♦ Pasquale Di Lena (Cliccare sulle parole in carattere blu)
Chi è - Who's who
The poems of Pasquale Di Lena
Italian literature
Italian literature, as Gianfranco Contini reminded us, is the only great national literature in which dialect constitutes an integral and indispensable component. This profound truth, too often forgotten in the past or obscured by the persistent prejudice that viewed dialect as an inadequate and “inferior” means of expression, has gained firm recognition in recent decades. This is largely due to the unexpected and remarkably rich flourishing of dialect poetry, which undoubtedly represents one of the most significant and distinctive phenomena in Italian literature during the second half of the twentieth century.
This revival has also rekindled the debate over the very concept of dialect literature, supported by an unprecedented proliferation of symposia, studies, discussions, books, specialized journals, interviews, and critical reflections. For the first time in the history of Italian letters, dialect poetry—now fully legitimized by literary criticism—has been able to compete directly with poetry written in standard Italian, making increasingly significant inroads into major publishing houses and, above all, attracting the growing attention of both readers and critics.
At the same time, dialect poetry has revealed itself to be the repository of rich private and collective themes that transcend purely literary concerns and engage broader fields such as anthropology, psycholinguistics, psychology, sociology, and semiotics.
There are many reasons why so many Italian poets have turned to dialect rather than standard Italian as their preferred medium of expression. These reasons carry literary, psychological, political, existential, and anthropological implications that are both far-reaching and deeply rooted. Contemporary dialect poetry forms part of a broader reaction against the alienating effects of post-war industrial society, a reaction that has entailed the rehabilitation of ethnic history and collective memory, as well as the recovery of personal history and individual roots—dimensions that the impersonal language of the mass media is often unable either to recognize or to convey.
This process also involves the rediscovery of one’s native place—the place of origin—as an alternative to a monotonous, homogenizing, and often meaningless reality.
The poetry of Pasquale Di Lena, direct and forthright, balanced between ironic detachment and moral commitment, belongs to a noteworthy Molisan literary tradition, one that stands comparison, at the national level, with the most significant regional literary traditions of Italy.
THE THOUGHT
The thought
The thought you don't want to think
is a fly
that makes you jump
It buzzes around you
it settles on your forehead
behind the neck
the more you drive it away
the more it pesters you
Whirring louder and louder
first it plunges in your eye
then in your ear
and when you try to catch it
you miss the mark
You end up slapping yourself
like a jerk
for a fly
that keeps right on flying.
1983
A DAY
A day, what's a day?
a few minutes made of so many minutes
a night fallen asleep
the sun shining through
or the song of a rooster that goes cock-a-doodle-doo?
It's nothing compared to so many days
it's a lot compared to a moment
It's a side-splitting laughter
a mass of thoughts and feelings
It's a woven thread
made of memories and hopes
different for those who want to change it
from those who think only of their belly
A day is also the night.
that you get used to death.
BEAUTIFUL
Beautiful,
eyes that resemble the sea
a coral-hued mouth
a nose that crinkles when you laugh
Beautiful
as the word you hold most dear
the morning light
the thoughts that cross the heart
of the lover who cherishes you
A butterfly
that takes to the air and alights
and pairs off and breaks away
A rose
that peeps out of a thornbush
and teases the sun
A sparrow
that hides on a branch
singing his heart out
A pigeon
that stares at you one-eyed
and puffs up his chest
A colt
that runs and kicks
so you can't catch him
A blade of grass
that bends at each gust
but only the sun can wilt it
LIFE
Every instant is a thought.
To be understood
to be able to eat
to learn how to walk
to feel you're dying
and to know others
And cling tight
for fear
of losing mother and father
The fear of making a mistake
the guilt of a gamble
To feel the first yearnings
like an apple to pick
The heart that races
the fear of going crazy
To settle down
the revelation
An old world
made by others
To be with your children
the yearning to make it
the responsibility
To look at the past
to see yourself alone
Not understanding
to feel yourself dying
Death always behind the door
the doorbell rings
and gives you a start
to accompany
you for the rest of your life
without anguish
if you made it your friend.
