Brutus large dog
indefinite prehistoric breed almost certainly
Born of coal of the starry sky and son
of a train lightning son of sweetness
Brutus has three legs the fourth invisible silver one
touched by the moon
down from the hills in August to play in sunflower fields
Shade of willows torpor green ray murmur
shepherd dog of dreams
in the evening first glow wags his tail
map of alleys flowerbeds arpeggiated gait
My voice is a gray albatross.
I healed her wings.
Now, I can’t hold her anymore.
(from the diary of Eudaimonia)
Eudaimonia is born in Donoussa on December 21st at 2.45 am.
Two extraordinary events occur on the same night.
The first, it’s snowing.
Flakes as big as white and soft loaves
the following morning, in a sparkle of myriads of diamonds,
leaving the few inhabitants of the island
with the alienating impression of having only dreamed.
The second, Eudaimonia, curled up in the towel,
does not look like a baby,
but of a tender, curious, stubborn goat.
If I ever die,
it won’t be tomorrow.
I will be very old, wise and still beautiful.
It will be during an outdoor party,
and people will murmur:
maybe he didn’t have to dance.
Those who love me will carry me in their arms,
they will rest me
sitting with my back against a tree,
one of those trees that are so beautiful
and have never harmed anyone.
so amazed, every day,
to be able to see itself in the mirror
and to resist
in such a concrete world,
will move away from the scene a little. …
I walk home
my soul in the shopping bag
it grow dark
Writings on the walls compose
a single long
I would like to meet someone
Under the rain
we would stop and talk
until the rain
do not wash away
the toils of the day
A square coffee table
in the middle of the sidewalk
pizza and beer and forgetting
future worries silly worries
But here it is a shipwreck
People cling to the neon signs
to car bumpers
I have no rope
to pull them to safety
or to take me to…
So we found Aaron
as if asleep, in front of the abandoned station
With his bicycle
his discreet wonder
with his song
All boundaries roll away like tumbleweeds
around whoever stands still
like a river
like wind, time, elusive thought
An exhausted horse
a statue abandoned to pigeons
This I am
Gait of a boxer the following morning
in the mouth the clotted blood
But I can crow, if you like
I can charge through the walls
I can provide
simple words of joy
If you see me so slovenly if my mind and my smile seem to wander…
This is not a story, it is not a presumption of a poem.
This is a gift I give to myself.
It’s been two days
that, as soon as I can, I go back to video below.
A Diosa, better known as
No potho reposare
is a song written in 1920
and has become part of the Sardinian culture and popular tradition.
Below I report the original lyrics, in Sardinian language,
the lyrics in Italian,
and a translation, as always improvised, into English.
But the words here perhaps take a back seat.
It could be the hidden old age, it…
There was a time before time.
A time where gods, animals, trees and streams
they intertwined their stories.
And there was still no word
for human being.
Clotho the spinner, Lachesis the allotter, Atropos the unturnable.
Each thread passed between their hands.
The thread of day and night, of wakefulness and sleep.
The thread of emotions that follow each other.
Even the life of the immortal gods was not an infinite thread
but the beginning, the unfolding and the end of infinite threads,
of infinite lives.
Clotho spun, Lachesis wove, Atropos cut.
Clotho, the youngest, fell in love with Vorfreude…
Wanders in blank wanders
a lonely weeny spaceship
Not by her choice
she likes to be in company
Wanders in blank wanders
a lonely weeny spaceship
Smells the cosmic air
a fox cub
the mother spaceship
has lost her
She is not just any spaceship
she is full of bonsai
She doesn’t need
to be commanded
she has antique
and shiny keys
Like a bandoneon
And follows the conductor
of this portion of the galaxy
Rubs on the rim of a glass
Concert of crickets and cicadas
Lonely weeny spaceship heart of fire built with…
Fabrizio De Andrè
18 February 1940, 11 January 1999
This is just a tribute
to a songwriter
that has accompanied me since I was a child
on anniversary of his death.
I will not tell his life,
there are already more or less wonderful articles.
Please note, quotes of De Andrè are enclosed in quotes.
You will forgive me the improvised translations.
Just a personal anecdote.
After a two hour concert,
I got in line for the autograph.
When we met,
I asked him what he thought of mystical anarchy.
I was sixteen, I lived in an orderly way…
I climbed a hill.
it should be a million long yearstrides away
from the places where I spent my childhood.
arrived at the top,
the hill was the same friendhill
when I was a child.
Wild rosemary bushes.
The scent gets rid of Earth’s gravity.
There was the same centenarian grandmotheroak,
its roots like veins
on the back of the hands of an old carpenter.
There was the same centeroftheworldstone,
covered with moss,
where I sat for hours.
And down there, that headinthecloudssheep left behind that day, I whistled to warn the pastor. And the purple…