Piccola anima smarrita e soave,
compagna e ospite del corpo,
ora t’appresti a scendere in luoghi
incolori, ardui e spogli,
ove non avrai più gli svaghi consueti…
Publio Elio Traiano Adriano
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Piccola anima smarrita e soave,
compagna e ospite del corpo,
ora t’appresti a scendere in luoghi
incolori, ardui e spogli,
ove non avrai più gli svaghi consueti…
Publio Elio Traiano Adriano
E se ti penso e penso a me poi di nuovo a te e penso a noi poi scriverei tutte le storie più belle.
I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,
And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed
Like a waste garden, flowering at its will
With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed
Black and unruffled; there were white lilies
A few, and crocuses, and violets
Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries
Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets
Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.
And there were curious flowers, before unknown,
Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades
Of Nature's willful moods; and here a one
That had drunk in the transitory tone
Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades
Of grass that in an hundred springs had been
Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars,
And watered with the scented dew long cupped
In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen
Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars
The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt,
A grey stone wall. o'ergrown with velvet moss
Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed
To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair.
And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across
The garden came a youth; one hand he raised
To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair
Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore
A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes
Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,
White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,
Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes
A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.
And he came near me, with his lips uncurled
And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,
And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend,
Come I will show thee shadows of the world
And images of life. See from the South
Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.'
And lo! within the garden of my dream
I saw two walking on a shining plain
Of golden light. The one did joyous seem
And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain
Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids
And joyous love of comely girl and boy,
His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades
Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy;
And in his hand he held an ivory lute
With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair,
And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute,
And round his neck three chains of roses were.
But he that was his comrade walked aside;
He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes
Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide
With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs
That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white
Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red
Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight,
And yet again unclenched, and his head
Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death.
A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold
With the device of a great snake, whose breath
Was fiery flame: which when I did behold
I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth,
Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove
These pleasent realms? I pray thee speak me sooth
What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.'
Then straight the first did turn himself to me
And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame,
But I am Love, and I was wont to be
Alone in this fair garden, till he came
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'
Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will,
I am the love that dare not speak its name.’
lord alfred douglas, two loves
Siocled Poeth wedi'i Rewi Serendipity
Siocled Poeth wedi'i Rewi Serendipity
Mae siocled poeth wedi'i rewi Serendipity yn ddysgl lofnod yn y Serendipity 3, yn swatio yng nghanol ochr ddwyreiniol uchaf Efrog Newydd. Mae'r lle yn siop a bwyty cyffredinol wedi'i gyfuno â ffynnon coffi a soda ac mae'n gwasanaethu'r pwdin enwocaf yn Efrog Newydd.
Sefydlwyd Serendipity Efrog Newydd gan Stephen Bruce a'i ddau bartner, Calvin Holt a Preston "Patch" Caradine ym 1954. Ers yr amser…
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Photoset October 2017
Se ti vedessi almeno una volta ti bacerei per tutto il giorno e mi sentirei felice per la prima volta e mi pentirei del fatto che tu non sia stato tutte le altre.
Cosa fai: cerco di comunicare – ascolto – osservo – poi riverso sugli altri quella che credo sia la realtà delle cose che vedo, almeno una sua possibile interpretazione in un’immagine – racconto attimi, intuizioni, momenti sospesi. Per certi aspetti facendo radio e facendo poesia mi è sempre sembrato di fare la stessa cosa. “Glimpses”, come dicono gli inglesi. Memorie, illuminazioni.
Sono alla ricerca del dialogo, del comunicare me stesso non per narcisismo ma per confronto. Ho iniziato a farlo scrivendo, si può dire che tutto è partito da li.
Il giornalismo è venuto dopo, anche se mi piace dire di essere prima di tutto un radiofonico e poi un giornalista. Questo perché la radio fa parte della mia infanzia: con mio padre, la sera, . Era un rito. IL nostro “radio day”: ascoltavamo le notizie e i primi esperimenti di programmi con le telefonate degli ascoltatori, già dal 1968 più o meno. Ho fatto il 68 così, ascoltando il mondo che ribolliva, e gracchiava da una radio, a 4 anni Per me la radio, l’oggetto fisico , era affascinantissimo: si illuminava, aveva dietro le scritte “Berlino”, “Tokyo”, “Parigi”, ma non sapevo quasi nulla se no n che fossero città lontane. Non esisteva la modulazione di frequenza e dunque arrivavano storie di paesi lontani, si faceva un grande esercizio d’immaginazione e di ascolto. Non avevo un Salgari da leggere, avevo una radio con le manopole e il vetro illuminato e i nomi di luoghi lontani da guardare ..
In sostanza sono sempre stato uno che parlava poco e ascoltava molto: oggi per me fare radio significa allo stesso tempo dialogare con il mondo e mantenere una mia dimensione intima.
Non è un caso che questa intimità io la leghi molto anche alla poesia, perché la poesia è anche un tipo di comunicazione intima, un po’ più labirintica come linguaggio, un po’ più complessa, non diretta, fatta di metafore, ma paradossalmente è una cosa che ti arriva più direttamente della comunicazione: in fondo quello che io sono veramente sta nelle cose poetiche che scrivo.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
“I DON’T WANNA BE BURIED IN A PET POE’S SEMATARY” cit. S.King feat. Ramones