tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90889826523209565132024-03-14T02:08:12.315+00:00Pillole (di)versiQuaderno di poesia on-lineMapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-91132401503394632792023-04-29T18:04:00.003+01:002023-04-29T18:32:32.387+01:00 Ciò che puoi vedere di Maria Allo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DQDAHMD9RHUFJe35YWkGSbf6l2YSFk_bl99Uf05eT1RR4cXOlourmkrn8XYJTAP1F2dlsj2sGJPpK732MCFiWz7GVSGN6SHlvh0QCA810CRVhodBYVc6CYBPqFjHPooQUvSzsf9hJhNnYrTkcg8gTsW4zXnsakim_UwGopy6nnvXkwg1qBstoMVK/s1024/davide%20anselmi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DQDAHMD9RHUFJe35YWkGSbf6l2YSFk_bl99Uf05eT1RR4cXOlourmkrn8XYJTAP1F2dlsj2sGJPpK732MCFiWz7GVSGN6SHlvh0QCA810CRVhodBYVc6CYBPqFjHPooQUvSzsf9hJhNnYrTkcg8gTsW4zXnsakim_UwGopy6nnvXkwg1qBstoMVK/w400-h266/davide%20anselmi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Ciò che puoi vedere<br />sono le foglie qui intorno in questo vento<br />con i passi nell’erba e il traslato negli occhi<br />della primavera che torna<br />anno dopo anno<br />uno <a tabindex="-1"></a>sciame d’erba si sfibra in battiti di ciglia<br />Forse la ferita sta a monte<br />nei bagliori sulle cortecce dei vivi<br />fino alla soglia<br />fino a dove non siamo più<br />o forse nella storia aperta di ognuno <br />fino al fiorire dei mandorli<br /><br />Creare un piccolo fiore è lavoro di secoli</p><div dir="auto"><div class="x1iorvi4 x1pi30zi x1l90r2v x1swvt13" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id=":Rlahlqlall6daammjabkq75b5klbaH2:"><div class="x78zum5 xdt5ytf xz62fqu x16ldp7u"><div class="xu06os2 x1ok221b"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="color: #cc0000;"><div dir="auto"><br /></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a"><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">[testo di Maria Allo, foto di Davide Anselmi]</span></div></div></span></div></div></div></div>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-76985118782388125602023-03-05T18:46:00.007+00:002023-04-03T18:21:20.115+01:00A Iosif Brodskij di Sergio Daniele Donati<p style="text-align: left;"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg44CY1VnK9Na3dvAN7CYz277DzhE_tN0vZXf6pDVoCGuM8QZEomakOd1wfenOwpPXKsR2dTAris7UNDGclCmOOZ_mzFpGeGvwU33yUSOR8u1zq23oa53RdAYLnsARYxuVEsgfIYRNvV2_gNljoQ5Tw2qNq6CWHY55woYvHnkcac_m4Bkx-MXMBPcqG/s960/sergio%20daniele%20donati.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p></p><div style="clear: left; display: inline; font-size: small; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="clear: left; display: inline; font-size: small; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspHWsO6YVVa_STZpcrFgqzJfj6wTgBbbg_MNIOFwGBbI2r11FIBqFjhR__JebxRQJTOx-qeX7yNYxyqOcESRsbnyjqEF7M6bzQr-OyUnSvheJ6Xr5JP4E22ZQyL6M_eseYVLf9FlX6GB11LzBrhqNRmlSQp0AiMkutInn_l-r2pSn7D6AHQiKo_9r/s320/164183522_10225261957484513_293932969735878890_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="318" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspHWsO6YVVa_STZpcrFgqzJfj6wTgBbbg_MNIOFwGBbI2r11FIBqFjhR__JebxRQJTOx-qeX7yNYxyqOcESRsbnyjqEF7M6bzQr-OyUnSvheJ6Xr5JP4E22ZQyL6M_eseYVLf9FlX6GB11LzBrhqNRmlSQp0AiMkutInn_l-r2pSn7D6AHQiKo_9r/s1600/164183522_10225261957484513_293932969735878890_n.jpg" width="318" /></a></div></div></div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">Nel Regno del Silenzio</span></i></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p>Sono stanco, Iosif, <br />la mano nell’acqua, <br />tra le selci, si squama. <br />Non tiene più la penna; <br />cade, piega la punta <br />e lascia sul foglio <br />macchie d’inchiostro<br />e sangue. </p><p>Carezza la mia nuca <br />come allora; <br />lo sguardo è spento <br />e le scintille delle mie <br />braci tacciono,<br />nella cenere. </p><p>Fratello maggiore, <br />senza lenticchie <br />ti chiedo aiuto. Ancora.<br />Come allora. </p><p>È ora che m’immerga <br />nel mare tuo <br />della dimenticanza <br />e ho paura.</p><p><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">[da Il canto della Moabita, 2021]</span></p>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-70772309575171258472023-01-24T21:18:00.006+00:002023-03-05T18:50:01.642+00:00Questo sentimento di nullità di Giuseppe Vetromile<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNC0mk-vCIaHrX7UhrIkU-Fdv-QYwqXeAygAg9JHTvUmh4SI5mRgDGb0bI95xxEyK-UZZZ3EycEX_ZDbSDpsqiWF2UX0IK53pDMGjLIc7OVRFqfzsuLT8xNAOBhOdR6CFpT87FF5_jWHzdmfUaQhbenuxW8_zY_yKddYQIOt3OJkeFqQbxjATRXJS/s748/giuseppe%20vetromile.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNC0mk-vCIaHrX7UhrIkU-Fdv-QYwqXeAygAg9JHTvUmh4SI5mRgDGb0bI95xxEyK-UZZZ3EycEX_ZDbSDpsqiWF2UX0IK53pDMGjLIc7OVRFqfzsuLT8xNAOBhOdR6CFpT87FF5_jWHzdmfUaQhbenuxW8_zY_yKddYQIOt3OJkeFqQbxjATRXJS/s748/giuseppe%20vetromile.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="748" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNC0mk-vCIaHrX7UhrIkU-Fdv-QYwqXeAygAg9JHTvUmh4SI5mRgDGb0bI95xxEyK-UZZZ3EycEX_ZDbSDpsqiWF2UX0IK53pDMGjLIc7OVRFqfzsuLT8xNAOBhOdR6CFpT87FF5_jWHzdmfUaQhbenuxW8_zY_yKddYQIOt3OJkeFqQbxjATRXJS/w400-h266/giuseppe%20vetromile.