12 of 12 | Monday is for Religion: “Seize the Moment,” by Alice E. Van Pelt

Hi lovely Earthlings!

One more poem from Alice Van Pelt.  This one is a bit sad.  She seems to have a hard time staying well.  Her sleep, her days are a bit tormented.  She holds on to her source and feels its presence at every step.  When she has a “moment” free of torment, she dedicates it to that source.  This reminds me of a beloved friend, Eros.  I often tease him that “atheism” is just another religion as I used to do with my dad.  And yet what I like about him, what makes him unique among beloveds, is the “religious” way he’ll do what’s on the plate, including love.  Love to Eros is like a prayer.  It’s like a religious ritual and a trance.  I am sure this mother would be in awe of that.  It is a joy to be part of the narratives of the amazing human family!

Seize the Moment

I thank you Lord because you’re there
Alice E. Van Pelt
When I’m disturbed I know you care
You wake me up to start my day
Carry me through all the way
Hold my hand when the going gets rough
Brighten my spirit when things are tough
When evening fails and night returns
You lay me down with soft concerns
You watch me as I start to pray
And keep me calm in every way
I must seize the moment
To honor you always
Give you the glory and give you the praise.
No date
From the poetry collection of Alice E. Van Pelt, published here with permission from her descendants, gratefully acknowledged.

Dear Earthlings: 
Did you notice the beauty of this poem?  Again that soft touch of rhymes kissing each other, of rhythms and tones in a dance.  We say goodbye to Alice for the moment.  Perhaps more poems will be released from her collections and we will open another series for her.  We thank her for her gifts of poetry to this blog.  And for the gift of jarring yours truly with a belief system she had rejected.  The gift of thinking of monotheism in the context of amorous and religious inclusiveness again.
More series coming.  Stay tuned for next.  We will announce in the social media.

Did you enjoy the series?  Let us know!  Yours truly appreciates your attention.  The comments box is open.

Come back!  And stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD
Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire
Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

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11 of 12 | Monday is for Religion: “Troubled Waters,” by Alice E. Van Pelt

Hi lovely Earthlings!

This is one of the most beautiful of Alice’s poems I’ve read.  It is so simple and chiseled to perfection.  How do we overcome a rough patch?  Where does it register within that one has arrived?  And what source do we tap into to get past the storm?  Her religion helps.  Another way Alice shares her experience with posterity.

TROUBLED WATERS

Alice E. Van Pelt

Heavy clouds above my head

Storms approaching, fears I dread
Times are changing, so it’s said
Tears of sadness in my head.
Like the Phoenix from the ashes
As the waves of torment passes
God declares a new beginning
New life in Jesus I am winning.
April 26, 1998
From the poetry collection of Alice E. Van Pelt, published here with permission from her descendants, gratefully acknowledged.

Dear Earthlings: 
Did you notice the beauty of this poem?  The words dance in the short verses and the rhymes kiss each other at the end.  The tone and theme are in lockstep. When you feel you want to react to the monotheism, remember it’s an instance of polytheism, only with just one deity.  People invent the belief systems they need.  And this one seems to work for Alice E. Van Pelt. 
More poems from Alice coming.  Stay tuned for next.  We will post every Monday at noon.

Did you enjoy the post?  Let us know!  Yours truly appreciates your attention.  The comments box is open.

Come back!  And stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD
Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire
Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

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10 of 12 | Monday is for Religion: “Exploring Our Afro American Heritage,” by Alice E. Van Pelt

Hi lovely Earthlings!

This week we get into another aspect of Alice’s life.  She was a leader and a public speaker in educational events about the Afro American cultural heritage.  Her scrapbook reports some of the talks she prepared.  Here’s one where an introduction is followed by poetry and music.  Who should be ashamed of slavery?  Alice’s presentation begs the question.  Again, we are present to an inclusive voice that embraces all of the Afro American heritage, that looks at history as a flow.  Not a tale of winners and losers, but rather a sense of creativity, of music, dance, ritual, song, of feeling life pulsating together as we overcome odds.  Perhaps this is the art of living after all.

Two voices are present: Alice and her husband Harold.  He is the musician who accompanies the song.  The pictures refer to the African American music scene in New Jersey in the early 20th Century of which he was part.

Theme

Exploring Our Afro American Heritage

From the mountains of West Virginia to the farmlands of Pennsylvania
From the West Coast to the East Coast
From the South to the North 
They came and they kept coming
And they kept signing, playing music.
Beating the drums to freedom.
African Americans–survivors of a spiritual people–people who made it out of the trials and tribulations of Slavery.
We are here today to explore that history through music.
It is a rich heritage that will not be denied 
That must be fortified, restored, built up in our young people for future generations.

Black folks have a strength that has survived racism, depression, recession, and genocide–all designed to steal, kill, and destroy them.  The term of “we shall overcome” aptly describes their perseverance.

Our Program today depicts thought “music” pictures from whence we have come and will point out a direction for others to follow.
To show where we are going.
I would like to take you back to the period when slavery existed–a regression for black people–a time when the only thing that kept them going was faith in God. Music became an integral part of their day to day existence–the Negro Spirituals became a coded message used to signal that the master was coming–notify them of a meeting tonight–to “steal away”–meet secretly in old barns, people’s home, anywhere they could pray and ask God to deliver them from the bondage of slavery–strong faith sustained them.
Recent study of Newark’s black music scene

During the 19h Century Gospel songs were sung in the Black churches–Gospel meaning “Good News.”  Webster’s Dictionary defines Gospel music as African American music–combining spirituals, Blues and Jazz–isn’t it strange that each type of music is distinct in its own right?  Spirituals are sacred songs also called jubilees, folk songs, shout songs, sorrow songs, slave songs, slave melodies.  Gospel music added another facet, they became religious songs used in church to lift the spirit.  Even though Blues and Jazz were performed in the clubs and honky top bars–this music also came out of the souls of black folks and contributes to the Black Heritage.

Alice: “I want to first show you a picture of role models who motivated me–my mother was the one who pointed me in the right direction–even though she died when I was nine years old.  Those formative years have stayed with me throughout my life.  I have always felt her presence guided me, teaching me–at the time I didn’t know it but God was with me and through his guidance my mother was there–I wasn’t a ‘motherless child'”–play the song.
Harold: “What and who motivated Him.”  Talks about beginnings of boycott in Montgomery.
After he finishes, Alice to continue with poem “Troubled Water”–do spiritual “Wade in the Water.”
Today we all face a new type of slavery, a modern type of bondage–destruction of the family–no matter what the color or race of people.  Drug addiction has taken its toll.  Again, we must all work together in unity to break the bonds of slavery and be free.  

Friday, February 26, 1999

Notes from the scrapbook of Alice E. Van Pelt, published here with permission from her descendants, gratefully acknowledged. 
Dear Earthlings: 
Did you notice the wisdom of these words?  Yours truly remembers when she first moved to the United States.  She lived with emigres in California. African Americans were definitely her first American friends.  So warm, so welcoming, so magical in their ways of being together.  She felt privileged to be accepted by them.  Never treated like a “foreigner.”  What moves me in these notes is Alice’s mention of her late mother, the model she offered, the spirit who lingered on to protect the little girl.  And her final note: whose “family” is she talking about?  Is it the normative, nuclear family, the family of all African Americans, or perhaps the human family?  And drugs?  What drugs is she talking about?  The drugs that medicalize the lives of seniors and other people with chronic illnesses to the point of making conscious death a more sustainable choice?  The drugs that infest the streets of the poor and replace the hope for an education that only money and privilege can access?  The drugs that kill one’s creativity rather than enhance it?  When I read Alice’s poems without the prejuduce against monotheism, all kinds of meanings and interpretations are open.

More poems from Alice coming.  Stay tuned for next.  We will post every Monday at noon.

Did you enjoy the post?  Let us know!  Yours truly appreciates your attention.  The comments box is open.

Come back!  And stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD
Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire
Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

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9 of 12 | Monday is for Religion: “Those Sizzling Seniors,” by Alice E. Van Pelt

Hi lovely Earthlings!

Yours truly is back with another of Alice’s poems.  This time she talks about how it feels to be a “senior,” to get “older.”  Oh well, aren’t we all going to feel that way–if we’re lucky enough to stick around!  Yours truly is absolutely ignorant about Protestantism, especially the American denominations, and so she had to educate herself about Presbyterianism.  And sure enough she found out that the Elders are respected.  How nice!  Being raised by a grandmother always helps a young girl respect old age.  Yours truly is aware.  And Alice experienced that as well.  As an adult, she lived in New Jersey, where the toxic soup that produces so many of the chronic illnesses of today is particularly thick, including industrial waste, nuclear plants, soil, water, and air contamination, and much more.  She suffered and died from one of them.  Yet in this poem she celebrates the seniority of age.  Seniors are ablaze with a special kind of energy: more subdued, more long-standing, wiser and steadier.  Old age can be a fun age if one relishes one’s memories.  Remembering past events with joy can be just as much fun as being part of them once was.  One may not attend in person, but once the memory is written in the body the dream can stay awake.  And of course, more longevity, more cherished memories. 

As Alice remembers:

THOSE SIZZLING SENIORS

Don’t write us off yet, cause we’re ready to roll
Just see what you get when you’re calling us old
You forget that we have been where you’re trying to go
And we have the skin from the battles to show.
Alice E. Van Pelt
Like a TIMEX watch we’ve been taking a licking.
But also we’ve found that we have kept on ticking.
We’ve learned to slow down to a steady pace–
Keeping ourselves still in the race.
We try to remember the things that we have done.
The trials, tribulations and the prizes we’ve won.
Somehow the mind doesn’t work the same
And you look around but there is no one to blame.
There is always a place that you want to be
But somehow you wonder if that’s for me.
You have searched and wandered near and far
But can’t remember where you are.
Once the mystery of it all was in the old faces.
Now you realize that you have just changed places.
We have danced and pranced and kicked real high
Now you sit and dream and wonder why.
September 8, 1999
From the poetry collection of Alice E. Van Pelt, published here with permission from her descendants, gratefully acknowledged.

Dear Earthlings: 
Did you notice the wisdom of these words?  Alice wants to be seen as senior, not old.  Senior, as in one worthy of respect, not “over the hill,” as they say.  Senior, as in one whose wisdom has accrued with experience.  And isn’t saving one’s energies part of that wisdom as well?  One can interpret this poem from the point of view of an artist of love.  The wisdom Alice claims speaks of one who lived life in an artistic way.  The art of living is what she calls attention to as she claims her senior place in the world. That, yours truly bets, is the message she wants all descendants to get. 
More poems from Alice coming.  Stay tuned for next.  We will post every Monday at noon.

Did you enjoy the post?  Let us know!  Yours truly appreciates your attention.  The comments box is open.

