REBIS (Res bis) ovvero LA POESIA E IL SUO DOPPIO
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| Beat72
Poetry must find in the theatre, in a living theatre “its fullest,
clearest, most authentically liberated expression” (A. Artaud)
DANIELA RIPETTI P.
From Alberto Moravia’s preface
to my book of verse Dei trapassati intendimenti (1982):
“The lovely Tuscan boldness knowing no limits of time and
space, appears in your poems and they are immediately modern (or, if you prefer,
post-modern) [...]
In short, you belong to a culture always capable of surprising the fleeting moment, even if then the tradition is on the street corner at the same time that it is rejected and denied […] Perhaps poetry is recognized above all in its ability to stop on the threshold of the speakable; because the poet is naturally induced to speak about himself and if this exploration of the self is to be poetic, it must be discreet. Thus, with discretion you are able to say about yourself:
“But of women
I would be the vestiges
like fleeting gestures
enclosed in myself
and the not finding
leaves us silent
searching alone
through flatteries the
way
to remain in two
desperately unique…”
Elsewhere you don't fear to adopt the unanimous emphasis,
the approach to the political event of the day. I would say that the first
inspiration is not understood without taking the second one into account.
Your way of being "present" and
"civil" explains and justifies the intimacy of poetry when it deals
with private, existential themes. Although, as you say: "Never, it will
never be possible/ through noisy distances of air/ to tell you the bewilderment /
of my room/..."
As a matter of fact, your poems testify to the actuality of poetry
even when it does not try to be current [...]
Through your allusive and dream-like verses, somewhat
similar to certain flashing visions by Campana, one has glimpses of presences
which are at once fascinating and casual recalled with a precise recovery of
the data of the moment.
So whether you tell an anecdote, or record the
unrepeatable moment of a relationship, whether you stop to define a state of
mind, you are able to recall a certain way of existence with colors, words and
accents that are not of all times and every day, but of those times and those
days there.” (August 1982)
From Nino Maiellaro review to Dei trapassati intendimenti in Spirali, N. 65,
July-August, 1984:
"[...] On the poetry
of Daniela Ripetti, it must be said that she comes from a long experience of "performer" in which the gesture and the scene are essential parts. Her poetry is of
a metaphysical sign rather than a real one, interwoven with chromatic vocality,
theatrical sounds and echoes, in which the language is very tight, very
essential, reluctant to grant more than the requirements of the written page. A
poetry that from the score finds all the possible solicitations for acting, but
does not adapt it to the voice, does not inflate it, let the text be born
before the voice, that the sign precede the sound, so that the page continues
to exist when the lights of the show will be turned off [...]
From Altiplano, Issue 4; Issues 7-9. Mexico (Mexico:State). Direccion de Patrimonio Culturale, 1985:
“The Eternity of the ephemeral is
established in her poetry [...] Her verses move in the sea of everyday life and
there it is precisely their charm: out of nowhere that is the whole, the text rises
[...]”
My Fair Friends (Moonlike Pierrots)
“Fair is foul and foul is fair”.
(From Macbeth
by W. Shakespeare)
Why yes (why, yes – why, yes)
my fair friends are those fairy moon-like Pierrots
mimes of long ago
who jerk their glances and eye the weeping
of my crying – they are
the stars stabbed, all,
by magic pinpricks –
they are butterflies
of a spiteful
taxidermist
still alive
perchance...
they are sons of
cursed cases
sons of unborn
children
whose soul pervades
ages of intimacy,
they are dewdrops
sullied
by a dirty torrent
water
they are what time
takes away
in shadows and riddles…
ANNUNCIATION 1981
Bobby,
with your clear eyes
you have certainly seen
the obscure clarity of life…
and as you slowly,
gently,
you are passing away
in the bloodless yard
roses turn pale
while in the room lingers
the incompleteness of nostalgia.
No more touched than others
you are by perfection,
nobody will be granted here
the ultimate knowledge
but your eyes are perfectly clear
and become clearer
in this last waiting…
We are caught now
by one dismay
a common dismay
our hopes sway
like leaves
and like wavering leaves
float frail and mysterious
at the fury of the wind
they will find a way.
DEI TRAPASSATI INCANTAMENTI **
Non c’è qui
in nessun posto
un posto,
dove le nostre
contese
dove il falso e il
vero
i nostri Dei
cessino, con la morte
e tutto torni
a nuove nozze e a
ritroso
a sposarci
all’aurora.