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Avrei voluto fermare il tempo a mezz’aria</div><div>al culmine dello svago</div><div>o nel bel mezzo d’una poesia sulla punta delle labbra</div><div>concludere un anno di felicità</div><div>e ripensare a quello successivo ancora più gaio</div><div>Avrei voluto proseguire il sogno nel sogno</div><div>continuare i miei passi sul mare o nel cielo</div><div>libero da ogni stagione e da ogni panno indecente</div><div>trastullarmi ancora un poco con le parole in croce</div><div>affannarmi a trovare quelle giuste</div><div>quelle adatte a significare un amore</div><div>Ma poi il grigio</div><div>ma poi l’ombra sospetta e deleteria accanto agli occhi</div><div>ma poi il dubbio che si insinua nelle fessure dell’anima</div><div>e questo sentimento di nullità che mi pervade</div><div>e ricado indietro</div><div>nel vortice ineluttabile</div><div>che tutto vanifica</div><div>Avrei voluto fermare il tempo</div><div>ma la foglia cade ancora e sempre</div><div>quand’è autunno!</div><div>e tutto ricomincia di nuovo dopo</div><div>anche senza più il mio sorriso</div><div>e il mio affannoso cercare.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">[Giuseppe Vetromile, da Proprietà dell’attesa, RPlibri, 2020]</span></div><div><br /></div>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-84264022843393743862022-12-30T08:21:00.003+00:002022-12-30T08:21:52.439+00:00Fratello mio, tu caro di Anna Maria Curci<p style="text-align: right;"><i> </i></p><p style="text-align: right;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjceiS_jePVMt-TOx4Ardf5Fcw3X6Fms7SO3n_L6umPHc1ap6_lXp6bpmsA-wx6x3ptK5n5NWzIKXQcWjFX6-hB3G0ljrGi8ZaXkXvx7m4CrFGafezM5-nuBZ6vQ7zhuwE2JIOdPJhH3j-_40tvQCUVS2RAbaYvjzkGuY7lTNNl-7vSyQIvgatPpEqf/s832/anna%20maria%20curci.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="803" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjceiS_jePVMt-TOx4Ardf5Fcw3X6Fms7SO3n_L6umPHc1ap6_lXp6bpmsA-wx6x3ptK5n5NWzIKXQcWjFX6-hB3G0ljrGi8ZaXkXvx7m4CrFGafezM5-nuBZ6vQ7zhuwE2JIOdPJhH3j-_40tvQCUVS2RAbaYvjzkGuY7lTNNl-7vSyQIvgatPpEqf/w309-h320/anna%20maria%20curci.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><p></p><p class="has-text-align-right" style="text-align: right;"><em><br />Mein lieber Bruder, wann bauen wir uns ein Floß<br /></em><em>und fahren den Himmel hinunter?<br /></em>(Ingeborg Bachmann)</p><p class="has-text-align-right" style="text-align: right;"><em>Seppi volare un giorno questo cielo<br /></em><em>distesi le ali in sogno -<br /></em>(Fabio Micheli)</p><blockquote><p class="has-text-align-right" style="text-align: right;"></p></blockquote><p class="has-text-align-right" style="text-align: right;"></p><p>fratello mio, tu caro<br />pur se è finito il gioco<br />risaliremo il corso<br />su zattere, su chiatte<br /><br /></p><p>fratello mio, tu caro<br />dimentica l'apnea<br />la resa, andare a fondo<br />prima del salvataggio<br /><br /></p><p>fratello mio, tu caro<br />intoniamo quel canto<br />che travolti dai giorni<br />imparammo orecchiando<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;"><!--wp:paragraph {"align":"right"}-->
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<!--/wp:paragraph--></p><p><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">[da <i>In</i>sorte, Anna Maria Curci, Il Convivio 2022]</span></p>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-46474792355150482192022-12-19T22:15:00.004+00:002023-03-05T18:51:04.886+00:00Due di Erri De Luca<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAkq14IaJITnKsmBtw7fQ9Sl_W19Jwrp5iT5Zpedp5panwVoAdS-DJhqaS1aZM4n-JftgL2oV4WBsl-3LRGq_1CFdSIBzdFobK6afd11o79tvk6P8GZM3sG4OWjxxsVAxKL94sUP2kMFQa9k8S3f_7qw49qacBxwgnq543Hk0w4ppuIpDYbsXPQaZ5/s900/erri%20de%20luca%20poesia%20due.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="900" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAkq14IaJITnKsmBtw7fQ9Sl_W19Jwrp5iT5Zpedp5panwVoAdS-DJhqaS1aZM4n-JftgL2oV4WBsl-3LRGq_1CFdSIBzdFobK6afd11o79tvk6P8GZM3sG4OWjxxsVAxKL94sUP2kMFQa9k8S3f_7qw49qacBxwgnq543Hk0w4ppuIpDYbsXPQaZ5/w482-h279/erri%20de%20luca%20poesia%20due.webp" width="482" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Quando saremo due saremo veglia e sonno,</div><div>affonderemo nella stessa polpa</div><div>come il dente di latte e il suo secondo,</div><div>saremo due come sono le acque, le dolci e le salate,</div><div>come i cieli, del giorno e della notte,</div><div>due come sono i piedi, gli occhi, i reni,</div><div>come i tempi del battito</div><div>i colpi del respiro.</div><div>Quando saremo due non avremo metà</div><div>Saremo un due che non si può dividere con niente.</div><div>Quando saremo due, nessuno sarà uno,</div><div>uno sarà l’uguale di nessuno</div><div>e l’unità consisterà nel due.</div><div>Quando saremo due</div><div>cambierà nome pure l’universo</div><div>diventerà diverso.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">[Solo andata. Righe che vanno troppo spesso a capo, Feltrinelli, 2005]</span></div><div><br /></div>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-51930203302497271082022-11-18T22:45:00.020+00:002022-11-24T17:25:17.202+00:00Una poesia di Marina Minet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7b86kyHSNWYX9ewVdM1RljeLRiNrq4c8esmtwiVUNxReAw63iTvi2T2181lvwri7kxWMgnxkdZ_iM-EmeUHOFynuEsqgxtVj0VX-MjT3e3UwI9b73zfYnZeirClNc-zH5wkGNOCWjpb8xHU_Y0SIUEVPpemf1iIVledRAk2tEtBBf9PIzvr867J3/s1927/marina%20minet%20foto.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1604" data-original-width="1927" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7b86kyHSNWYX9ewVdM1RljeLRiNrq4c8esmtwiVUNxReAw63iTvi2T2181lvwri7kxWMgnxkdZ_iM-EmeUHOFynuEsqgxtVj0VX-MjT3e3UwI9b73zfYnZeirClNc-zH5wkGNOCWjpb8xHU_Y0SIUEVPpemf1iIVledRAk2tEtBBf9PIzvr867J3/w400-h333/marina%20minet%20foto.jpg" width="400" /></a>