Come back!  And stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD
Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire
Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

Join Our Mailing List
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8 of 12 | Monday is for Religion: “A Letter to My Sons,” by Alice E. Van Pelt

Hi lovely Earthlings,
You know how prejudiced yours truly is against monogamy.  “Monogamy is all about exclusion,” her mind goes!  So, let’s exclude monogamy and we can be inclusive then.  Same applies to religion, no?  Monotheism is what drives the cultural wars.  So, let’s be pagan instead.  We can include however many deities and there will be no wars!  Well, when she read the poems in this series she realized the cost of this prejudice.

This series, “What Is Mono?” includes poems from unpublished collections by Alice E. Van Pelt.  This woman was the mother of yours truly’s beloved, a friend we’ll call Eros.  He is devotional, magical, and absolutely inclusive in his love.  Alice was Eros’s confidante and favorite parent.  She left a legacy of poems and yours truly offered to take it on as form of devotion to Eros and his loss.

The Van Pelts are Presbyterians.  In the North-East this denomination is not uncommon among African-Americans with deep roots in Unionist states.  With its abstract, non-representational sense of the sacred, its exigent work ethic, it was probably a belief system that sustained them better in the industrialized economy of the Eastern Seaboard.  Alice’s poetry is very religious, and very inspiring in that way.  There is a fervor, a devotion, that marks it as genuine, heartfelt.  The words dance on the page and recollect themselves in a gentle prayer, as in the poem you’ll find below, to Alice’s two sons.

However, Alice’s vision is just so far removed from that of the African American women’s voices that have guided yours truly to first question the ideology behind the single white male deity Christians call “God.”  As in, for example, Ntozake Shange’s “i found god in myself and loved her, loved her fiercely.”

What was yours truly going to do with this legacy on a blog that’s devoted questioning that belief system and supporting others who do so?

Sometimes the contradictions, the inner conflicts of our lovers help us untangle some of our own.  Eros is of course not a monotheistic person at this point.  And yet there is a correspondence between his magic as an artist of love and Alice’s as a wordsmith.

Yours truly often claims that monogamy is not the opposite of polyamory but just a special case of it.  The number “1” just happens to be the first in an infinite series that includes it.  By the same token, monotheism is just a special case of polytheism.  The infinite, not the one, is where the whole resides.

“Polytheism, polyamory, are just more inclusive, that’s all,” yours truly claims.  But then, does that alleged inclusiveness give one the right to exclude monotheism and monogamy–to declare them obsolete, prejudiced, or wrong?

If we who believe in poly truly believe that poly is inclusive we need to practice that by including mono, no?

So that’s how yours truly came to accept Alice’s poems.  And, guess what, once she did, the poems acquired a whole new meaning.

For example, the poem to Alice’s sons below: is it only to her own two biological sons?  Can it not be read as a poem to all of the “sons” Alice’s poetic voice embraces?  An invocation to action, to resilience, to self knowledge, to self possession, to extending the embrace well beyond the poet’s family or denomination?  As yours truly reads the poems again without prejudice against monotheism, their ecumenical, inclusive values become transparent.  Their evangelical message is one of courage and awareness for the infinite that is the whole.

A LETTER TO MY SONS

To my sons this time I take
this wish from Mom’s heart I make.
Alice E. Van Pelt

Remember how we came to be

part of the Negro’s history.

Shun not the struggle, for you see
we must continue this legacy.
Be strong in all you attempt to do
for God is always watching you.
There is hope for you in prayer today.
His aid is never far away.
Call upon him whenever life grows dim
and you must never abandon him.

Our strength is in the young today

and we must guide them all the way.
Be kind and loving to your brother
for there will never be another.
Since we were brought to this place
we have become a dying race.
Our blood is running in the streets
from drugs, and guns and men in sheets.
Our children are victims of the man’s oppression.
Prejudice is the oppressor’s obsession
and yet we hope for a brand new day 
Three generations in Alice’s family

with every step along the way.

Lift your voices loud and long
remember how hard we fought, be strong.
This torch I place within your hand
carry the struggle throughout the land.
Don’t let us die in vain you see
We need to make this our legacy.
Alice E. Van Pelt
No date.

From the poetry collection of Alice E. Van Pelt, published here with permission from her descendants, gratefully acknowledged.

Dear Earthlings: 
Did you notice the wisdom of these words?  Alice reminds the children to stay connected and get along, to respect each other and respect themselves.  She wants them to guide the young and feel connected to their legacy.  History is important, and standing for justice is more important than winning.  Feeling part of that force that brings hope to our worlds, that “universal energy” that the Greeks called Eros and the Christians call “God.”
And since it’s everywhere, then it may as well be a “one” that’s form to the many. 
More poems from Alice coming.  Stay tuned for next.  We will post every Monday at noon.

Did you enjoy the post?  Let us know!  Yours truly appreciates your attention.  The comments box is open.

Come back!  And stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD
Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire
Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

Join Our Mailing List
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6 | Friday is for Poetry | Venerdi Poesia | Introduction 2 | “A Lake for the Heart | Il lago del cuore” | Luigi Anderlini

The Old and the New:  
Synergy and Medi(t)ation in Luigi Anderlini’s Works

by Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio

an Introduction to A Lake for the Heart, poems by Luigi Anderlini 

Part Two

The collection is synergistic in ways that my father’s life also was.  He does not invent new metric systems, but borrows from other poems, by Montale, Leopardi, Foscolo, and others, all the way back to Dante.  Perhaps the poet just wants to show off as a virtuoso.  But there is more than vanity.  My father’s aesthetic choices are similar to his political ones.  When, in the mid-1960s, he decided to get out of the governmental majority and move back to the opposition, he chose to inhabit, not join, a political party and change it from within rather than found his own party. 


The Valley of Posta
My father, Luigi Silvestro Anderlini was born in Posta, a small town in the province of Rieti, on September 22, 1921.  He was a unique and rather accomplished person with relatively humble origins.  He was raised in a mountain village in the heart of the Apennines, where he was educated by his own father, the village schoolteacher, in a one-room school.  Then he was an autodidact and a home-schooled student up to the magistrali or high school, and eventually became a laureato in lettere, during the World War Two period.  He first served as a soldier, and, after the armistice, as a partisan.  At that time, soldiers who came from the front to take their exams would simply get a passing grade based on their patriotism.  Even though he had been at the front, my dad did not get passing grades, he got trenta e lode’s, and graduated summa cum laude and publication of his thesis.

Luigi Anderlini at 21 or so
By his family, Luigi had certainly been designated as the child that would bring luster and fame to the family name, based on his diligence and desire to learn.  A story about his childhood explained how one day, while at the barber’s getting a hair cut, he heard the school bell ring and dashed out of the shop so as not to be late.  He entered the classroom with his hair half cut and half not, which made everyone laugh at him as a nerd, or secchione.

Lidia D’Onofrio at a costume party
In 1952 he married my mother Lidia D’Onofrio, and in 1954, I, their first child was born.  His first wife was also a laureata in lettere.  A polyglot and a Montessorian, she was his equal and intellectual interlocutor.  She had a metropolitan background and a formal education as well.  He started as a teacher and then became a congressman, in the Partito socialista, in 1958, the year my brother Luca was born.  My father stayed in politics for about thirty years, till 1987.  He was part of the first Center-Left coalition government with Pietro Nenni, in 1964, as an undersecretary.  After a short period in office, he choose to return to the opposition for he felt the malfunctioning of the system was too pervasive.  At about that time my mother Lidia’s health started to fail her, she eventually became ill and passed away in 1968.  It was a tragedy for our family for we had been raised in rather unconventional ways.  Our upbringing was based on gender equality, bilingualism, left-wing politics, Montessorianism, and complete openness about the body and sexuality, so much so that we all occasionally practiced nudism within our home.  At fourteen, after my mother’s death, I became a rebellious teenager and almost drove my father crazy with my sexual adventurousness.  To preserve my virginity he sent me to a convent, which put him at odds with his atheist persuasion.      

During this period, he left the Socialist Party and, with other “irregulars” in the Italian political scene, he co-founded the Sinistra indipendente, or Independent Left, a parliamentary group whose members were elected in the ticket of the Partito comunistaInstead of founding another party, or abandoning the idea of socialism altogether–as many intellectuals of the time did in response to Soviet imperialism–he chose to bring his energies to bear on the largest existing opposition force and change it from within.  In the harsh years of Italian terrorism and the economic recessions of the 1970’s, the Independent Left had the triple function of diversifying the Communist Party, enhancing its ideological independence from Moscow, and mediating its relationship with the government party, the Democrazia cristiana.  This led to the actualization of the compromesso storico, the historical compromise sought by the pluralistic leader of the PCI, Enrico Berlinguer.  In politics, as in his more literary works, my father chose a soft approach to form.  Synergy and mediation prevailed.  This time of balance ended when Prime Minister Aldo Moro was kidnapped, in 1978. 

As a congressman and senator, my father was a coauthor of the Legge perl’obiezione di coscienza, the Italian conscientious objection law, a nice law for a pacifist to leave his name to.  With military service being mandatory for men, the law instituted the alternative of civil service so that young men who practiced non-violence could be true to themselves and still serve their country in useful ways.  He was inspired by his own work with Archivio Disarmo, the Non-Governmental Organization he contributed to founding in 1982, and presided until his death–a volunteer activity that offered him the neutral position necessary to be influential on the scene of politics in a non-partisan way.  Another law he authored regulated the production of wines according to region, thus encouraging quality and accountability in agricultural production. 

In youth, my father had been very creative.  He could draw very well, he wrote poems, and he finished an unpublished novel in his early years as a teacher, before politics.  I believe he was wasted in politics, for he did not have the ruthlessness that it takes to get beyond a certain point, and he was too honest.  I also think his career in politics would have been more successful if my mother had not passed away at such a young age (about my age, as I write this, coincidentally), for she was his best interlocutor, one he never quite managed to replace, and so one part of his spirit and intelligence died with her.  Ironically, though, I also believe his success in politics contributed to her demise, because success can be intoxicating and she probably felt left behind, betrayed–not able to shine of her own light as well.  As for myself, I oscillate between gratefulness for the comfortable lifestyle afforded by his congressman’s pay, and resentment for the sacrifices demanded by his political career.  He was opposed to all collusions and realized too late that this could drive his loved ones away.  Neither of us children has followed in his footsteps, but when I see who is in politics today–and follows in their father’s footsteps–I think one of us should have taken that challenge on!  Perhaps I should say that politics was wasted on him, as he valued his ideological freedom above everything else. 

My father’s literary production relates to his retirement years, including two collections of poems before this one, and his memoir, Caro Luca (Dear Luca, my brother’s name), published 1994, which won the Premio Castiglioncello.  He asked for my suggestions on the manuscript, which I gave him.  It was a moving book for me, for I could sense how he felt abandoned by my mother, betrayed that she would not stay in life and continue at his side, afraid he’d not be able to replace her.  This book was healing for our family for it offered his truth about the story of our family for all of us to relate to and reflect.    