Ché così fummo andati
prima di dire sì
ininterrotti…
Rasoterra è il nostro
cielo
più alto e all’idea
di
guardarlo...all’idea
di toccarlo
già ci perdiamo.
 GERARD MALANGA
Fine poet &
friend
"Gerard Malanga is a fine poet among his peers writing in America today,
one of the innovators of an avant guard new wave style now & for the
future." Allen Ginsberg
"The poet, filmmaker, photographer Gerard Malanga kindly gave me a
slot before him, my first poetry reading. Gerard was a major creative force at
Andy Warhol’s Factory assisting in every phase of Andy’s diverse processes. He
developed Screen Tests with Warhol, and was a founder of Interview Magazine.
Possessing energy, vision and generosity, he continues his work. Thank you for
giving a rambunctious young poet her start so long ago." Patti
Smith
Gerard Malanga has “revolutionized the image of the
poet so that he is no longer only a man of words, but also multimedia artist,
dancer, model and at home in the world of the stars." Gottfried Distl,
Austrian writer & multimedia artist.
See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerard_Malanga
https://www.instagram.com/p/C0FJiHZRQAk/
Poet to Poet *
Daniela Ripetti, Italian poet
Sweet Daniela,
I
have never been more sure than now whom I am addressing
at
this very moment of my aloneness
when
I put down my glasses to give my eyes a rest,
and
my soul, too, needs resting.
My
slumbers, my dreams enfolding me,
or
whatever it is that gets me through the day,
pausing
& gazing & stopping momentarily.
The
list is sometimes long and appears getting longer.
And
for a moment it's of no importanza.
I
need rest.
The
warmth of my feline buddy Xena beside me in her cat-nap breathing quietly
with
the fan blowing set on Medium.
She
just turned 13
and
always getting into so much mischief
as
her curiosity allows her.
She
remains trusting and I learn from her.
And
trust is what strengthens these friendships through Time
and
yet 50 years and a vast ocean separating us.
We've
not the answers to these complexities, these geographies,
these
"separate realities."
Why am
I telling you this?
Do
my days mirror yours?
We
go about our chores
&
our errands and we seek a place of respite, a café, a waterfront trattoria,
stretch
out our legs
and
we drift off into momentary flashes,
like
who or what we are
with
the ghosts of yesteryear
and
further on a crease of light appears
with
its solemnity, it's hoped-for wishes, my winter midnight alas.
I
am dazzled by life's ferris wheel wonders, the miracoloso.
The
deepest layers of experience,
the
holy places of my imagination. The whispering wind
and
distant thunder echoing clashing,
whose voices I still know.
Pier Paolo Pasolini
He
barely spoke Americano. A nod or two, an
exchange of smiles
on a
summer's day, though it hadn't yet been spring,
though
it felt like spring.
Those
noonday walks through the Campo dei Fiori's reflecting lights. Those pools of light.
Rome
was at its best.
I had
deep pockets reaching down to nothing.
I had
dreams that remained unthwarted.
Each
poem a morsel to the next & to the next.
I was blessed.
Pier
Paolo, you gave hope where none existed barely.
You
encouraged, you prodded me to do more.
"Poems
are for everyone," you said.
"Tutto questo tempo..."
The
past, the present merging into one. The
future also.
"You
are blessed with words," speaking with his eyes.
Hands
gripping hands. The honking traffic
swirling round us. Pier Paolo Pasolini (English) Parlava a malapena americano. Un cenno o due, uno scambio di sorrisi in
una giornata d’estate, anche se non era ancora
primavera, anche se sembrava primavera.
Quelle passeggiate di
mezzogiorno attraverso le luci riflesse
di Campo dei Fiori. Quelle pozze di luce. Roma
era al suo meglio. Io avevo tasche profonde che
arrivavano al nulla. Avevo sogni che rimanevano irrealizzati.
Ogni poesia un boccone per quella
successiva e per quella successiva. Ero benedetto. Pier Paolo, tu mi hai dato la speranza dove quasi non esisteva. Mi hai incoraggiato, mi hai
spronato a fare di più. “Le poesie sono per tutti,” dicesti.
“Tutto questo tempo…” Il passato, il presente che
si fondono in uno. Ed anche il futuro. “Sei benedetto con le
parole,” parlando con gli occhi. Mani che stringono mani. I clacson del traffico turbinanti intorno.