THE DRUNK
Someone on a bender
can be seen from far off
he walks with his head bowed
his arms a little wide
his legs spread out
For him the road is always crooked
reeling from side to side
You think he'll fall but he won't
Now and then he lifts his head
as if to catch his breath
He is a man alone
who befriended a glass
to forget his cares
As soon as he sees you he starts talking
very quietly at first, then louder
going back and forth
repeating himself
1978
THE SUN AND THE MOON
This weather
is really too much.
you grab the sun with one hand
with the other the moon
to put them one opposite the other
by themselves face to face.
The one pales
and the other blushes.
I feel them trembling
the classic shivering
of someone who's done something not at all nice
I force them closer
to accustom them to look into each other's eyes
and they, while sniffing each other,
shut them
Then I lose my head
I push their noses together
and they quickly take advantage of it
for the longest, sweetest kiss.
There is no way to pull them apart
I give up exhausted
before those two happy faces
finding myself with one hand warm
the other cold as ice.
1978
I'D LIKE TO BECOME MAYOR
I'd like to become mayor
to build a monument to the pig
Yes the pig
the animal that sacrifices his life
so people can liv
The pig doesn't know old age
because he lives barely a year
he doesn't have time to get attached
to the owner
who any moment now
will do him in
He wastes nothing
because he eats everything and gives back everything
feeding hunger
He is a holy animal
that knows only how to give
fat and lard,
bacon,
dried gut,
sausages, gorge
the shoulder, the ham, the salame
the sopressata, the bristles, the ventrecine
blood pudding, the magnarine²
It fed you, and while it fed you
you felt happy
He was the king of the house
before and after he had lived
that's why there should be
everywhere
a monument
with a curly tail
a mouth slightly open
with the snout raised
as if to tell you
with his rurù rurù
you’re the one, yes you
MY TOWN
lies in a ditch
on a handful of earth
and looks like a ship
Mountains around, Montarone and Mont'Arcano
split open by the valley
furrowed by the Biferno
All nature is full of sweetness
like the blood of the people
who have distant origins
like the green of the olives
that watches Tremiti Islands,
the sea.
The Larinese without olives
is a sad person
filled with memories and longings.
My town
from up on the bridge all the way down
from the Caselle to Seleciato,
from the drinking-trough down to the prison,
Cluenzie Street, the Square, Leone Street
where sleep has no worries
the bird doesn't sing for himself
but for his song;
every dish can be fixed with olive oil
and the donkey is still braying.
Where every cobblestoned alley has a different breath
like people's thoughts.
Ancient hidden treasures
others that are not exploited
or are put away.
My Town
where heat and cold
are seasonal fruits
like the north wind and west wind,
it seems a baby in its cradle,
rocked by olive trees and acacias,
oaks, fig trees and a few elms.
AS CLEAR AS MUD
As clear as mud
To understand so as not to understand
not to understand so as to understand
to understand from not understanding
not to understand you understand.
To understand
not to understand
to pretend to understand
or not to understand
Like the psycho who doesn't want to go to war
or the deaf man who isn't deaf.
But how many psychos and how many deaf men
in this world of cunning
where everything is as clear as mud.
THE SUIT MORE
A suit
can fit tight
or loose.
In any case you can't say
that you can't fit in it.
If it's tight hold your breath,
if loose breathe in.
You have to adapt
to make it fit to a tee,
otherwise: either your pants will fall down
or the bottom will rip.
IN A DREAM
The other day I saw you
as in a dream.
You were running toward me
with smiling eyes,
your face flushed with happiness,
your loose hair blown by the wind.
You looked like an unbridled colt
Standing still like an idiot
I watched you and didn't understand
as you ran with outstretched arms
and pounding heart.
You ran, you ran and ran
without ever arriving.
Tired of waiting I said:
I'd better leave.
NEXT TO THE FIREPLACE
I really think a lot about old age,
I don't know if it's bad or good,
it's a fact though that old age
exists, and it should be understood.
No one knows whether he'll live or die
death doesn't knock, it just creeps in
anyway everyone hopes the heart gets by
and prepares for death in many small leaps.
But that's not the way things are today,
everyone shoots all the ammunition he can bring
anyway, my destiny is to die he says-,
then it's better to live a moment like a king.