I became friends with my father at about that time, when I told him I now loved women, as well as men.  Interestingly enough, the news made him my friend as I had not known him since childhood, when he was always eager, always enthusiastic, always ready to play and tell stories, with his enchanting explanations like the storia di una goccia d’acqua (story of a drop of water), which told how a drop of water travels from the ocean, to the sky, to a mountain top, to a river, and back where it came from.  Perhaps it was my transgression that fascinated him, having traveled to the other side of the fence, having tasted the forbidden fruit.  Women loving women.  He might have seen a projection of things he would have liked to try for himself.

He gave his last speech for Archivio Disarmo in November 2000, between hospital stays, just four months before his death.  The organization to which he devoted his later years gets its name from the dream that the lessons from the incident at the Bay of Pigs would stick.  In a world aware of the potential for Mutually Assured Destruction, or M.A.D., as it was called in the time of JFK, political leaders would realize the insanity of any arms race.  The gradual disappearance of self-destructive atomic arsenals was the only way to create a sustainable future.  Hence the idea of creating an archive that would document this progress.

Colomba d’oro per la pace
Nelson Mandela

In 1984, Archivio Disarmo instituted an annual prize, the Premio Colombe d’Oro per la Pace (Prize Golden Doves for Peace), to be awarded to journalists who are especially brave at documenting was miseries and peace efforts, and to an important figure that has distinguished him or herself in leadership for peace.  Notable recipients have been Greenpeace, Luisa Morgantini for Women in Black, Michail Gorbachev, Nelson Mandela (when he was still in prison and there was apartheid in South Africa), and Jessie Jackson (the year he saved world peace during the operations in Bosnia).  Archivio Disarmo works on forming civilian and military units for the multilateral peace operations that bring a modicum of stability to the world’s most conflicted areas.  It also monitors the production and distribution of small and large weapons, and participates in direct interventions in areas devastated by conflicts.  The organization has recently instituted a peace scholarship named after Luigi Anderlini, and an association of donors is being formed.  Information is available by contacting me at serena.anderlini@gmail.com or Archivio Disarmo at info@archiviodisarmo.it.   

#  #  #  #  #  #  #  #  #  #  #  #  #  #  #

Il Vecchio e il Nuovo:

Sinergia e Medi(t)azione nelle opere di Luigi Anderlini
di Serena Anderlini con traduzione italiana di Joanna Capra
Parte II

La collezione è sinergistica nei modi in cui lo era anche la vita di mio padre.  Egli non inventa nuovi sistemi metrici, ma li prende a prestito da altre poesie, di Montale, Leopardi, Foscolo, e altri, all’indietro fino a Dante.  Forse il poeta vuole solo mettere in mostra il suo virtuosismo. Ma c’è qualcosa di più della vanità.  Le scelte estetiche di mio padre sono simili alle sue scelte politiche.  Quando, verso la metà degli anni 1960, decise di staccarsi dalla maggioranza di governo e di ritornare nelle file dell’opposizione, scelse di far parte di un partito politico senza aderirvi completamente, e di cambiarlo dal di dentro, piuttosto che fondare un suo proprio partito.

Mio padre, Luigi Silvestro Anderlini era nato a Posta, in provincia di Rieti, il 22 Settembre 1921.  Era una persona singolare e capace, sia pure di natali relativamente umili.  Crebbe in un paesino di montagna nel cuore degli Appennini, dove venne istruito da suo padre, il maestro del villaggio, in una scuola che consisteva di un’unica stanza.  Continuò poi a studiare da autodidatta in casa fino alle magistrali e infine si laureò in lettere durante il periodo della Seconda Guerra Mondiale.  Dapprima servì nell’esercito e, dopo l’armistizio, come partigiano.  In quel periodo, i soldati che venivano dal fronte per fare gli esami, ottenevano una semplice promozione in virtù del loro patriottismo.  Pur venendo dal fronte, mio papà non otteneva semplici promozioni, prendeva invece trenta e lode e si laureò summa cum laude e la pubblicazione della tesi.
Luigi era certamente stato designato dai genitori ad arrecare lustro e fama al nome della famiglia, grazie alla sua diligenza e al suo desiderio di studiare.  Una storia relativa alla sua infanzia spiega come un giorno, mentre si trovava dal barbiere per tagliarsi i capelli, udisse la campana della scuola e schizzasse fuori per non arrivare in ritardo.  Entrò in classe coi capelli metà tagliati e metà no, cosa  per cui  tutti lo derisero, dandogli del secchione.
Nel 1952 sposò mia madre, Lidia d’Onofrio.  Nel 1954, nacqui io, la prima dei loro figli. Anche la sua prima moglie era laureata in lettere.  Poliglotta e montessoriana, era una sua pari e una valida interlocutrice intellettuale.  Mia madre proveniva da un ambiente di cultura cittadino ed aveva avuto un’eccellente educazione.  Quanto a lui, era partito come insegnante per poi essere eletto deputato per il Partito Socialista nel 1958, l’anno in cui nacque mio fratello Luca.  Mio padre rimase in politica per circa trent’anni, fino al 1987.  Fece parte del primo governo di coalizione di centro-sinistra con Pietro Nenni, nel 1964, come sottosegretario.  Dopo un breve periodo al governo, scelse di ritornare all’opposizione, perché riteneva che il mal funzionamento del sistema fosse troppo pervasivo.  Pressappoco in quel periodo la salute di mia madre Lidia cominciò a peggiorare, e a breve si ammalò per poi spegnersi nel 1968.  Per la nostra famiglia fu una tragedia, perché eravamo cresciuti in modi assai poco convenzionali.  La nostra educazione era basata sulla parità fra maschi e femmine, sul bilinguismo, la politica di sinistra, la scuola montessoriana e una totale mancanza di pregiudizi nei confronti di corpo e della sessualità, tanto che entro le mura domestiche tutti praticavamo occasionalmente il nudismo.  All’età di quattordici anni, dopo la morte di mia madre, divenni una ragazza ribelle e feci quasi impazzire mio padre con le mie avventure sessuali.  Per preservare la mia verginità, mi mandò in un convento, il che lo mise in contrasto con le sue convinzioni di ateismo. 
Durante questo periodo, lasciò il Partito Socialista e, insieme ad altri “irregolari” sulla scena politica italiana, fu il co-fondatore della Sinistra Indipendente, un gruppo parlamentare i cui membri venivano eletti nella lista del Partito Comunista.  Invece di fondare un altro partito, o abbandonare proprio l’idea del socialismo – come fecero molti intellettuali del tempo per via dell’imperialismo sovietico – scelse di utilizzare le sue energie per sostenere la più grande forza di opposizione esistente.  Durante i duri anni del terrorismo italiano e la recessione economica degli anni Settanta, la Sinistra Indipendente ebbe la triplice funzione di diversificare il Partito Comunista, di sottolinearne l’indipendenza ideologica da Mosca, e di mediare i suoi rapporti con il partito di governo, la Democrazia Cristiana.  Ciò portò all’attuazione del compromesso storico, voluto dal leader pluralistico del PCI, Enrico Berlinguer.  In politica, come nei suoi lavori letterari, mio padre scelse un approccio morbido alla forma.  Prevalsero la sinergia e la mediazione.  Questo equilibrio ebbe fine quando il Primo Ministro Aldo Moro venne rapito nel 1978.
In qualità di deputato e senatore, mio padre fu un coutore della Legge per l’obiezione di coscienza, una buona legge cui associare il proprio nome per un pacifista.  Dato che il servizio militare per gli uomini era obbligatorio, la legge concedeva l’alternativa del servizio civile, in modo che i giovani che praticavano la non violenza potessero rimanere fedeli a sé stessi e pur servendo utilmente il proprio paese.  Mio padre trasse ispirazione dal suo stesso lavoro con l’Archivio Disarmo, l’Organizzazione Non Governativa che contribuì a fondare nel 1982 e che continuò a presiedere fino alla sua morte.  Questa attività di volontariato gli offriva una posizione neutrale, necessaria per essere influente sulla scena politica in un modo non di parte.  Un’altra legge di cui fu autore regolamentava la produzione di vini a Denominazione di Origine Controllata, il che incoraggiava la qualità e l’attendibilità della produzione agricola.
Quando mio padre era ragazzo era molto creativo.  Disegnava molto bene, scriveva delle poesie e portò a termine un romanzo non pubblicato nei primi anni di insegnamento, prima di entrare in politica.  Ritengo che fosse sprecato in politica, perché non aveva la crudeltà necessaria per andare oltre certi limiti, e poi era troppo onesto.  Penso anche che la sua carriera politica avrebbe conosciuto un maggior successo se mia madre non fosse morta così giovane (per puro caso, circa alla mia età,  mentre scrivo questo testo), perché lei era il suo miglior interlocutore, una persona che lui non è mai riuscito a rimpiazzare e così una parte del suo spirito e della sua intelligenza sono morti con lei.  Tuttavia io credo anche che, per ironia della sorte, i successi di lui in politica contribuirono alla fine di lei, perché il successo può essere inebriante e lei, probabilmente, si era sentita lasciata indietro, tradita, incapace di brillare anche di propria luce.  Per quanto mi riguarda, oscillo tra la gratitudine per lo stile di vita confortevole reso possibile dal suo stipendio di deputato, e il risentimento per i sacrifici richiesti dalla sua carriera politica.  Era contrario a tutte le forme di collusione e si rese conto troppo tardi che ciò poteva allontanare da sé coloro che amava.  Nessuno di noi figli ha seguito le sue orme, ma quando vedo chi c’è oggi in politica – e chi segue le orme del padre – penso che qualcuno di noi avrebbe dovuto raccogliere la sfida!  Dovrei forse dire che era la politica ad essere sprecata su di lui, dato che dava valore alla sua libertà ideologica al di sopra di ogni altra cosa.
La produzione letteraria di mio padre risale agli anni del suo pensionamento, e comprende due collezioni di poesie prima di questa, e le sue memorie: Caro Luca (Luca, mio fratello).  Il libro venne pubblicato nel 1994 e vinse il Premio Castiglioncello.  Mi chiese dei suggerimenti sul manoscritto, cosa che feci.  Fu per me un libro commovente, perché potevo capire quanto si fosse sentito abbandonato da mia madre, tradito dal suo non rimanere in vita e continuare a stare al suo fianco, e con il timore di non essere in grado di sostituirla.  Questo libro è stato un balsamo per la nostra famiglia, poiché nostro padre ci offriva la sua verità circa la nostra storia  perché noi tutti la prendessimo in considerazione e vi riflettessimo.
Divenni amica di mio padre pressappoco a quel tempo, quando gli dissi che amavo le donne, oltre agli uomini.  É interessante notare che la notizia ne fece un mio amico come lo ricordavo dall’infanzia, quando era sempre disponibile, sempre entusiasta, sempre pronto a giocare e raccontare storie, con le sue incantevoli spiegazioni, come quella della storia della goccia d’acqua che viaggia dall’oceano al cielo, alla cima delle montagne, a un fiume e torna dove era partita.  Forse era la mia trasgressione che lo affascinava, essere andata dall’altra parte della siepe ed aver gustato il frutto proibito.  Donne che amano donne.  Potrebbe aver visto una proiezione di ciò che avrebbe voluto provare per sé stesso.
Tenne il suo ultimo discorso per l’Archivio Disarmo nel novembre 2000, in un intervallo fra due ricoveri ospedalieri, solo quattro mesi prima della morte.  L’organizzazione cui si era dedicato nei suoi ultimi anni trae il suo nome dal sogno che le lezioni dell’incidente della Baia dei Porci avrebbero lasciato il segno.  In un mondo consapevole del potenziale per la Mutually Assured Destruction – o M.A.D., come veniva chiamata ai tempi di JFK – i leader politici dovrebbero rendersi conto che ogni corsa agli armamenti è una follia.  La graduale scomparsa degli arsenali atomici auto-distruttivi era il solo modo per creare un futuro sostenibile, donde l’idea di creare un archivio che documentasse questo progresso.
Nel 1984, l’Archivio Disarmo istituì un premio annuale, Premio Colombe d’Oro per la Pace, da assegnare a giornalisti particolarmente coraggiosi nel documentare le tristezze della guerra e gli sforzi di pace, e ad importanti figure di uomini o donne che si siano distinti in missioni di pace.  Personaggi ed entità importanti che hanno ricevuto il Premio Colombe d’Oro sono stati Greenpeace, Luisa Mongantini per Donne in Nero, Michail Gorbachev, Nelson Mandela (quando era ancora in prigione e nel Sud Africa vigeva l’Apartheid), e Jessie Jackson (l’anno in cui salvò la pace nel mondo durante le operazioni in Bosnia).  Archivio Disarmo lavora per formare delle unità civili e militari da impiegare nelle operazioni multilaterali di pace che portino un po’ di stabilità nelle aree del mondo più cariche di conflitti.  Inoltre fa monitoraggio della produzione e distribuzione di armi, piccole e grandi, e partecipa a interventi diretti in aree devastate dalla guerra.  L’Organizzazione ha istituito di recente una borsa di studio per la pace intitolata a Luigi Anderlini, e si sta formando un’associazione di donatori. 
Le informazioni si possono ottenere mettendosi in contatto con me a serena.anderlini@gmail.com, oppure con Archivio Disarmo al info@archiviodisarmo.it.
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Did you enjoy the Introduction?  Let us know!  Yours truly appreciates your attention.  The comments box is open.

