire ... "and I promptly replied" ... and seafarers touches the core ", that quote from the Divine Comedy we liked a lot). I turned and walked out of that room happy that understanding that there was among us, never imagining that this would be the last time I'd seen. Looking back, after some time, reassures me that the last farewell we set ourselves was so theatrical, so particular, as otherwise it could be for a man as special as he was. Agosto1973 was 17.
In the dining room, on a mobile, I put on a reading a book that I got to his house when he died: it is an anthology of Italian Giovanni Pascoli " FLOWER FLOWER . It 's a book all fell apart, out of layout and yellow, which I keep open the page of a poem that my grandfather read me often called " PIERINO " about a grandfather and a grandson (orphaned), who lived for each other
... dawn shook hands at sunset "
... this allegory he liked so much and I think the two relate to us, although I was not an orphan. When he closed the school year in June, I moved for a week at my grandparents' house in Cinecittà. I slept in the kitchen on a cot that we opened every night, and I fell asleep watching Lucette lit the framework of the Sacred Heart hung above the kitchen door. I remember in one of those times I read a book " How Green Was My Valley "I liked it so much, and now every time I find him in his hands or see the old film (which I found on the DVD version of course) in front of my eyes I see pictures of the house and faces of the grandparents.
I remember that his habit of wearing a hat style borsalino "... when we went to do the snacks in the basement, to the castles of ... when I completed a commentary on Dante, I was doing for school, I left the book open on the table to go to the bathroom ... and the " idle ramblings of a grandpa that dedication to Claudia, small great writer of the future": a written some 'bitter full of weariness and regret, that I still have ... and, finally, always remember that his breath panting (she had pulmonary emphysema), which led to his death.
And I remember our last meeting: he was hospitalized in Castiglione del Lago, we were there on holiday and he had felt ill, in a room of the new pavilion overlooking the lake, the side where the sun sets. That afternoon, when I went to see the sunset was beautiful and had painted the sky and water in many colors, which are blending and blurring in the red-orange of the setting sun. As I was leaving the room, after kissing him, he called me back, and I turned in a weak voice (he had the torch oxygen the nose) he said, looking out the window: " Pupa ... is now drawing to a desire ... "and I promptly replied" ... and seafarers touches the core ", that quote from the Divine Comedy we liked a lot). I turned and walked out of that room happy that understanding that there was among us, never imagining that this would be the last time I'd seen. Looking back, after some time, reassures me that the last farewell we set ourselves was so theatrical, so particular, as otherwise it could be for a man as special as he was. Agosto1973 was 17.
Another poem, in life, my grandfather had always loved, and repeatedly recited to me: "'THE LEVEL " Toto: I could not help noticing, when I went to the cemetery, his neighbor's grave (he, poor clerk with elementary school) was a Grand Officer of the Commander, Knight of Labor, and so on and so forth ... The difference between them, now is no, but ... to the grave nobody ever brings anything, while my grandfather is always full of color, and when I go to see him, never fails to put a flower on one of his "illustrious" neighbor. I'm sure from above, in some corner, mocking smiles for this situation, which he recited so many times in life. For him I wrote a few poems, the void that left me was unbridgeable, I found only one, and only remember the beginning of another:
Then Atropos
that broke the thread,
that they had skilled hands for a long time fabric,
you, poor dear old
you closed your eyes to the world
not open more ...
**********
If c'aripenso
me if my heart ... er constrains
quer forgotten alley, the art of amateur
,
quer touch de
brush as co 'pen,
pe' dasse
the illusion that life was more beautiful,
pe 'dasse the hope that it would
Eng.
Mo 'Tell me, if then, that to thee
served
that pen lying in a drawer,
the hope that slowly
life
thee thrown against the wind and er mo' ... do not say anything?
To give yourself the illusion that served thee!
that broke the thread,
that they had skilled hands for a long time fabric,
you, poor dear old
you closed your eyes to the world
not open more ...
**********
If c'aripenso
me if my heart ... er constrains
quer forgotten alley, the art of amateur
,
quer touch de
brush as co 'pen,
pe' dasse
the illusion that life was more beautiful,
pe 'dasse the hope that it would
Eng.
Mo 'Tell me, if then, that to thee
served
that pen lying in a drawer,
the hope that slowly
life
thee thrown against the wind and er mo' ... do not say anything?
To give yourself the illusion that served thee!
(December 1974)
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