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<div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cosa sogneremo domani</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">quando lo spavento diventerà una storia</span>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">trascritta come un gesto già compiuto</span>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">da raccontare antica come il pane.</span>
</div>
<div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cosa penseremo domani</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">benedicendo il grano sui gradini</span>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">mentre i tralci dell’uva già raccolta</span>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">cadranno sbiaditi sotto i passi.</span>
</div>
<div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cosa seguiremo domani</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">senza le vesciche della corsa</span>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">senza la sabbia incollata alle infradito</span>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">senza una preghiera segnata in calendario</span>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">da recintare gioia tutt’insieme.</span>
</div>
<div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cosa guarderemo domani</span></div>
<div><span style="font-family: inherit;">maturi come le parole</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">un treno sempre in sosta sui binari</span>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">per tante scarpinate da confidare al cielo.</span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Eravamo ciechi proprio ieri</span>
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<div><span style="font-family: inherit;">con gli alberi a ridosso</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">la bocca sudata dall’amore</span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">e il grido dei bambini nelle piazze.</span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Cosa conteremo domani, mio Dio</span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">le schiene distese sulla terra</span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">e miglia di zattere per file già sommerse</span>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">ora che a stento sonnecchiamo</span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">chiudendo le finestre in faccia all’altro</span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">in una guerra che tutti ci perdona.</span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i>(#Restiamo a casa)</i></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<span face="Georgia, "Times New Roman", sans-serif" style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"><span style="color: #990000;">[Marina Minet - inedito</span></span></span><span style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #990000; font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: x-small;">]<br /><br /></span>
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Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-91682472646271155892022-10-09T20:13:00.020+01:002022-11-18T22:48:05.521+00:00Tre fili d'attesa di Maria Pina Ciancio<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; letter-spacing: 0.45pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; letter-spacing: 0.45pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>E' uscito il nuovo libro
di Maria Pina Ciancio a cura dell'Associazione
Culturale LucaniArt con interventi interni di Anna Maria Curci, Abele
Longo e una stampa illustrata di Stefania Lubatti.</i><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8eeZSIcTY5z0Zs0sgtc_gKYzR4ePkiTPc0fSm-wZS2Ufk7r_oQI_4dZuB1G3SBw2ndeNbHz-VfMXmecwk45dai4BaPTED7DOU7-PeNxRHQ9ijhQptsfxQxLT9hgYS9rwIWqP8cENYIpyFn4Plq0WRZzkhMSm1bacTLZ05Zeu1Qe4m5-fGkiKeAiTJ/s5024/maria%20pina%20ciancio.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2824" data-original-width="5024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8eeZSIcTY5z0Zs0sgtc_gKYzR4ePkiTPc0fSm-wZS2Ufk7r_oQI_4dZuB1G3SBw2ndeNbHz-VfMXmecwk45dai4BaPTED7DOU7-PeNxRHQ9ijhQptsfxQxLT9hgYS9rwIWqP8cENYIpyFn4Plq0WRZzkhMSm1bacTLZ05Zeu1Qe4m5-fGkiKeAiTJ/w400-h225/maria%20pina%20ciancio.JPG" width="400" /></a></b></div><p></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; letter-spacing: 0.45pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">"Come non essere di parte dinanzi a una strada che spianandosi con
grazia conduce teneramente alla meta. Ogni volta che una lettura intrattiene,
in fondo aspiriamo a questo, sebbene nel mentre ci lasciamo cullare osservando
con dovizia il suo paesaggio, che sia limpido o nebbioso, è questo che
cerchiamo. Una meta compiuta, illuminante, dove grati e sfamati riposare con la
certezza di una risposta nuova. Oltre l’ultimo verso di <strong><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Tre fili d’attesa</span></strong> di <strong><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Maria Pina Ciancio</span></strong>, ho trovato esattamente questo.
L’esposizione poetica volta a una terra mai sepolta, pulsante come coscienza in
sé, circondata da volti reali, tangibilmente compresi e amati e da luci sorelle
molto care al mio sguardo. Nessuna ovvietà, nessuna imboscata nella sua poesia
che fa del quotidiano quadri incisi sulla pelle. Solo devoto e umano
splendore". (</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; letter-spacing: 0.45pt; text-align: right;">Marina Minet)</span></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: right;"><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t32" o:oned="t" o:spt="32" path="m,l21600,21600e">