Posts will appear every Friday at 11:00 AM.  Come back!  And get your copy of A Lake for the Heart right away!

Stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD

Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire
Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

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5 | Friday is for Poetry | Venerdi Poesia | Introduction 1 | “A Lake for the Heart | Il lago del cuore” | Luigi Anderlini

The Old and the New:  
Synergy and Medi(t)ation in Luigi Anderlini’s Works

by Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio

an Introduction to A Lake for the Heart, poems by Luigi Anderlini 

A Lake for the Heart 
The poems in the collection Il lago del cuore make a narrative, a story.  Lago del cuore translates figuratively as the vastness, the emptiness of the heart, and as a call to a beloved, cherished lake.  The story is about a man who is getting old, and knows he has had a life of plenitude, struggle, idealism, and compromise; a life that has fulfilled his wildest expectations and more, yet has exacted prices, and generated disappointments, disaffections, and lacerations.  This poet goes through his memories, fantasies, dreams, and obsessions, to finally prepare for death.  The last poem is about a woman, “lei,” (la morte) who comes and takes him to the “stair made of fog” (la scala di nebbia) that leads one “far, to eternal nothingness” (lontano, nel nulla eterno).  He follows her, docile, an atheist’s anticipation of a soft, sweet passage to death.  Even though in life my father had wanted to publish these pomes, it is no accident, in a way, that this edition is “posthumous.”  But then the interesting part is that in the process of preparing this translation, numerous intriguing memories have been surging.  These memories reveal a person that perhaps as a daughter I failed to see, a person who was a lot more similar to me spiritually and philosophically than the father I knew, somewhat imprisoned in his parental role.
Luigi Anderlini, public figure
Two poems in the collection struck me as especially significant in this respect, for they made me see my father as a virtually polyamorous person whose deep spirituality verged on the pantheistic.  Or perhaps this is my projection, for I have strong affinities with neo-pagan and polyamorist communities.  Yet it’s not just that.  For I am his daughter, and, while I lived an ocean and a continent away from him, the effort to interrogate the open questions of his life was an important force in leading me towards these movements.  A teacher who entered the political arena as a socialist in his thirties, in his later life my father became a pacifist, and devoted his energies to peace causes well above the melée of partisan politics.  But the open questions of his life were not resolved, including his choice of being an atheist regardless of his very deep spirituality, and his non-monogamous behavior, which he would not recognize as a deliberate choice, but rather experienced as a mistake.  Related to these, was his ambivalent relationship to modernity and industrialization, which for his generation held the promise of curing poverty and pain.  
Two poems in the collection inspire me to write of my dad in this way.  The first is “Il lago” (“The Lake”), which is about the Lago di Bracciano, a volcanic lake in the vicinity of Rome, where he used to sail in his little boat, and which has long been used as a reservoir for the city’s water supply and is therefore free of motorboats.  My dad used to have a little week-end house near this lake, and that’s where he was alone with himself and wrote his books and poems.  The poet speaks to the lake, and in calling him tu, attributes a persona to this body of water, who was once a volcano and has now reincarnated in his current form.  The second poem is “Donne” (Women), in which all the women who were his lovers at some point in his life, either long-term or just briefly, appear to him in a dream.  These lovers appear to him as they were when he knew them, and the poet evokes his moments and stories with each of them.  The poem ends with the dream of these lovers surrounding the poet together near his bed.  “And now,” he says, “siete tutte qui . . . belle e impalpabili” (all of you are here . . .  beautiful and impalpable, 32).  This image of shared love and serenity dissipates the conventional rivalries of enforced monogamy and defeats traditional gender wars. 
Luigi Anderlini, peace activist
Listening for Luigi Anderlini, peace activist
These poems, and many others in the collection as well, speak to me of a virtually polyamorous person with pantheistic inclinations.  His spirituality goes much beyond his proclaimed atheism; it sees the magic in nature; it recognizes the environment as a being with a life of its own; and it imagines the live creature of a lake as a volcano whose metamorphosis has generated the body of water that now lives in its crater.  In the poet’s vision, the Earth is a live being, which disavows modernity’s belief in pure rationality and matter.  This realm, this vision of the imagination, also makes room for a different kind of love, one in which love only begets more love.  In life my father often insisted on the inevitability of modernity and its benefits.  I remember teasing him that for him atheism was just another religion, as I was searching for an alternative to monotheism and a more pantheistic vision of the sacred.  Yet his poems reveal his vision of life as a continuum.  The poet is aware of his own mortality, announces it, and even describes his death.  Throughout the collection, the metaphor he uses for life is prato, a grass lawn, a meadow people cross and meander in for a while, alone and together.  His personal life was punctuated with passionate and multi-faceted relationships that contributed to making it vital and interesting.  In Donne, as in a poly world, the poet wishes to have all his lovers with him at the same time, and loves them all in his memory.  In life, my father did not quite manage to have things that way, yet the poet’s wish is that the women he loves choose to love each other in his death.  In this dream of intimate peace, love expands from a monogamous to a more inclusive dimension, as in a neo-pagan tale.

To be continued . . . .

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Il Vecchio e il Nuovo:
Sinergia e Medi(t)azione nelle opere di Luigi Anderlini
di Serena Anderlini con traduzione italiana di Joanna Capra
Le poesie che fanno parte della collezione Il lago del cuore formano una narrazione, una storia.  Il Lago del cuore sta a significare la vastità, il vuoto del cuore, ed è un richiamo a un lago adorato e prediletto.  La storia è quella di un uomo che sta invecchiando, e sa di aver vissuto una vita di pienezza, di lotta, di idealismo e di compromesso; una vita che ha esaudito le sue aspettative più inverosimili ed oltre, ma ha imposto dei prezzi generando delusioni, ostilità e lacerazioni.  Il poeta riesamina le sue memorie, fantasie, sogni e ossessioni, per prepararsi infine alla morte.  L’ultima poesia riguarda una donna, “lei” (la morte) che viene e lo porta alla “scala di nebbia” che conduce lontano, al nulla eterno.  Lui la segue docile, un ateo che si prefigura un passaggio alla morte dolce e morbido.  E benché mio padre in vita avesse voluto pubblicare queste poesie, in un certo senso non è un caso che questa edizione sia “postuma”.  Ma la cosa interessante è che nel corso della preparazione di questa traduzione, si sono risvegliati in me dei ricordi intriganti.  Ricordi che mettono in luce una persona che forse, in quanto figlia, non ho saputo vedere, una persona che era molto più simile a me spiritualmente e filosoficamente che non il padre che ho conosciuto, in qualche modo imprigionato nel suo ruolo di genitore.
Due poesie che fanno parte della collezione mi hanno colpito come particolarmente significative a questo proposito, poiché mi hanno fatto vedere mio padre come una persona virtualmente poli-amorosa la cui profonda spiritualità aveva del panteistico.  O forse questa è una mia proiezione, poiche io ho molte affinita con le comunita neo-pagane e poliamoriste.   Eppure non è proprio così.  Perché sono sua figlia, e, quando vivevo un oceano e un continente lontano lui, lo sforzo di interrogare le questioni aperte della sua vita fu una spinta importante nel portarmi verso questi movimenti.  Un insegnante entrato trentenne nell’arena politica come socialista, nella maturità avanzata diventò un pacifista e dedicò le sue energie alle cause della pace, ben al di sopra delle mischie di parte della politica.  Ma alcune questioni della sua vita erano rimaste irrisolte, compresa la sua scelta di essere un ateo malgrado la sua profonda spiritualità e il suo comportamento non monogamo, che egli non fu capace di riconoscere come una scelta deliberata, piuttosto che come una semplice confusione o errore.  A ciò si aggiungeva il suo rapporto ambivalente con la modernità e l’industrializzazione, che per la gente della sua generazione riservava la promessa di porre rimedio alla povertà e alla sofferenza.
Due poesie che fanno parte della collezione mi ispirano a scrivere di mio papà in questo modo.  La prima è “Il Lago”, che riguarda il lago di Bracciano – un lago vulcanico nelle vicinanze di Roma – dove papà aveva l’abitudine di veleggiare con la sua piccola banca a vela – e che da lungo tempo è utilizzato come serbatoio per rifornire Roma di acqua e quindi è proibito alle barche a motore.  Mio papà aveva allora una piccola casa da week-end vicino al lago, ed è lì che si ritrovava solo con sé stesso e che scriveva i suoi libri e le sue poesie.  Il poeta parla al lago e, nel dargli del tu, fa una persona di questo specchio d’acqua, che un tempo era un vulcano e che si è ora reincarnato nella sua forma attuale.  La seconda poesia è “Donne”, in cui tutte le donne che sono state sue amanti a un certo momento della sua vita, a lungo o per breve tempo, gli appaiono in sogno così come erano quando le aveva conosciute.  Il poeta evoca i momenti e le storie con ognuna di loro.  La poesia finisce con il sogno di queste amanti che circondano il letto del poeta, che dice: “E ora siete tutte qui, belle e impalpabili”.  Questa immagine di amore sereno e condiviso dissipa le rivalità tipiche della monogamia forzata e sconfigge le tradizionali guerre fra i sessi. 
Queste poesie, e molte altre della collezione, parlano a me di una persona capace di molteplici amori e con inclinazioni panteistiche.  La sua spiritualità va molto oltre il suo proclamato ateismo; vede la magia nella natura; riconosce l’ambiente come un essere dotato di vita propria; e immagina la creatura viva di un lago come un vulcano, le cui metamorfosi hanno generato il corpo d’acqua che ora vive nel suo cratere.  Nella visione del poeta, la Terra è un essere vivente che sconfessa il credo della modernità nella mera razionalità e materia.  Inoltre, questo reame, questa visione dell’immaginazione, dà spazio a molti tipi di amore, in cui l’amore genera ulteriore amore.  In vita mio padre spesso insisteva sulla inevitabilità della modernità e dei suoi benefici.  Ricordo di averlo preso in giro, dicendogli che per lui l’ateismo era solo un’altra religione, mentre io ero in cerca di una alternativa al monoteismo e di una visione più panteistica del sacro.  Eppure le sue poesie rivelano una visione in cui la vita è concepita come un continuum.  Il poeta è consapevole della propria mortalità, la annuncia, e descrive persino la propria morte.  Dalla prima all’ultima pagina della collezione di poesie, la metafora che usa per indicare la vita è un prato, uno spiazzo erboso, un campo che la gente attraversa o sul quale si aggira, sola o in compagnia.  La sua vita personale era contrassegnata da rapporti appassionati e sfaccettati, che contribuivano a renderla vivace e interessante.  In Donne – come in un mondo di plurali amori – il poeta desidera avere con se tutte le sue amanti allo stesso tempo e le ama tutte nel ricordo.  In vita, mio padre non era riuscito del tutto a sistemare le cose in questo modo, eppure il desiderio del poeta è che, dopo la sua morte, le donne che amava scelgano di volersi bene.  In questo sogno di intima pace, l’amore si espande da una dimensione monogama a una dimensione più inclusiva, come in un racconto neo-pagano. 
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Did you enjoy the Introduction?  Let us know!  Yours truly appreciates your attention.  The comments box is open.

