POETRY & ITS DOUBLE (La poesia e il suo doppio): Auctor/Actor. Daniela Ripetti and Gerard Malanga

REBIS (Res bis) ovvero LA POESIA E IL SUO DOPPIO

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 evoke 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)