<v:path arrowok="t" fillok="f" o:connecttype="none">
<o:lock shapetype="t" v:ext="edit">
</o:lock></v:path></v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_s1026" o:connectortype="straight" style="height: 0.9pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 148.35pt; margin-top: 8.5pt; position: absolute; text-align: left; width: 191.4pt; z-index: 251658240;" type="#_x0000_t32"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></v:shape></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: right;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: left;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Talvolta basta uscire per strada</span></i> </p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: left;"><i style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; text-indent: 35.4pt;"><span>per
riannodare gli orli</span></i> </p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: left;"><i style="font-family: Garamond, "serif"; text-indent: 35.4pt;"><span>sfilacciati di un pensiero</span></i></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: left;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Dopo
la guerra dell’inverno<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">c’è
chi parte e c’è chi resta<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">(…)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Gennaro
e Vincenzino<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">sillabano
il tempo<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">in
anelli di fumo irregolare<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">e
aspettano i ritorni<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">tra
la ringhiera scorticata<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">e
i gerani smarriti al grande cielo<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">C’è odore di fresco e di pulito la
mattina<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">quando esci sull’orlo spiegato della
strada<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">odore di pane e di giornali<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">e voglia di trovarsi dentro un’altra storia<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">magari in quella del barbiere<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">scampato ieri notte all’aggressione<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">che fischietta spensierato sollevando la
persiana<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">Ci sono notti difficili da dormire qui<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">per quel piccolo cane a tre zampe del
vicino<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">che abbaia in cima alle scale<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">e rivendica ai passanti<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">l’equilibrio sbilanciato e senza nome<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";">della strada</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><i><br />poesie 2006-2007 </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><i>(pag. 6)</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><b><br />Poesie
tratte da Tre fili d’attesa di Maria Pina Ciancio, a cura dell’Associazione
Culturale LucaniArt, settembre 2022</b></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiYqMQAsu97MsHmYK7eE1E794Ozf1GBz_oigvkJgp6Ql6E67bFoM1CoG4VD-5WXu-K_8q7Rorm_FaS72VuOQlk8YofjVmAslkGY4zTnMgEKWbnYYfBAODBFASfGEhtsIo9jqTFY8wl_X_CR4yEPvB6aWkbhwj511XUf3_IeSF3sMEBNmkAGse7ZE90/s1039/193175935_520435519134646_1878186305890559922_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1039" data-original-width="746" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiYqMQAsu97MsHmYK7eE1E794Ozf1GBz_oigvkJgp6Ql6E67bFoM1CoG4VD-5WXu-K_8q7Rorm_FaS72VuOQlk8YofjVmAslkGY4zTnMgEKWbnYYfBAODBFASfGEhtsIo9jqTFY8wl_X_CR4yEPvB6aWkbhwj511XUf3_IeSF3sMEBNmkAGse7ZE90/s320/193175935_520435519134646_1878186305890559922_n.jpg" width="230" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Maria Pina Ciancio di origine lucana è nata a
Winterthur (CH) nel 1965. Trascorre la sua infanzia tra la Svizzera e il Sud
dell’Italia, dove ha vissuto coniugando la passione per l’insegnamento a quella
per la poesia e la scrittura. Viaggia fin da quand’era giovanissima alla
scoperta dei luoghi interiori e dell’appartenenza, quelli solitamente
trascurati dai flussi turistici di massa, in un percorso di riappropriazione
della propria identità e delle proprie radici. Ha pubblicato testi che spaziano
dalla poesia, alla narrativa, alla saggistica. Tra i sue raccolte poetiche più
recenti ricordiamo <i>Il gatto e la falena</i> (Premio Parola di Donna, 2003), <i>La
ragazza con la valigia</i> (Ed. LietoColle, 2008), <i>Storie minime</i> e una
poesia per Rocco Scotellaro (Fara Editore, 2009), Assolo per mia madre (Ed.
L’Arca Felice, 2014) Tre fili d’Attesa (LucaniArt,
2022). Ha vinto diversi premi e d è inserita in antologie e riviste di settore.