Posts will appear every Friday at 11:00 AM.  Come back!  And get your copy of A Lake for the Heart right away!

Stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD

Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire
Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

Join Our Mailing List
 GaiaCoverFullSize  
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4 | Friday is for Poetry | Venerdi Poesia | “A Lake for the Heart | Il lago del cuore” | Luigi Anderlini

Hi again dear Earthlings!
Lidia D’Onofrio long before she met Luigi
And yes, you are in for another round of Friday is for Poetry.  This time yours truly feels the throbs.  This poem is about her mom.  A beautiful woman who passed away at the age of 48 due to rampant cancer.  It was the first encounter with death and perhaps the most tragic.  And yet it was forming: learning how to connect with the dead, listening to their voices, following their guidance, is what got yours truly where she is today.  As a translator, she learned what the experience was like for her dad.  This is the poem that choked tears in her throat time and time again, reading, translating, reading, translating, reading, translating, until the page was soaked.  Literally.  Her voice choking as she read the poem out loud on occasions.  Yes, as Obama would probably say, this was the best gift “from my father,” Luigi Anderlini.  A dream of remembrance for a woman whose magic spins to this day.  She must have heard when he wrote the poem because we later found out that she waited until he came to join her in death.  So be it.  Namaste!

 

LYDIA
“Sylvia, do you still remember . . . ?”
Leopardi, “For Sylvia”
Lidia D’Onofrio
You’ve been visiting me for quite a while.
You arrive at dusk
and fill the room
with your dazzling scent.
Tangled, the skein of memories
unwinds, alive.
The kids with us.
The white sun straight up
on the blue of Lake Garda.
A picnic for four on the shore.
Furtive happiness
that expands your smile to the sky.
Small and private paradise
of a human brood.
A week in Paris.
Poor but happy and dreamy.
Hungry, we sit at a sidewalk café
in the shadow of a Danton,
stern and dusty.
Voila deux oeufs au plat” the waiter shouts
and you ask me to kiss you
with no embarrassment.  “C’est ça Paris” you say.
I still have on my lips
the taste of that honey.
You’re still hungry.  You dare your French
and ask “S’il vous plaît, garcon
encore deux oeufs au plat.”
Serena’s first steps.
Stava, in the Dolomites.
Vacations at your favorite mountains.
Serena Anderlini, age one
Mushroom picking.
I arrive from Rome flustered.
You take away my breath
and extend our embrace.
In bed, the gift of your body
generous, nude like a soft pink cloud.
In a whisper you tell me:
“Stay, please!  Don’t go away!
I want another child.”
Now we’re alone in the room,
you with the face of thirty years ago.
I would like to touch you,
but my fingers fall into air.
You withdraw and smile:
“No, dear” you say, “I am ashes.
Your lines give me new life.
I am your secret and infinite
will to survive.
I know what it means
to die, desperate, at fifty
The viscera torn apart
by a cruel cancer.
I have experienced the anxieties
of brutal and conscious departures,
of reckoning with eternity,
of the abyss of nothingness.
The furrow that I’ve left in the world is fleeting.
Some images, a maternal legacy.
We’re ashes–impalpable dust.
But one thing is left for us:
Let my bitter destiny buy us
a sweet, serene reunion
in death’s nothingness.”
Lidia
“Silvia, rimembri ancora”
Leopardi – “A Silvia”
Mi visiti da tempo.
Arrivi con la luce del crepuscolo
e fai piena la stanza
di quel profumo tuo che mi stordiva.
L’arruffata matassa dei ricordi
si sgomitola, viva.
I bambini con noi.
Il sole bianco a picco
sull’azzurro del Garda.
Un pic-nic a quattro sulla riva.
Felicità furtiva
che dilata nel cielo il tuo sorriso.
Piccolo ed appartato paradiso
d’una nidiata umana.
                                            Settimana a Parigi.
Paris
Poveri ma felici e trasognati.
All’ombra d’un Danton
severo e polveroso, noi affamati
seduti a un tavolo sul marciapiede.
– “Voila deux oeufs au plat” – grida il ragazzo
e tu senza imbarazzo
mi chiedi un bacio – “Ca c’est Paris” – dici.
Quel sapore di miele
l’ho ancora sulle labbra.
Hai ancora fame; osi il tuo francese;
chiedi – “S’il vous plait, garcon,
encore deux oeufs au plat” -.
                                          Serena ai primi passi.
                                          Stava: le dolomiti.
                                          Vacanza tra i tuoi monti preferiti.
                                          La raccolta dei funghi.
                                          Io che arrivo da Roma frastornato
                                          tu che mi mozzi il fiato
Luca, the new baby
e l’abbraccio prolunghi.
A letto t’offri nuda e generosa.
Morbida nube rosa
mi dici in un bisbiglio:
– “Resta, ti prego! Non lasciarmi
Ti prego! Un altro figlio”.
Adesso siamo soli nella stanza,
tu col tuo volto di trent’anni fa,
io che vorrei sfiorarti, ma le dita
affondano nel vuoto.
Tu ti ritrai, sorridi:
– “No, caro” – dici – Io sono cenere.
                                             Sono i tuoi versi a darmi nuova vita.
                                             Sono la tua segreta ed infinita
                                             voglia di sopravvivere.
Io so cosa significa
morire disperata a cinquantanni,
le viscere straziate
da un tumore crudele.
Ho vissuto gli affanni
dei distacchi brutali e consapevoli,
i conti con l’eterno,
il baratro del nulla.
Di me resta nel mondo un solco labile,
qualche immagine, un lascito materno.
Siamo cenere, polvere impalpabile.
Una cosa ci resta:
che serva a noi – amara – la mia sorte
per un sereno e dolce ritrovarci
nel nulla della morte”.
1998

 

Did you enjoy the poem?  Searingly honest, right?  Let us know what you think about it!  Yours truly appreciates your attention.  The comments box is open.

We will continue with the biographical chapter.  Posts will appear every Friday at 11:00 AM.  Come back!  And get your copy of A Lake for the Heart right away!

Stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD

Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire
Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

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A Lake for the Heart

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3 | Friday is for Poetry | Venerdi Poesia | “A Lake for the Heart | Il lago del cuore” | Luigi Anderlini

Hi lovely Earthlings!
And here we come to the third episode of Friday is for Poetry, where yours truly introduces you to her dad’s love life, “Women,” a beautiful tapestry of many intersecting loves.  Luigi Anderlini always was handsome with the beauty of intelligence and the courage of hope.  But he was shy as young man.  Not a Don Giovanni at all!  He became a widower at the age of 46 as a senator in a country with no legal divorce, or at least, a very young divorce law that nobody knew how to practice yet.  No wonder there was that constant buzz around him of women, hopefuls, waiting to find out who the most papabile was, the next one to be made pope.  Luigi was always diligent, he didn’t make promises, he sometimes ran into trouble, and was not very capable of or trained in discussing his love life openly with his kids, us.  partly it was the legacy of Catholicism, a religion he had repudiated, to imply that widowhood was the end of love.  Partly it was the very indecisiveness of the situation: was he going to form a new, blended family, find a companion for his later years, or both?  Partly it was the difficulty of assessing the loss of his first wife, your truly’s mom, and the lack of attention that caused it as the family failed to see what was coming upon her.  Be that as it may, Luigi remembered his initiations into the practice of love, his everlasting desire to be a source of this magical energy as his life unfolded, and the women whose mark on his soul was most significant.  
As in the poem, so in life, Luigi Anderlini dreamed of women in his life who got along.  His is a dream of inclusive love.  
The occasion is also hospitable to sharing family images that yours truly hopes you will enjoy. 
 
