weißes werk

il rovescio a parola (lùmina, n.12)*

eppure ti scrivo
parola a venire
t’invito nel tuo futuro
che non porti altrove,
troppo sarebbe averti
per nome

qui sono i giorni
di ogni altra attesa
parola staccata
mutilazione terrestre
escrescenza del tempo
che accosta e compone
le parti, nostre disinteressate
morti di spirito

vera o non vera per poco Read the rest of this entry »

Lettera: Chianale, 21 Febbraio 2015

Caro *,
oggi ho finalmente posto fine ad anni di fatica intorno a un testo. A breve, ne stamperò una bozza da inviarti, perché tu veda quanto impegno sia costato scriverlo, nella speranza sempre di raggiungere, con l’esattezza della forma, un contenuto di “verità”.
Le poesie, raggruppate ora in due sequenze, sono quasi tutti quelle di partenza, con parecchie ricomposizioni interne però e smottamenti da una parte all’altra, o rimozioni di strofe intere.
È un paesaggio carsico, quello che si offre al peso della scrittura, puntellato da ossessioni, scavato in certi punti più che in altri, nella frenetica ostinazione di seguire, attraverso il ventre della montagna, una vena, Read the rest of this entry »

Die Beiden Seiten

Schwachsinn, zu fragen wie es dazu kam. (D.G.)
Berlin and the wall’s death strip on the east side seen through the eyes of a Stasi spy and of a contemporary traveller:
Die Beiden Seiten

Peter Fechter (1944-1962)

August 17, 1962: Peter Fechter was shot while trying to make his bid for freedom. He bled to death in agony right behind the Wall in Zimmerstraße near Checkpoint Charlie.

Walled in, death
by wall and concrete,
neither too tall, nor thick
but an empty zone
open to the appointed
West. The last jump,
the spark long since kept
lit against the spying
of the dark, Read the rest of this entry »

Poem after the waste wall

Most parts of the Wall were pre-fabricated segments, originally designed for other kind of buildings. It was never seen as the wall of a house, though.

An almost invisible thread
had guided crowds for years.
Rushing out from shelters
and bunkers, they gathered
here to eavesdrop winds
and western whispers
behind the wall. The firm
back of the winter’s hand
halted them all before it.
It didn’t upturn the hourglass,
nor did it shake and clean
its clogged throat.
The days were dust,
the dust that was their house.
Now none dares to speak to
those who’ve chosen to forget.
And we all go with them.
Dead men only speak
a language of regret.

November, 1961

As early as November of 1961, skilled and unskilled workers were practically employed around the clock to reinforce the first generation Wall under the command of construction engineers and the guns of guards on duty. There were actually four generations of the Berlin Wall.

Let this wall hide the wall that stands behind
the wall of itself. Feed another stone into
the wall, another word fed into the silence
that walls up the emptied rooms of the dead.
Most of the wall is centered about ourselves:
it’s up to us to believe it falls down in the end
or not.

On foot to Ost-Berlin (from an old guide)

Take the U-Bahn line 6 (direction Tegel-Alt Mariendorf), or the S-Bahn line 3 (direction Wannsee-Friedrichstraße) or the S-Bahn line 2 (direction Lichtenrade-Frohnau). At Kochstraße the conductor will say on the mic: “Kochstraße – letzter Bahnhof in den Westsektoren, letzter Bahnhof in den Westsektoren!”. The train will proceed slowly then under the wall, reducing speed (without stopping) through Stadtmitte and Französische Straße station, that has been closed and kept in half-dark since 13 August 1961. Rdt police officers control the passage of the train until it arrives at Friedrichstraße, the frontier station. The atmosphere is quite unreal there, for it’s unusual to cross an underground frontier to move from one place to another within the same State. You’ll immediately notice the quite impressive coming and going and especially the huge number of old people, retired women and men, who are for one day calling on their relatives living in West Berlin.
All you have to do now is to follow the Grenzübergangstelle and stand in a queue at the Andere Staaten gate waiting for your turn.
Being there no later than 10 o’clock is a good trick not to be standing too long.

13 August 1961

Archie Shepp is blowing through his sax. I’ve been a jazz collector for years and this music leads me to wakefulness. Perhaps too much genius in it? Too much fire in the flame? My nerves go bad or perhaps too good. My childhood home smiles in the background, but I’m sitting up in the plain light and the old map is sharp: Berlin was split. The thick postwar wall was not an implausible invention, not only a death sentence put off, nor did it barely mark the trench between two opposite ideologies. It drew a rough circle around Read the rest of this entry »

capitalism kills

In 1990 a group of artists began squatting in a former department store due to be demolished. Today the squat is in all the guide books, and a constant flow of tourists circulate around the multi-storey building. Errata: Capitalism Kills Art Corrige: Art fulfils Capitalism


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