Dal 2007 è presidente dell’Associazione Culturale LucaniArt.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7.1pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://cianciomariapina.wordpress.com/">https://cianciomariapina.wordpress.com/</a></span></p>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-16046524385077096442022-02-24T23:00:00.000+00:002023-12-03T23:26:48.460+00:00Soldati di Marina Minet<p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i>La guerra che ritorna</i></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p><br /></p><p>Quali lamenti racconta la terra<br />ieri le madri cullavano l’alba e ancora è così <br />Le braghe degli uomini puzzano ancora<br />si sente il latrato dei cani fin dentro le ossa<br />Gli estremi dei poli congiungono le frasi <br />di chi la pietà la conserva nei polsi<br />fra le lancette degli orologi rotti</p><p>Il no che richiude le porte <br />Le tasche dei morti contengono niente <br />l’ultima preghiera ch’era in vita <br />finita a metà con il pianto dell’infanzia<br />freddato dagli scoppi</p><p>soldati di rabbia per chi li comanda <br />soldati d’amore per chi li saluta <br />le file che restano rimpiangono la noia <br />gli abbracci segreti e i petali dei fiori <br />caduti sopra i tavoli<br />al grido dei bambini in festa </p><p><i>(l’invasione, febbraio 2022)</i></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", sans-serif;"><span style="color: #990000;">[Marina Minet - inedito</span></span><span style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", sans-serif;">]</span></span></p>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-9437182847220389572017-11-07T12:34:00.003+00:002022-11-26T16:51:38.352+00:00Non mi lascerai annegare di Griselda Doka<span style="font-size: small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzc-Lt0fLwelY-pheeq2a7niBZJ8A02svYrASfAoD5RG1joQteN4BmpY3Vvsf1HmqSL9eXUH2kKAXJiiLsliQcCkXZxXjKVNBFsVCU3hXTEwi2gOOsteboyeZC2UmRDXyaMJed2SlLlXAYIo6JLSF_TL8XcZyHG6z6j6MgJ2u1-Jb2_LpUvPOTdFL/s2048/Doka1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzc-Lt0fLwelY-pheeq2a7niBZJ8A02svYrASfAoD5RG1joQteN4BmpY3Vvsf1HmqSL9eXUH2kKAXJiiLsliQcCkXZxXjKVNBFsVCU3hXTEwi2gOOsteboyeZC2UmRDXyaMJed2SlLlXAYIo6JLSF_TL8XcZyHG6z6j6MgJ2u1-Jb2_LpUvPOTdFL/w320-h320/Doka1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><br /><br /></span></span><div><span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif">IV.<br /><br />Non mi lascerai annegare<br />quando il vento sfuma gli scogli<br />e la luce ferisce <br />le pupille dei gabbiani<br />non lasciarmi affondare <br />ora che sono la tua preghiera disperata<br />e al ciel sereno<br />quella gratuita bestemmia<br />afferrami le dita<br />e conducimi a te<br />oltre le tue mani ci sono già stata<br />credimi<br />il porto è una grande menzogna<br />con navi pericolanti<br />che sanno di ruggine <br />e di acido che ti porti addosso<br />quando non distingui il sudore <br />dalle onde o dalle lacrime <br /><br /><span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Griselda Doka, da Solo brevi domande esiliate, Fara Editore 2015) </span></span></span></span></div>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-72497279108877005402017-11-06T10:06:00.002+00:002017-11-06T10:06:53.260+00:00I fiori vengono in dono di Amelia Rosselli<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SmSeqh5Xz4I/WeuW56h2lQI/AAAAAAAAAkI/AtIZ4QKNIT4NZIQAlRhmiaE90aJTPDdAACLcBGAs/s1600/amelia_rosselli_ignani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="491" data-original-width="640" height="245" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SmSeqh5Xz4I/WeuW56h2lQI/AAAAAAAAAkI/AtIZ4QKNIT4NZIQAlRhmiaE90aJTPDdAACLcBGAs/s320/amelia_rosselli_ignani.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I fiori vengono in dono e poi si dilatano</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">una sorveglianza acuta li silenzia</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">non stancarsi mai dei doni.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Il mondo è un dente strappato</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">non chiedetemi perché</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">io oggi abbia tanti anni</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">la pioggia è sterile.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Puntando ai semi distrutti</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">eri l'unione appassita che cercavo</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">rubare il cuore d'un altro per poi servirsene.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">La speranza è un danno forse definitivo</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">le monete risuonano crude nel marmo</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">della mano.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Convincevo il mostro ad appartarsi</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">nelle stanze pulite d'un albergo immaginario</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">v'erano nei boschi piccole vipere imbalsamate.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mi truccai a prete della poesia</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">ma ero morta alla vita</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">le viscere che si perdono</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">in un tafferuglio</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">ne muori spazzato via dalla scienza.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Il mondo è sottile e piano:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">pochi elefanti vi girano, ottusi.