WOMEN
“joy
that you all modestly bestow on earth”
Foscolo –  “The Graces”

                                              I still remember your warm hand
                                              Searching, impatient, as it opens up my fly.
                                              Your mysterious black shrub
                                              And your sweet invitation, “come on in!”
Luigi Anderlini at 21 or so
Tender milk the white of your skin,
Soft the round of your breast,
And unexpected the warmth of your sex.
You smile, hold me, and breathless
You almost cry from joy.  Then happy
You smack a kiss on my forehead.
I’m still looking for it among my wrinkles
Because that hot kiss is still there,
Last gift of my adolescence.
Nobody was expecting you.  We only
Knew your first name, Federica.
You arrived in the fall when the persimmon
Leaves had bared the tree’s branches
And the red fruits glowed in the sunset.
I fell desperately in love with you,
Beautiful cousin with wide gray eyes.
I sweated, I paled, I clammed up
As you displayed the unusual red
                                                 Of your lips next to the fruits.
                                                 Since then I’ve know that love breaks out
                                                 Suddenly, with no respite:
                                                 A pain piled deep in your chest
                                                 That makes your days feel light
                                                 And lifts you to the sky like a dragon-fly.
The room was cold.  An oilskin
Covered half of your red bed
To protect if from a boot’s mud.
You lay down, indifferent, accessible
Playing with your teddy bear,
With circles deep under your shiny eyes.
Throbbing, I land on top of you
– “Good for you” – you say – “You’re done.”
I quickly button up.  I pay and get out.
Resentful, I tell myself – “I won’t do this again” –
But I know this won’t be true.
Anderlini is second from right, World War II
On the Florence train while the war raged on,
You fell in love with my uniform,
With my youth, sad and muddled.
I read your trade in your eyes.
We went to Citerea and spent three days
In a world of our own.  For three nights,
My barracks and your brothel,
Your humiliations and my war
Did not enter the closed husk
Where we, stunned, affirmed  
Our right to be happy.
With your watery, dilated eyes
On the bed unmade, you persuaded me
That I was nothing but an invading
Soldier to your country in war.
Your lifeless smile, your tight lips
Persuaded me that love’s games
Do not thrive on conflict or scarcity.
You left crying and on the night table
I found the meager gifts with which
I had tried to apologize to you.
I was left alone, disappointed about
Myself, the world, and the war.
You and I got drunk on spring air. 
The war was over.  We discovered
The swelling river loops of the Velino,
A lake’s throbbing mirror, and the sunny
Afternoon light in the summer;
Your girlfriends in the nude, who,
Unexpectedly, camouflaged to excite us.
Since then, your name, Albertine, has been
A sweet mass on my anxious heart. 
Rolling hills to the vanishing point, while
In the sunset we descend from the mountain top.
Big tits that surround the valley
Of a blue green dappled in pale ochre.
Suddenly you evaporate upon the hills,
You, enormous, lie inside those curves,
Wrapped around them, swollen, expanded.
When you come back to us, your hip
Is the short arch of a curvy circle.
My desire burns with the sunset fire,
Happy and full of light.
She was very short and dark, Maria
And she liked to take long walks,
Affectionate and chatty.
She loved the sunset lights.
She knew where she was going: she’d get
On top of a gray boulder and laugh.
Tall over me, she’d let go and
Kneeled to kiss me, complacent.
When she leaned against the boulder
She was ready for a sweeping fuck.
We’d read Montale’s poems together,
With Ungaretti’s and Quasimodo’s lines.
The charm of Hermeticism got a hold of us.
We realized the best thing was brushing
Our tops against each other, like palms,
And leave the smell of the roots for another time.
A sudden fancy enthralled the two of us
Then you got lost in the gray crowd.
When in bed you expected lewd words.
But your soft oval curves bewitched me,
With your swelling boobs, and the wonderful
Shape of your buttocks.  I would have rather
Yelled to you the pale pink
Beauty of your sweet ellipses;
But you did insist on the lewd calls.   
“I really like my husband” Algisa
Often said, laughing.  Affectionate,
She made sure I knew
With her I risked nothing.
It was just a beautiful game between us.
She brought up that connection over and over
And with her mind elsewhere
Our rendez-vous acquired a special taste.
They provided the evidence that life
Is much richer and complex than any logic.
Love is a blissful inconsistency
Of feelings, guilt, and jealousy.
In Mogadishu your black skin shines.
Over the sea a white-blue sky,
And on the beach a hundred somersaults for us.
Your voice beguiled me, Carla.
You, in the pit, locked in the translator’s cabin;
With your borrowed voice I spoke to others,
And inevitably we were tied up. 
Beijing, China.  A river island
And the Chinese mystery of a
Language in songs and ideograms.
You spoke Danish like Hamlet.
Tangle of unintelligible words!
Past the wall, happy, you laughed
At me dealing with the dictionary.
To speak with you I draw two lips,
A heart and an arrow, a shell;
I transcribe the notes of a nocturne;
Sol mi, re mi re, do sol. 
Enchanted, almost wordless night,
With a billion Chinese all around us.
***
A procession of you steps out
Of the past, and I meet you all
In the hallway of your whore-house. 
You are a crowd that whispers and laughs.
The madam is gone but her voice
Still echoes around: “Spineless guys!
You jerk up too much!  Get upstairs!”
I search your eyes one by one.
But gone from your face is the
Professional gaze of the harlot.
Here are Marina’s green eyes:
No longer a provoking challenge,
They show a tender and cold light.
And Minni’s humongous tits,
Once a generous proposition,
Now a soft, maternal cushion.
There are Carla’s lips;
A dazzling offer now turned into
Respectable red lacquer.
Lola’s swelling curves, once
The promise of a lewd fuck,
Now an impish game, harmless. 
Faces parade that I don’t recognize,
Women I met only once
Groping for a rapport
That wouldn’t be just fucking,
Trying to get to know each other
And find common ground.
***
The crowd disperses.  I am left alone
And surprised I declaim a line
That has been buzzing my soul for a while:
“Three women came around my heart.”
One summer afternoon
Anna broke into the circle.
On the Spanish Steps the sun inserted
Golden straws in the green of her eyes,
and I got lost in the soft flow of colors,
standing in front of Rome’s crimson dusk.
It was a brief season, for at twenty
You can still play hide-and-seek
With love, wounds heal in a flash.
And she left for far away lands:
An adventure that eventually gave her
Children and maturity.  Ten years later
She came back disillusioned. 
Suddenly the dormant coals revived,
The new days drenched in the old flavor.
Tenacious, she went back to dig her furrow
In the large meadow of life,
Up to our days, serene, sad
Humble yet alive, as old age
And habit require.
Lidia and Luigi in Paris, on honeymoon, 1952
Lydia was instead
A mature choice, and irrevocable;
A confident giving oneself for life;
A precise desire to blossom in our children,
In the entwining of our two lives
To share our blood with other lives
Like two separate wisterias
That interlace their branches in the garden.
And for fourteen years it was like that:
Love baked like bread,
In the generous heat of the oven.   
She had decided to marry me
Almost too rationally (“an experiment” she called it).
Yet she fell happily in love with her husband
And with her I so dazzled
Like one lost in a sweet labyrinth.
Days of long reveries paced by the beat
Of our twin hearts. 
Then life’s fury engulfs us:
The kids, my political career, your school.
I become mayor of Narni.  TV school hires you.
Serena is born.  I get into Congress.
Life gets full of spice, like a soccer game
Where we win, playing as a couple,
And all defenses are routed out.
Luca is our happiness for another life.
Politics fills our every moment
But Quasimodo still tempts us, Visconti
And Brecht intrigue us, Calvino seduces us.
Then the tragedy explodes, sudden.
Almost one year of anxiety as a tumor
Convulses your bowels. 
It’s the end for you, in a mode of everyday life;
the bitter, piercing cut of our separation,
The goodbye with no return. 
Since then you’ve been sitting in the cold,
alone under the hill.  The bloodstained
Furrow of your life has been left half done. 
The years we’ve lived together lay deep
In my tired but unbeaten heart.
Luigi at a Golden Doves for Peace event
And you, Colomba, arrive when ochres,
Reds, and yellows have already tarnished
The green of my garden.
On the horizon that is opening up
Your sweet image has been growing for a while.
The garden opens up again at your smile.
In the winter, camellias bloom again
In my expanded heart,
And my feelings are again in flower.
Then springs comes back, all of a sudden:
Large bunches of broom flowers
In our room at Vicolo del Giglio;
your colorful thread and sharp needle
(barely flashing between you fingers)
doodle a string of griffins on the fabric.
New friends warm up our lives.
Your surrender is new and sweet every time:
An embrace, forlorn and supple.
And your tenderness is a nice pillow
Where I rest my bitter thoughts.
You are paving my difficult path
To the nameless nothing.
When death arrives, I hope
It has your dry, smiling eyes.
I know that at times my three circles of love
Have almost overlapped. 
They look like the Greek sign
That the Olympic Games are played under.
Sometimes the aftertaste of these complicated
Entwinements is bitter in one’s mouth;
Wonderful, demanding, unique,
Like the story of any human life.
***
And now, women, you are all here
In these lines, beautiful and impalpable.
You are one half of this sky and other ones.
Life on the planet bears your sign,
It pours from you like water from the fountain
And it crosses, transparent, the large meadow
Where any adventure blossoms and dies.

