... In his continuing need for certification - as a recovery in its history and pursuit of dialogue and reflection in the 'other' - the author of human Tools typically qualifies insecurity as a poet, of the threat: first report insecurity, which causes the phenomena of redundancy and pronunciation is so insistent in part, linked to the stylistic feature of the iteration, as well as doubt about their identity and continued slumps even random declaration of identity . [...].
(PV Mengaldo, 1972)
Vittorio Sereni was born July 27, 1913 in Luino, on Lake Maggiore. From 12 years up to 1933 was at Brescia, where his father had been transferred, Customs, and where he studied. Then he lived in Milan, graduating in literature in 1936 with a thesis on Guido Gozzano. Among his classmates remember Antonia Pozzi, Luciano Ancelin, Remo Cantoni, among the literary friendships include Carlo Bo, Sergio Solmi Pratolini Vasco, Mario Luzi, Elio Vittorini. He was among the founders of Current , of \u200b\u200bwhich he was also editor with Del Bo, Lattuada, De Grada, Treccani, and collaborated on Cover , Campo di Marte, Literature. After having taught briefly at Modena and marrying Maria Luisa Bonfanti, in 1941 he was assigned as an infantry officer, department, "Pistoia", intended for the North African front, that year is also the first collection of poems ( Frontier ). Arrived in Athens, but had to return to Italy in July 1943 and was taken prisoner by the Allies at Trapani. From there he was interned for about two years in prison camps in Algeria and Morocco. Repatriation in the summer of 1945. After resuming teaching in a secondary school in Milan, in 1952, would employ the Press Office of the Pirelli. Of those years is to work together "Milano Sera" (1950-51) and "Review of Italy." From 1958 until retirement he worked for Mondadori, which was literary editor. Along with Geno Pampaloni, Nicholas Gallo, Dante Isella was co-director of "This and other" (1962-64).
He died in Milan in 1983.
His poetic
centrally in the production of Vittorio Sereni is the experience of imprisonment in Algeria and Morocco between 1943 and 1945. From this experience comes the harvest "Diary of Algeria", composed partly in verse and partly in prose, in which the author's personal tragedy condemned to segregation becomes a symbol of the crisis of a generation. Also in the collection "The human instruments" we find the reference experience individual to the great events of history, where the sense of the world estranietĂ ( do not love my time, I do not love ) clearly reflects the disappointment of the defeat of the socialist and democratic ideals in Italy and worldwide.
the origin of the loss of certainties, psychological and ideological, is a radical insecurity of self and role, reaffirming the primacy of that which lives outside of man and survives.
this desperation background, however, serve as counterpoint to the constant shots of joy, a joy that has nothing to do with happiness, but manages to illuminate some ways with lightning perceptions of feelings love and friendship.
His poetic
centrally in the production of Vittorio Sereni is the experience of imprisonment in Algeria and Morocco between 1943 and 1945. From this experience comes the harvest "Diary of Algeria", composed partly in verse and partly in prose, in which the author's personal tragedy condemned to segregation becomes a symbol of the crisis of a generation. Also in the collection "The human instruments" we find the reference experience individual to the great events of history, where the sense of the world estranietĂ ( do not love my time, I do not love ) clearly reflects the disappointment of the defeat of the socialist and democratic ideals in Italy and worldwide.
the origin of the loss of certainties, psychological and ideological, is a radical insecurity of self and role, reaffirming the primacy of that which lives outside of man and survives.
this desperation background, however, serve as counterpoint to the constant shots of joy, a joy that has nothing to do with happiness, but manages to illuminate some ways with lightning perceptions of feelings love and friendship.
from "Frontier" (1941)
TERRACE
Imrovvisa catches us in the evening.
; More
not know where the lake ends, only a murmur
touches our lives under a roof terrace.
We are all suspended in a tacit
event tonight
within that radius torpedo
that searches us then turn leaves.
ROAD Zenna
awakens us to an infinite
navigation on the lake. But now looking forward to summer
withdraws death. And even with labile
c'incamminiamo step up ashen meadows
for roads that border on the Elise.
turns the endless rice
is a tense frown between water and the banks
lament in the wind among the tinkling mats.
This measure was amazed at the silence
a cloud of smoke left by the force of
here that recently broke the border.
View on the deserted beach
swirling sand,
overwhelms us the ashes of days. It is
around the extended torture of the sirens
salutant
ports for those who remain in the dreams of
pale faces fierce roar in
dell'acquazzone
that afflict the houses.
But we will return to each port tacit.