Elsa's History
A man
who has not been to Italy is always conscious
of an
inferiority,
from
his not having seen what is expected...
so
wrote Samuel Johnson, to being in Venice when it snows,
as
Elsa Morante... Elsa impressed upon me
at
her flat in the via dell’Oca
as we
prepared to head out to lunch—
a
date largely forgotten, not recorded,
though
I can pinpoint being '67 early November...
or
was it December? Oops. I'd just gotten over the flu,
poor
as a church mouse
and
as we were still undecided
between
the kosher trattoria
or
meeting Ingeborg Bachmann at
Bolognese
just
a few meters away was no big deal.
Meanwhile,
Elsa's two female cats were vying for the one big leap
into
my lap. It had snowed heavily,
but
now Piazza del Popolo was on the cusp of returning to life
and
the cool moist air from outside was fogging the windows.
Time
to go out!
I'd
never put two and two together with Elsa's Type 2 diabetes
and
the newspaper held close to her face as if far-sighted
and
today was no different,
and Ingeborg...
well, she was late as usual. La storia di Elsa.
Chi
non è mai stato in Italia è
sempre consapevole di una certa inferiorità, per
non aver visto ciò che ci si aspetta… così
scriveva Samuel Johnson, dell’essere a Venezia quando
nevica, come Elsa Morante… Elsa
mi colpì nel suo appartamento in via dell’Oca mentre
ci preparavamo ad uscire per pranzo- un
appuntamento in gran parte dimenticato, non registrato, anche
se posso ricordare essere il '67 inizio novembre… o
era dicembre? Ops. Mi
ero appena ripreso dall’influenza, povero come un topo di chiesa e
mentre eravamo ancora indecisi tra la trattoria kosher o
incontrare Ingeborg Bachmann al Bolognese a pochi metri di distanza non
era un gran problema. Nel
frattempo, le due gatte di Elsa si contendevano il grande salto nel
mio grembo. Aveva nevicato tanto, ma ora Piazza del Popolo era
sul punto di tornare alla vita e l’aria fresca e umida dall’esterno annebbiava
le finestre. Tempo
di uscire! Non avevo mai messo insieme i due e due con
il diabete di tipo 2 di Elsa e il giornale messo vicino al viso come se fosse
ipermetrope e adesso non era diverso, e
Ingeborg… beh,
era in ritardo come al solito.
*Poeta a poeta
Daniela
Ripetti, poetessa italiana
(Italian translation)
Dolce
Daniela,
non sono mai stato più sicuro di ora a chi mi
sto rivolgendo
proprio
in questo momento della mia solitudine
quando
poso gli occhiali per riposare gli occhi
e anche
la mia anima ha bisogno di riposo.
Assopimenti
e sogni mi avvolgono,
o
qualunque cosa mi faccia passare la giornata,
fare una
pausa e soffermarmi a guardare… per un momento.
L’elenco
a volte è lungo e sembra allungarsi.
E per
adesso non ha importanza.
Ho bisogno
di riposo.
Vicino a me il calore
della mia amica felina Xena che respira tranquilla
nel suo
sonnellino, mentre il ventilatore soffia un moderato vento…
Ha appena
compiuto 13 anni
e combina
sempre qualche guaio,
spinta
dalla sua curiosità.
Rimane fiduciosa
ed io imparo da lei.
E la
fiducia è ciò che rafforza queste amicizie nel Tempo
Eppure 50
anni e un vasto oceano ci separa.
Non
abbiamo risposte a queste complessità, a queste geografie,
a queste
“realtà separate.”
Perché ti sto dicendo questo?
I miei
giorni rispecchiano i tuoi?
Sbrighiamo
le nostre faccende
e le
nostre commissioni e cerchiamo un luogo di tregua, una caffetteria,
una
trattoria lungomare,
allunghiamo
le gambe
e ci
lasciamo andare in passeggeri attimi
secondo chi
o che cosa siamo
con i
fantasmi di un tempo
e più
avanti appare una piega di luce
con la
sua solennità, i desideri sperati, ahimè la mia mezzanotte invernale.
Sono
abbagliato dalle meraviglie della ruota panoramica della vita, il miracoloso.
Gli
strati più profondi dell’esperienza,
i luoghi
santi della mia immaginazione. Il sussurro del vento
e un
tuono distante echeggiante lo scontro,
di cui conosco ancora la voce. ** Bygone enchantments There is
not in any place,
a place,
where our
conflicts
where the
false and the true
our Gods, cease
with death
and
everything returns to a new
beginning
to marry
the dawn...
For thus, we pass away
before saying an uninterrupted "Yes"
Ground
level is our highest heaven
and at
the idea of looking at it
at the
idea of touching it
we are already lost...
(1979) |