Donne
“gioia
che vereconde voi date alla terra”
Foscolo – “Le Grazie
Ricordo ancora la tua mano calda
che mi fruga impaziente e mi sbottona.
Quella tua misteriosa macchia nera
e l’invito dolcissimo: – “Su, vieni!”.
Tenero latte il bianco della pelle,
morbidissimo il tondo del tuo seno
ed insperato il caldo del tuo sesso.
Tu sorridi, mi stringi ed in affanno
quasi gridi di gioia; poi felice
mi stampi un bacio a schiocco sulla fronte.
Io me lo cerco ancora tra le rughe
perché è rimasto li – caldo – quel bacio:
ultimo dono dell’adolescenza.
Nessuno t’aspettava. Sapevamo
di te soltanto il nome: Federica.
Arrivasti d’autunno che le foglie
spogliato aveano nel giardino il cachi
e i frutti rosseggiavano al tramonto.
Mi innamorai di te perdutamente,
bella cugina dagli occhioni grigi.
Sudai, sbiancai, ammutolii sconvolto
dal rosso inusitato delle labbra
che esponevi al confronto con i frutti.
Da allora so che amore si scatena
all’improvviso, senza darti scampo:
una pena ammassata in fondo al petto
che pure fa leggere le giornate
e in ciel ti libra come una libellula.
Fredda la stanza. La tela cerata
ricopriva a metà il letto rosso
a difesa del fango delle scarpe.
Sdraiata, indifferente, disponibile
giocherellavi con il tuo orsacchiotto,
troppo affossati i lucidi occhi neri.
Ansimante finii sopra di te
– “Sei proprio bravo” – dici – “Hai già finito”.
Mi riabbottono in fretta. Pago. Esco.
Mi dico astioso – “Non lo farò più” –
anche se so che non sarà mai vero.
Sul treno per Firenze, in piena guerra,
ti innamorasti della mia divisa,
dei miei vent’anni, tristi e scombinati.
Io ti lessi negli occhi il tuo “mestiere”.
Partimmo per Citera e per tre giorni
fummo fuori dal mondo; e per tre notti
la mia caserma e la tua “casa chiusa”,
le tue umiliazioni e la mia guerra
non scalfirono il guscio sigillato
entro il quale, storditi, proclamammo
nostro il diritto d’essere felici.
Con l’acqua dei tuoi occhi dilatati
mi convincesti sul quel letto sfatto
che io altro non ero che il soldato
che aveva invaso in guerra il tuo paese.
Quel tuo sorriso spento, a labbra strette
mi convinse che il gioco dell’amore
mal sopporta i conflitti e la miseria.
Te ne andasti piangendo e mi lasciasti
sul comodino i poveri regali
coi quali avevo tentato di scusarmi.
Solo mi ritrovai, solo e deluso
di me, del mondo intero e della guerra.
Ci ubriacavamo d’aria a primavera.
La guerra era finita. Scoprivamo
le anse gonfie d’acqua del Velino,
lo specchio trepido di lago e luce
nei meriggi assolati dell’estate,
il nudo inaspettato delle amiche
che in costume giocavano a eccitarci.
È da allora, Albertina, che il tuo nome
sul mio cuore affannato è un dolce peso.
Colline morbide al tramonto in fuga
mentre insieme scendiamo dalla vetta.
Intorno alla pianura mammelloni
verde-azzurro, striati d’ocra pallido.
Tu a un tratto evapori sulle colline,
distesa, enorme, dentro quelle curve
tonde avvolgenti gonfie e dilatate.
Quando torni tra noi su quel tuo fianco
– arco breve d’un cerchio sinuoso –
si brucia il desiderio mio nel fuoco
d’un tramonto felice e tutta luce.
Piccolina, nerissima, Maria
aveva il gusto delle passeggiate
affettuose lunghe e discorsive.
Amava assai le luci del crepuscolo.
Aveva la sua mèta: un sasso grigio
sopra il quale saliva sorridendo.
Alta sul sasso, si lasciava andare,
si chinava a baciarmi compiaciuta.
Se si appoggiava all’albero era segno
ch’era pronta a un amplesso travolgente.
Leggemmo insieme i versi di Montale,
le poesie di Ungaretti e di Quasimodo.
Ci vinse la malia dell’ermetismo.
Ci convincemmo che come le palme
era meglio sfiorarsi per le cime
ignorando l’afror delle radici.
Un capriccio ci avvinse all’improvviso
poi ti perdesti, grigia, nella folla.
Volevi a letto, tu, parole oscene
ma io ero ammaliato dalle curve
morbide, ovali, gonfie del tuo seno,
dalle forme stupende delle natiche.
Gridarti avrei voluto la bellezza
delle tue dolci ellissi in rosa pallido.
Tu preferivi invece frasi oscene.
Amava molto suo marito Algisa.
Lo ripeteva spesso sorridendo.
Voleva farmi certo – affettuosa –
che con lei non correvo rischio alcuno
e che il nostro era solo un gran bel gioco.
Quel legame più volte ribadito
e quel sentirla col pensiero altrove
davano un gran sapore ai nostri incontri.
Fornivano la prova che la vita
è più ricca e complessa d’ogni logica,
che l’amore è felice incoerenza
di sentimenti, colpe e gelosie.
Lucida pelle nera a Mogadiscio.
Bianco-azzurro del cielo sopra il mare
e sulla spiaggia cento capriole.
Fu la tua voce, Carla, a circuirmi.
Tu, in fondo, chiusa nella tua cabina;
io che parlavo agli altri con la voce
che mi imprestavi: vincolo, spessore
per un rapporto forte e ineludibile.
Cina-Pechino. L’isola sul fiume
e il mistero cinese d’una lingua
quasi cantata e per ideogrammi.
Ti esprimevi in danese come Amleto.
Garbuglio di parole incomprensibili!
Di là dal muro tu lieta ridevi
di me alle prese con vocabolario.
Per parlarti ti disegno due labbra,
un cuore ed una freccia, una conchiglia;
ti trascrivo le note d’un notturno:
sol mi, re mi re, do sol. Fu una notte
incantata, quasi senza parole
con attorno un miliardo di cinesi.
***
Vi vedo uscire in fila dal passato
e vi ritrovo tutte nel “salone
d’ingresso” della vostra “casa chiusa”.
Siete una folla che bisbiglia e ride.
La “maitresse” non c’è ma la sua voce
stagna ancora nell’aria: – “Smidollati!
Vi fate troppe seghe! Andate in camera!”
Io vi scruto negli occhi ad una ad una.
Nei vostri volti non c’è più il sorriso
professionale della meretrice.
Eccoli gli occhi verdi di Marina:
non sono più una sfida provocante,
hanno una loro luce fredda e tenera.
E quelle tette enormi della Mìnni
non sono una proposta generosa.
Sono un cuscino soffice e materno.
Eccole lì le labbra della Carla;
una offerta che allora ti stordiva.
Ora un bel rosso lacca rispettabile.
Le curve gonfie e morbide di Lola
non promettono più l’amplesso osceno,
ma un gioco malizioso ed innocente.
Sfilano volti che non riconosco,
di quelle che incontrai solo una volta
e con le quali ricercai un rapporto
che non fosse soltanto freddo amplesso
ma sempre un tentativo di conoscersi,
di scoprire comuni le radici.
***
Il salone si sfolla. Resto solo
e mi sorprendo a recitare un verso
che mi ronza nell’animo da tempo:
“Tre donne intorno al cor mi son venute”.
Anna irruppe nel cerchio un pomeriggio,
d’estate a Trinità dei Monti: il sole
inseriva pagliuzze d’oro pallido
nel verde dei suoi occhi: io mi perdei
nel morbido fluire dei colori,
davanti a Roma rosa nel tramonto.
Fu una breve stagione ché ai vent’anni
si gioca a rimpiattino con l’amore,
le ferite guariscono in un lampo.
E lei partì per terre assai lontane:
un’avventura che doveva dargli
figli e maturità. Dopo dieci anni
disillusa tornò. L’antica brace
si ravvivò ad un tratto, le giornate
di nuovo intrise del sapore antico.
Lei tenace tornò a scavare il solco
nel grande prato, fino a nostri giorni
sereni, tristi, poveri ma vivi
così come comandano vecchiaia
ed abitudine.
Lidia fu invece
una scelta matura e irreversibile,
un confidente darsi per la vita,
una voglia precisa di fiorire
nei figli, l’intrecciarsi di due vite
per altre vite nel comune sangue
come talvolta intrecciano in giardino
due glicini diversi i loro rami.
E per quattordici anni fu così:
crebbe l’amore come cresce il pane
nel caldo generoso della madia.
Lei che aveva deciso il matrimonio
quasi a freddo (“esperimento” – disse)
s’innamorò felice del marito
ed io di lei tanto storditamente
quasi perso in un dolce labirinto.
Lunghe giornate trasognate: il ritmo
era quello del battito del cuore.
Poi la vita s’infuria e ti travolge:
i figli, la politica, la scuola.
Sindaco a Narni. Tu a telescuola.
Nasce Serena. Arrivo in parlamento.
La vita si fa piena e il gusto forte
di viverla in coppia vince e sfonda
come talvolta capita allo stadio
che sbaraglino in due ogni difesa
Luca è felicità d’un’altra vita.
La politica impegna ogni momento
ma ci tenta Quasimodo, ci intrigano
Visconti e Brecht, ci seduce Calvino.
Poi la tragedia scoppia all’improvviso.
Quasi un anno d’angoscia col tumore
che sconvolge le viscere. La fine
vista con gli occhi d’ogni giorno, il taglio
amaro e lancinante del distacco,
l’addio senza ritorno. Tu da allora
sei sola al freddo, sotto la collina.
È rimasto a metà – insanguinato –
il solco. Gli anni che vivemmo insieme
sono come adagiati – ora – sul fondo
d’un cuore affaticato ma non vinto.
E tu, Colomba, arrivi quando l’ocra,
il rosso e il giallo inquinano il giardino.
Sull’orizzonte che si va schiudendo
cresce da tempo – dolce – la tua immagine.
Sorridente riapri tu il giardino.
Nel cuore che s’allaga, le camelie
fioriscono di nuovo in pieno inverno
e tornano a sbocciare i sentimenti.
Poi a un tratto è di nuovo primavera:
gran fasci di ginestre nella stanza
di Vicolo del giglio; quella serie di grifoni
che il filo colorato e l’ago aguzzo
(ti balena appena tra le dita)
sciolgono in ghirigori sulla tela.
Nuovi amici ci scaldano la vita.
Nuova ogni volta e dolce è la tua resa:
un abbraccio smarrito e flessuoso.
E la tua tenerezza è un bel cuscino
in cui distendo amari i miei pensieri.
Stai spianando per me la via difficile
che porta al nulla senza nome.
Quando arriverà la morte, io spero
Abbia i tuoi occhi asciutti e sorridenti
Lo so che i miei tre cerchi dell’amore
si sono a volte quasi sovrapposti.
Somigliano a quel simbolo sportivo
sotto il quale si celebrano “i giochi”.
Un intreccio di vite complicato,
che lascia a volte molto amaro in bocca,
stupendo, faticoso e irrepetibile
com’è la storia d’ogni vita umana.
***
E adesso, donne siete tutte qui
in questi versi, belle ed impalpabili.
Siete metà di questo e d’altri cieli.
La vita sul pianeta ha il vostro segno,
scende da voi come acqua dalla fonte
e limpida attraversa il grande prato
dove fiorisce e muore ogni avventura.
1999

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The poems will appear every Friday at 11:00 AM.  Come back!  And get your copy of A Lake for the Heart right away!

Stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD

Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire
Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

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A Lake for the Heart

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2 | Friday is for Poetry | Venerdi Poesia | “A Lake for the Heart | Il lago del cuore” | Luigi Anderlini

Hi lovely Earthlings!
Lago di Bracciano, photo by Ivano Pulcini
Here we come to the second episode of Friday is for Poetry.  The poem, “The Lake,” from the collection, A Lake for the Heart, is by Luigi Anderlini, for yours truly’s translation into English.  For you lovers of Italian–and there are many for this handsome language where so much beauty and knowledge is stored–please scroll down to the end and find the original.  The lake Luigi Anderlini was in love with is il lago di Bracciano, in the vicinity of Rome, the capital of Italy where Luigi’s political career brought him.  The moving aspect of the poem is the way the lake is address like a body of water with a soul, with a will of its own, with a soul.  Echoes of Greek mythology where the forces of nature are treated like Titans whose power we humble humans must acknowledge, came to Luigi through his first wife Lidia’s classical education.  You will get more of that as you come to know her through his poems.  Yours truly now leaves you with the poet’s voice.
 
