Four poems from Italy by Claudia Piccinno

27 September 2019
Author :  

Claudia Piccinno was born in southern Italy in 1970, but moved very young to northern Italy where she currently lives and teaches in a primary school. Her poems are in more than a hundred anthologies, she is a member of the jury in numerous national and international literary awards. She is the Director of the Poetry Word Festival for Europe. She has received awards in important national and international poetry competitions. Her poem "In blu" is reproduced on a majolica stele on the seafront of Santa Caterina di Nardo (Le). She has also written numerous critical essays or prefaces to the books of other poets.

 

 

The courage of the losers

 

He has big eyes …Ismael

a parched mouth Ikrahm,

a ringing voice Aziz.

They are far from the train of the wind

the English Kindertransport

when the war afflicted Europe.

They are the kids on the way

The innocent eyes of today,

the lambs sacrified to the cross

by land and by sea

those we see parading at the tv news

we the servants of Charon,

we"the civilians"

we hostage of indifference,

victims and possibly accomplices

of a similar addiction..

We are on the edge of the path

crowded with outstretched hands,

we... we are motionless

with our hidden little arms

that do not essay to offer any help.

He has big eyes …Ismael

a parched mouth Ikrahm,

a ringing voice Aziz.

Din of bombs

in their memories,

at the foot sores

chilblains and hands.

The baton of the guards

spares no one,

It is worse than the swing of the tides,

It seems the hunger of sharks.

Poverty, famine, epidemics.

Ismael, Ikrahm, Aziz;

To go, to stay, to come back

The civilized Europe has invented

a deadly device:

the refugee camp

to make us accustom

to the diaspora of the Lambs

to the obtuseness of our minds

to the unmathed courage of the losers.

 

  

Sons of a Minor God

 

Minor God. .

Let's call Him so

Or perhaps despot of the sea

Does it sound better?

Screw sent to the slaughterhouse.

Dreams that cannot swim,

Chained atavistic fears

to his feet pushed deeply

on the accelerator

On the unfair fate

And on the ancient ballast.

The betrayal joined

To poverty and hunger

and it left you orphans

in a hundred

Into a sucked vortex

Of blue-tailed.

Orphan me too

without 900 brothers,

only daughter

of the same God.

 

 

Nawal, the queen of the pier

 

They call her the angel of illegal migrants.

She supervises on the landfall of adults and children.

She warns the coastguard before the storm is raging.

She tells migrants to watch their backs

from those looking for laborers

pretending to be saints.

Nawal is thin and beautiful among all her sisters,

the night helmsmen are afraid of her,

daytime patrons avoid her.

Nawal has a headkerchief on her head

and a very grievous competence.

She feeds and rigs out the brothers of the sea,

urging them not to stumble in evil.

Nawal is tiny and she has the witty expression,

a project in her mind and no fear in her heart.

Nawal is the queen of the pier,

She protects all them by deceit and malice.

 

Dedicated to Nawal Soufi

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHzFJ-5gTHc

 

 

Nerina

 

Nerina rode her bike,

pretending to be in a little hurry.

The shots touched her saddle,

her heart creaked in the trash.

She swallowed messages

and ink many times

in order that the words

were not extracted from her.

She did not like to remember

her fear while running in the barn,

the adrenaline of dissent

shone in her eyes

and euphoria of the revolution

was swinging.

This epitaph Nerina wanted

- I did not do anything special

the strength of emancipation

it must be our habitual courage.-

 

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