</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">[Amelia Rosselli, da Documento, 1966-1973]</span></span></span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-83987200856297969472017-10-31T18:12:00.001+00:002017-10-31T18:15:56.522+00:00C'è un istante di Biagio Salmeri<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: small;">C’è un istante<br />quando il fiume s’asciuga<br />nel letto<br /><br />in cui è dato ripercorre a ritroso<br />la propria vita<br /><br />fino alla fonte<br /><br />alla bocca della madre<br />aperta<br />nel gridare la nascita<br /><br />che ora vuota<br />e silenziosa pare<br />ingoiare la terra</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 85%;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: x-small;">(</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="Biagio Salmeri" title=""><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 85%;">B</span></a><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 85%;">iagio Salmeri</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 85%;">, da Accessi remoti)</span></span></span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-84541070390910262252017-10-27T21:26:00.000+01:002017-10-31T18:16:39.023+00:00Preghiera per i liberatori di Lucio Zinna<div align="justify" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-after: avoid;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Liberaci o Signore</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">dalla prepotenza di coloro</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">che hanno sempre qualcuno
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">da liberare. </span></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Liberaci da questa loro</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">anomala schiavitù.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Libera nos Domine </span></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">dai liberatori </span></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">tradiscono se stessi</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">e i liberati</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">odiano i conquistatori</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">e li sostituiscono.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lascia
o Signore</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">che
trovi ciascuno</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">il
necessario impulso</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">ad
ogni liberazione.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Che
ciascuno possa liberarsi</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(da
solo o in compagnia)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">liberamente.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div align="justify" style="line-height: 0.42cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-top: 0.14cm;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">[Luciao Zinna, da Bonsai]</span> </span></span></span></div>
Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-11541384712949688652017-10-26T13:07:00.001+01:002017-10-31T18:19:36.109+00:00Hai visto la luna dei poveri? di Vincenzo D'Alessio<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Hai visto la luna dei poveri?<br />
È così bianca, così vuota<br />
non scalda, si spinge tra<br />
il buio e le nuvole raccoglie<br />
il gelo delle notti.<br /><br />
Quanti giri nel cielo compie<br />
la luna prima che venga<br />
il sole a illuminare le sventure</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">[Vincenzo D'Alessio, da “La tristezza del tempo” 2014] </span></span></span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-56645593328615183572017-10-25T19:39:00.003+01:002017-10-31T18:17:03.915+00:00Lucania di Francesco Arleo<div align="justify">
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FoeWiNxyp_Y/WfDaGXvghCI/AAAAAAAAAk4/OeN4uQgcJGU9_obUcGbOxAU3RBSfHraDgCLcBGAs/s1600/arleo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="392" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FoeWiNxyp_Y/WfDaGXvghCI/AAAAAAAAAk4/OeN4uQgcJGU9_obUcGbOxAU3RBSfHraDgCLcBGAs/s320/arleo.jpg" title="francesco arleo" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Mia madre non si chiede perchè è nata quì,<br />noi siamo figli innervati di silenzio<br /><br />mia madre non si chiede perchè siamo scappati.<br />Noi siamo i dispersi<br />laureati raccomandabili<br />camerieri al Caffè Canova<br />cuochi di Holloway road<br />inquilini sotterranei<br />portieri di Milano<br />facchini di Boulevard Saint Germain<br />stallieri nelle Pampas<br />puttanieri d'ogni luogo<br />locandieri di Buenos Aires<br />predatori gentili di Montecarlo<br />morti di fame a Caracas<br />siamo i tuoi figli.<br /><br />Lucania<br />non sei verdi declivi, faggi o versi d'Orazio<br /><br />tu sei i tuoi dispersi.</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: x-small;">[Francesco Arleo - da Le parole sono amanti, 2001]</span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-70336802903173071532017-10-25T19:21:00.000+01:002017-10-31T18:17:21.175+00:00Porto in salvo dal freddo le parole di Francesco Scarabicchi<div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Porto in salvo dal freddo le parole,</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">curo l'ombra dell'erba, la coltivo</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">alla luce notturna delle aiuole,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">custodisco la casa dove vivo,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">dico piano il tuo nome, lo conservo</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">per l'inverno che viene, come un lume.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">[Francesco Scarabicchi -da Il prato bianco]</span></span></span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-21888712879938654382017-10-25T13:30:00.000+01:002017-10-31T18:17:29.659+00:00Camminano sulle zampe dei gatti di Rocco Scotellaro<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Improvvisa la sera ci ha toccati<br />