We will not be a sound
of fickle hour or maybe two of us
brief thumps of rowing boats
of melancholy.
you do not give us the dead never rest
and maybe your
the groan that goes between the leaves
hour which clouded the Lord.
from "Diary of Algeria" (1947)
often tortuous paths for
quelque part en Algérie
uncertain of the place that the wind bites,
your rain your sun
all at a point between
twigs of bitter bitter
iron wire, plug without pink ...
but already a year has passed,
is just a dream: we are all subdued
remember.
Ride a larva
clear where was the sentinel
and the hill of our spirits away and deserted
immemorial, sailing.
******************* In the glass
pirate
touches her bottom soon
quest'allegria
sadness that sail on the crest of the dormant embers
thrown to us from as far away fire.
And now art thou the God who becomes flesh
distance for us dark hour.
from "human instruments" (1965)
PASSING
One day, either. Few hours.
A light ever seen.
Flowers in August you will not even dreams.
Blood speckled meadows,
not yet oleanders from the sea.
Warm, but not feel like getting wet. Ventilated
Tyrrhenian Sunday.
are already dead and come back here?
O are the only still alive in vivid and
invalidity of a memory?
I VERSES
He still write. One thinks of them lying
to fearful eyes that make you the best wishes
the last night of the year.
It only write in black in a negative
years
annoying as paying a debt that was
years old.
No, not the happiest year.
some laugh: you write for the Arts.
I did not want this that I wanted something else.
You make verses for a shake
weight and go to the next. But there is always
some weight too, there is never any
that it is enough to
if tomorrow you will forget yourself.
from "Variable Star" (1981)
FEAR SECOND
Nothing to fear the voice that calls me their
me from the road below the house in an hour
at night:
is a brief revival of wind, rain
a fugitive. In
say my name does not enumerate
my wrongs, I'm not accused in the past.
Gently (Vittorio, Vittorio
) I disarms, weapon
me against myself.
TERRACE
Imrovvisa catches us in the evening.
; More
not know where the lake ends, only a murmur
touches our lives under a roof terrace.
We are all suspended in a tacit
event tonight
within that radius torpedo
that searches us then turn leaves.
ROAD Zenna
awakens us to an infinite
navigation on the lake. But now looking forward to summer
withdraws death. And even with labile
c'incamminiamo step up ashen meadows
for roads that border on the Elise.
turns the endless rice
is a tense frown between water and the banks
lament in the wind among the tinkling mats.
This measure was amazed at the silence
a cloud of smoke left by the force of
here that recently broke the border.
View on the deserted beach
swirling sand,
overwhelms us the ashes of days. It is
around the extended torture of the sirens
salutant
ports for those who remain in the dreams of
pale faces fierce roar in
dell'acquazzone
that afflict the houses.
But we will return to each port tacit.
We will not be a sound
of fickle hour or maybe two of us
brief thumps of rowing boats
of melancholy.
you do not give us the dead never rest
and maybe your
the groan that goes between the leaves
hour which clouded the Lord.
from "Diary of Algeria" (1947)
often tortuous paths for
quelque part en Algérie
uncertain of the place that the wind bites,
your rain your sun
all at a point between
twigs of bitter bitter
iron wire, plug without pink ...
but already a year has passed,
is just a dream: we are all subdued
remember.
Ride a larva
clear where was the sentinel
and the hill of our spirits away and deserted
immemorial, sailing.
******************* In the glass
pirate
touches her bottom soon
quest'allegria
sadness that sail on the crest of the dormant embers
thrown to us from as far away fire.
And now art thou the God who becomes flesh
distance for us dark hour.
from "human instruments" (1965)
PASSING
One day, either. Few hours.
A light ever seen.
Flowers in August you will not even dreams.
Blood speckled meadows,
not yet oleanders from the sea.
Warm, but not feel like getting wet. Ventilated
Tyrrhenian Sunday.
are already dead and come back here?
O are the only still alive in vivid and
invalidity of a memory?
I VERSES
He still write. One thinks of them lying
to fearful eyes that make you the best wishes
the last night of the year.
It only write in black in a negative
years
annoying as paying a debt that was
years old.
No, not the happiest year.
some laugh: you write for the Arts.
I did not want this that I wanted something else.
You make verses for a shake
weight and go to the next. But there is always
some weight too, there is never any
that it is enough to
if tomorrow you will forget yourself.
from "Variable Star" (1981)
FEAR SECOND
Nothing to fear the voice that calls me their
me from the road below the house in an hour
at night:
is a brief revival of wind, rain
a fugitive. In
say my name does not enumerate
my wrongs, I'm not accused in the past.
Gently (Vittorio, Vittorio
) I disarms, weapon
me against myself.
0 comments:
Post a Comment