THE LAKE
“Your roar was but a whisper”
Eugenio Montale “Cuttlefish Bones” – “Mediterranean”
If I look at you from the crenels
of the castle above
the overhanging cliffs,
oh lake, you are in my eyes
a little bit of sky studded
in the gradually lowering valleys.
In the spring, a wide green bed grows around you.
Round like the mouth
0f the volcano you were millions of years ago,
your breath is now
light and secret,
an almost evanescent perfume.
I would like to slide
between earth and sky like your gulls
whose pale shadow is left on water
while the impalpable fluff
of time descends from on high.
On your shores today pile-dwellings like
a hundred centuries ago.  And if I appear
in the mist on the surface of your diaphanous waters
time runs backwards
and I am the animal who invents
the warmth of a home
on boards thrust in mud.
Like a vortex, funnel, or goblet
you descend deep in the abyss.
The north wind sweeps you from above.
It infuriates you, pushing you
to get rid of every impurity.
Or the east wind curls you up, mockingly.
Or the west wind flatters you, careful lover.
Amused, you vary your colors from
indigo to pale green.
The same and different always, across time you exist
and challenge it.  You challenge me too,
as in your presence
I am but an unruly, hopeless maggot.
Ploughed by your ferry’s prow
that heaves a huge whisker of water,
scratched by the keels of your boats,
annoyed by the blades of your rows,
you, lake, hang in there
impassible, and perhaps
in your turquoise summer,
enjoy the lavish colors,
the hundreds sails that bring
a festive glory to all your shores.
At night you smile at the moon’s
long, fringed dazzle, and in the dark
your undertow mumbles
its secret disquiet.
I’ve lived next to you for years.
Between the leaves your blue
arrives at my green shelter.  
I can’t see you but I measure your anger
as I listen to your mumble. 
You lay down large mats of water
on the soft, warm sand.
The curls of your wave
hit the cliff and break.
At night, your falling wave’s
deep thud upsets my heart.
I set off at dusk with my “Piaff.”
Cool form the sea, the west wind
blows into the sail.
The water swashes
around the hull. 
The shore becomes an arched sickle behind me.
A hustle and bustle of voices
follow me through the air.
Then nothing but
the wind’s soft blow into the sail,
my trip in the lake’s deep silence. 
The sunset still dazzles,
its light playing between my jib and spanker.
The hills look on in amazement.
The lake is the back of an enormous liquid animal;
The catamaran you catch a glimpse of
is just a tall shadow in the pouring light.
Silently, it ploughs the water without 
breaking the impending silence.
A voice softly pierces the darkening air
to reach you.
The words you hear are
miraculously new. 
“Ciao!  A cheerful ponentino, ha!  You still at it?  Ciao!”
You feel the hulls’ cut,
as you brush against
the other white spanker.
It’s your last rendez-vous, your last greeting
as the sun goes down behind the withered hills.
Among the thick black plants that mark
the boundary between earth and sky
A glimmer still shines.
Like enormous dinosaurs, with bristly backs
the hills chase one another.
Suddenly a yellow blaze goes off
in the shore’s circle.  A billion years’ jump
back into the past.
The foaming lava seethes
on the crater’s edges.
unconquered nature
Imposes its violent law:
“You’re just a twig in my hands”
she claims, “Then as now,
I am the one to assign destinies,
to keep a firm grip
on each and every life.”
A door closes yet again
in the sky’s vault.
The lance of time wins inexorably
and lets me know that on the shores
I see windows and city lights.
Life travels through time
slowly conquering it, raping it,
printing its marks 
everywhere and claiming them
like flags displayed in the sun.
The wind is down and the lights whiten
in the high silence.
I am alone with you,
lake, lord of the night.
The sail hangs flaccid from the mast, the water
is black with shiny tar,
far away are the stars.
It’s the time of wasted expectations
that one does not give up.
One’s frail hopes rise
the enlightenment of a decision is long to come.
Nor does resignation set in
to console one from pain.
One’s imagination is consumed
yet does not give up–the future still flickers.
The hills’ merry go round has stopped now.
Lake, for you it’s time
to rest, lie down, and steal the quiet
of endless dialogs.
Something different is preparing for me: my last
voyage into the dark.  This ultimate return
ashore feels disquieting. 
Now the wind shakes my sale again:
A light breeze that barely blows from the north.
The boat slides quietly.
Soft and persuasive,
my landing ashore is a
delicate incision on the sand. 
Lake Bracciano, Isotopes
 
Il lago
“il tuo rombo non era che un sussurro”
Montale “Ossi di seppia” – “Mediterraneo”
Se ti guardo dai merli
del castello, che sovrasta
a strapiombo la scogliera,
agli occhi miei tu, lago, sei
un po’ di cielo incastonato
nel lento degradare delle valli.
Ti cresce attorno, a primavera, un ampio letto verde.
Tondo come la bocca
del vulcano che fosti milioni di anni fa,
ora il tuo respiro
è lieve e segreto
quasi lo svaporare d’un profumo.
Tra cielo e terra vorrei
infilarmi come i tuoi gabbiani
che lasciano sull’acqua appena un’ombra
mentre scende impalpabile
– dall’alto – la lanugine del tempo.
Oggi sulle tue rive ancora palafitte come
cento secoli fa. E se nella caligine
affioro al pelo dell’acqua tua diafana
precipita il tempo all’indietro
e sono l’animale che congegna
il tepore di casa
sopra gli assi piantati nella melma.
Profondo – a vortice – come un imbuto
o un calice, tu scendi nell’abisso.
Sopra ti spazza tesa
tramontana che t’infuria e ti spinge
a liberarti d’ogni impurità.
O t’arriccia irridente
il tuo grecale o ti lusinga, accorto
amante, il ponentino.
Divertito tu vari i colori, dall’indaco
al verde pallido.
Sempre uguale e diverso, sei nel tempo
e lo sfidi. Sfidi anche me
che al tuo cospetto sono
ma indocile larva senza scampo.
Solcato dalla prua
del tuo battello
– alza grandi baffi d’acqua –
graffiato dalla chiglia
delle barche, infastidito
dalle pale dei remi,
tu, lago, te ne resti
impassibile e magari
d’estate ti godi nel tuo turchese,
lo scialo dei colori,
le cento e cento vele
glorianti a festa tutte le tue sponde.
La notte ridi al barbaglio
lungo e sfrangiato della luna
e la tua risacca borbotta
nel buio segreta inquietudine.
Da anni ormai ti vivo accanto.
Al mio rifugio verde arriva
– tra le foglie – il tuo azzurro.
Non ti vedo ma ascolto
il tuo mormorare, misuro
la tua collera: i grandi
tappeti d’acqua che stendi
nella rena morbida e calda,
l’onda arricciata che precipita
e si frange sulla scogliera
o il tonfo profondo
del flutto che s’abbatte
e che di notte mi annega
il cuore in subbuglio.
Parto al tramonto così il mio “Piaff”.
Nella vela il ponentino
soffia fresco dal mare.
Sciaborda l’acqua a circuire
limpida lo scafo. S’innarca
dietro di me, larga, la falce
della spiaggia: tramestio
di voci che m’inseguono
nell’aria. Poi non resta
che il soffice soffio del vento nella vela,
il viaggio nel silenzio denso e assorto del lago.
Barbaglia ancora il sole che tramonta,
tra randa e fiocco gioca alterna la luce.
Guardano stupefatte le colline.
Il lago è il dorso d’un enorme animale liquido
ed il catamarrano che intravedi
è ancora un’ombra alta nella luce che spiove.
Solca silente l’acqua e non incrina
il silenzio che incombe.
La voce che ti arriva
perfora tenera l’aria che imbruna.
Miracolosamente
nuove sono le parole che ascolti.
“Ciao! Allegro il ponentino! Tu vai ancora? Ciao!”
Avverti il taglio degli scafi,
dolcissimo è il fruscio
dell’alta randa bianca.
È l’ultimo incontro, l’ultimo saluto
cala il sole dietro le colline stecchite.
C’è ancora chiarore
tra le piante fitte che – nere – segnano
il confine tra cielo terra e cielo.
Enormi dinosauri le colline
che – irsuto il dorso – immote si rincorrono.
All’improvviso scatta
nel cerchio delle rive una vampata
gialla. Si torna indietro
di miliardi di anni:
alla lava che schiumando ribolle
ai bordi del cratere,
alla natura indomita
che impone violenta la sua legge:
– “Altro non siete che un fuscello” – dice–
“Nelle mie mani. Allora come oggi.
Sono io che segno i destini,
che ferma mantengo la mia presa
sulla vita di tutti e di ciascuno”.
Ma un’altra porta si chiude
di nuovo nella calotta del cielo.
Inesorabile vince la lancia del tempo
e mi dice che quelle sono luci
lampioni, finestre accese sulle rive.
È vita che viaggia nel tempo
e lenta lo conquista e lo violenta
che stampa le sue impronte
ovunque e le reclama
come grandi bandiere esposte al sole.
Caduto è il vento, altissimo è il silenzio,
si sbiancano le luci.
Sono solo con te
– lago – che sei padrone della notte.
Dall’albero pende flaccida la vela, l’acqua
è nera di catrame lucido,
lontane le stelle.
È questa l’ora delle attese vane,
in cui non ci si rassegna.
Crescono gracili le speranze
e tarda il lume delle decisioni
e la rassegnazione non arriva
a consolarti della pena.
La fantasia si consuma
ma non cede, balugina ancora il futuro.
S’è fermata attorno la giostra
delle colline. Per te – lago – è l’ora
del riposo disteso, della quiete
rubata, dei colloqui senza fine.
Altro per me si prepara: un ultimo
viaggio nel buio, un ritorno inquieto
verso l’approdo estremo.
Ed eccolo il vento che scuote la vela:
soffice, da nord, appena una brezza leggera.
Scivola tacita la barca.
L’approdo è una incisione
morbida e persuasiva,
dolcissima sulla rena.
1996
Did you enjoy the poem?  Let us know!  Yours truly appreciates your attention.  The comments box is open.

The poems will appear every Friday at 11:00 AM.  Come back!  And get your copy of A Lake for the Heart right away!

Stay tuned for more wonders.

Namaste,

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, PhD

Gilf Gaia Extraordinaire
Author of Gaia and the New Politics of Love and many other books
Professor of Humanities

University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez

Join Our Mailing List
 GaiaCoverFullSize  
Follow us in the social media
Poly Planet GAIA Blog: http://polyplanet.blogspot.com/ 
Author’s Page/Lists all books: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JS1VKA 
YouTube Uploaded Videos: http://www.youtube.com/SerenaAnderlini
 

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A Lake for the Heart

http://polyplanet.blogspot.com