me, le mie carte, la pezza di luce<br />
sui mattoni della stanza.<br />
E' tanto imbrunito<br />
che mi sento addosso paura.<br />
Ha ripreso la vita<br />
dei piccoli rumori.<br />
Sono sui tetti le anime<br />
dei morti del vicinato,<br />
camminano sulle zampe dei gatti.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">[Rocco Scotellaro, da E' fatto giorno] </span></span></span></span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-20759728805369839302017-10-21T19:42:00.003+01:002023-01-20T23:18:57.101+00:00A Edith di Marina Minet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOyaHxER3cD_73e-btT5J_s7YGLTmGnNYLS15QSQ-J9Wuw4dOr-_EGptI_XV8dCeuv8qwlAgw3PK5gdnvh50vPApYud0ZZfJ_qonkzl7d99D02IQB76hBocAul5WOONvKTsyPwaQUySuuNpKNSBO4pS68sDbpoQzU2IKG5HjZkK8gKLx8itHKXRXDC/s634/santa%20teresa%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="634" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOyaHxER3cD_73e-btT5J_s7YGLTmGnNYLS15QSQ-J9Wuw4dOr-_EGptI_XV8dCeuv8qwlAgw3PK5gdnvh50vPApYud0ZZfJ_qonkzl7d99D02IQB76hBocAul5WOONvKTsyPwaQUySuuNpKNSBO4pS68sDbpoQzU2IKG5HjZkK8gKLx8itHKXRXDC/w400-h281/santa%20teresa%20.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif">“Il Cielo non prende niente</span><br /><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"> senza ripagare smisuratamente”</span><br /><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"> (Edith Stein)</span></i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"><br />Arrivò così la sera<br />come una caduta di foglie al frangere del vento<br />e niente m’impaurì<br />né il silenzio né la pace<br />né la strada smarrita sulla fronte.<br /><br />Quale schianto avrebbe potuto piegarmi<br />se la bocca benediva il fango<br />a ogni respiro<br />e tutte le pietà sembravano straniere<br />riflesse nella croce di mio padre.<br /><br />Arrivò così la sera, in un cercare di sguardi<br />col ticchettio dell’orologio come prova<br />di quell’attesa santa<br />deposta sulla sorte senza una preghiera.<br /><br />(a Edith Stein)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span style="color: black;"><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif"></span></span></span></span><span face=""trebuchet ms" , sans-serif" style="color: #990000; font-size: xx-small;">[Marina Minet, da Scritti d'inverno, Print Me Editore 2017]</span></div>
Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-50748909139562781802014-09-11T07:18:00.001+01:002017-10-22T14:12:22.332+01:00Cade a pezzi di Vittorio Bodini<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Cade a pezzi a quest’ora sulle terre del Sud<br />
un tramonto da bestia macellata.<br />
L’aria è piena di sangue,<br />
e gli ulivi, e le foglie del tabacco,<br />
e ancora non s’accende un lume.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Un bisbigliare fitto, di mille voci,<br />
s’ode lontano dai vicini cortili:<br />
tutto il paese vuole far sapere<br />
che vive ancora<br />
nell’ombra in cui rientra decapitato<br />
un carrettiere dalle cave. Il buio,<br />
com’è lungo nel Sud! Tardi s’accendono<br />
le luci delle case e dei fanali.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
</span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Le bambine negli orti<br />
ad ogni grido aggiungono una foglia<br />
alla luna e al basilico.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">
</span>
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">[Vittorio Bodini, da Tutte le poesie, Besa 2010]</span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-81044608507427966422014-08-17T19:45:00.003+01:002014-08-17T19:47:06.198+01:00Io sono verticale di Sylvia Plath<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/n3adPL8GotU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br />[Ideato e prodotto da Marina Minet]</span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-77067996252345573732014-08-17T13:46:00.000+01:002014-08-17T19:46:31.256+01:00Non essere un segreto di Daniela Monreale<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Non essere un segreto non mordere</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">il vero tra le labbra</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">fai dei tuoi occhi due finestre</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">due rami due ortensie</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">sul giardino del tuo amore</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">prestami le chiavi</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">aprimi il cancello</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">fammi dondolare al sole</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">[Daniela Monreale - da Voci dal sottobosco]</span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-36065724137202288672012-09-17T08:11:00.001+01:002022-11-23T18:58:56.953+00:00Veggente di Marina Minet<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Quando la pioggia cominciò a bagnarmi<br />il cielo non reggeva nubi<br />c'era solo gente intorno<br />luci a festa raggianti di menzogna<br />brillavano a misura sopra il capo<br />come una bestemmia<br /><br />L’onore del veggente sta nel pianto<br />nell’ora che non viene, ma assassina</span></span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">chiude tutti i giorni in uno solo</span></span></span></div><div><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">All’orizzonte un nodo, la sorte<br />la crepa delle nubi, la pioggia<br />l’attesa<br />il lutto sul selciato<br /><br />Il senso inavvertito quasi un’onda<br />il ventre<br />covato e partorito dal timore<br />l’avvenire </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="color: #990000;">[Marina Minet - inedito</span></span></span><span style="color: #990000;">]</span></span>
Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-6824934336634806242012-04-23T18:17:00.000+01:002014-08-17T18:57:49.630+01:00A te di Pierino Gallo<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">A te</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">lascio</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">le mani affusolate</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">e gli occhi stanchi,</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">a te</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">i miei narcisistici poemi</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">millantati d'inchiostro</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">e di premura.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Lascio</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">la cura </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">a te,</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">di avermi</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">dentro</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">e la condanna </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">del non allontanarmi.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">C'era una coltre</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">di pioggia</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">ad osservarmi</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">appesa al finestrino</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Celebro il vino,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">amore,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">e i sacramenti</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">del folle</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">[Pierino Gallo - da L'abbecedario di Verlaine]</span></div>
Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-44509197878758860612011-11-06T12:49:00.004+00:002014-08-17T19:34:26.730+01:00Fili di Vincenzo Errico<br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">(...)<br />Dammi un pennello per tracciare,<br />un coltello per segnare, un baule<br />per le parole che possono servire dopo.</span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">[Vincenzo Errico - da Figurine]</span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-553971193638801452011-10-29T19:42:00.009+01:002014-08-17T18:57:44.737+01:00Astri di Pasquale Vitagliano<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Può esserci una stanza</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">senza centro di gravità?</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Dove per pura volontà dell'altro</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">i mobili senza volontà ripetono</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">tutti i movimenti degli astri.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Puoi allora senza saperlo vedere</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">i divani subire la rotazione del sole,</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">così da sorgere lì dove c'erano i lumi,</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">retrocessi al nadir della loro rivoluzione.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Può essere dannata una vita senza pareti.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">[Pasquale Vitagliano - da Il cibo senza nome]</span></span></span><span style="color: #660000; font-family: verdana; font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br /></span></span></span></span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088982652320956513.post-3334957423428567842011-09-06T08:51:00.011+01:002022-11-26T16:56:33.903+00:00Ci sono giorni di Stefano Raimondi<div style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimzzqyrce4LQATMFaTh7JNLcU4diCjkn7cVIHdx8iY4hfXXSTeOkk_ECSQtht0JQz82HCWOYNCp9rSiN7vSo4Ms0Lz08kiq6S_6G7B_S-kIjO4BgXzqpnjgzCa8jBHPXwGI657ph_qmIaBAFuO3kgtw2Cgfs0Dr2PqbS8DdYV31mwfE-XRUyBEa2vX/s1000/Stefano-Raimondi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimzzqyrce4LQATMFaTh7JNLcU4diCjkn7cVIHdx8iY4hfXXSTeOkk_ECSQtht0JQz82HCWOYNCp9rSiN7vSo4Ms0Lz08kiq6S_6G7B_S-kIjO4BgXzqpnjgzCa8jBHPXwGI657ph_qmIaBAFuO3kgtw2Cgfs0Dr2PqbS8DdYV31mwfE-XRUyBEa2vX/w400-h266/Stefano-Raimondi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">Ci sono giorni che a raccontarli non basta, storie che non si sentono più, storture che s'imparano piano. E lo so da qui, da questo angolo imparato a memoria a malapena ieri.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">[Stefano Raimondi - da Interni con finestre]</span>Mapihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15182349632140532211noreply@blogger.com1