In short you're content with a nice flame
that not only has no fire and cannot warm you,
but it burns you, it blinds you, it inflames you
with the cold that takes the place of warmth.
It's certainly not easy to start a decent fire:
first the log, then kindling, twigs and brushwood.
Once it starts to catch it can turn into a pyre.
You see the flame, you feel the heat, it's really good.
When the flame dies the fire is out again,
the log has turned to cinder
that you tease with the poker now and then.
Under the ashes there are always embers.
Around the fire you get to know the past
and have tomorrow all set,
you learn to distinguish a little from a lot,
you don't sit on your hands, there is always something to do
you understand that there isn't just today, but old age too.
THE LITTLE HOUSE OF SAND
I remember as a child to the sea
I used to build houses with sand
and put my heart in it.
I looked at them over and over
and felt I was really good at it.
I'd walk around them several times
to see if there was anything missing:
a door, a window, a little street.
Then they would change color
as the water dried up
and little by little the wind
would snatch a piece away.
At first I would run to patch it up
but then I saw it was all crumbling,
and so I would give them a kick and demolish them.
Angry tears would come down
and everything seemed an ill omen.
Growing up I've come to understand
that a house needs foundations to stand
if you don't want to see it disappear in a second,
how then can you build it on sand,
where everything lasts but an instant.
THE OWL
As a boy they taught me
to be afraid (among so many things to fear)
of the owl, bird of ill-omen.
"Who knows who he's hooting for"
said the women, crossing themselves.
He was the lord of the night,
and if he sang and cried nobody knew.
In houses full of children
misfortunes are nothing new:
poverty, hunger, by God's will,
now a death, now someone ill,
now an accident at work,
now a family thrown into the street.
Always the bird of ill-omen's fault,
that never missed,
wherever he looked he hit the mark.
People cried, tore out their hair,
they screamed and then started over.
World never changing for the hopes
that never reached heaven
because of the owl that hooted.
SUMMER NIGHT
During the few hours summer nights have
I enjoy going out into the street
to breathe the fresh air
to hear the town sleep its ancient sleep,
where scops owls and crickets answer
in time, with a hoot owl that sings,
the cat that miaows, the dog that barks.
The drunk looking for company is talking to himself.
You can hear snoring from an open window,
a trickle of water makes a cheerful sound,
the bell tolls every quarter of an hour.
Every step you take echoes in the street.
The air is still, hot and unbearable,
and after a while you reach the Bridge
where it's a little cooler for the breeze
that brings a smell of open fields.
Even when asleep life has a sense
with rest that lets you gain your strength,
with a dream you have that makes you live
with a light thought for so many things
like the one, lovely, of Annarosa' a kiss.
THE MOTHER
The mother
Do you understand, daughter?
You have to learn to clean the house,
make soup
and sew,
wash and iron clothes,
do the shopping and save.
To know who the children are
when they are big and when they
are small,
the way to make a man happy,
always full of worries,
of cares,
dead tired from work at home he looks
for rest and comfort.
Before I forget,
it's very important to know how to clean vegetables.
When you feel like talking, listen to me: sing
if you want people to say you're a nice girl,
a good wife, a virtuous mother,
what they call a woman
yes, a real woman
a woman of gold,
a woman.
THE DAUGHTER
The daughter
Maa... Maaaaaaa!
I can't live with you any more,
the same old story day and night
yap, yap, yap:
a nail, a torture.
You've been a servant
and want me to be a servant too.
Always with the apron on my lap,
with my head down
never a word, quietly
on my knees before a man.
To shed my tears in silence
ready to say yes
to forgive and console,
without thoughts or pain,
weariness as happiness
to find myself old and tired
without knowing why I've lived.
No ma, no,
no way, forget it,
because I'm here too
and I too want to live
with a man who has to respect me.
THROW-AWAY
throw-away
you make besard
Who in the world can understand it
as soon as you get something you throw it away,
a thought passes as soon as it comes your way,
constancy is a rare virtue.
The rule is to keep on changing.
Is the suit new? It's thrown out too,
and so is the refrigerator, the bed,
the car, the radio, the television
to buy another one and then
throw it away again.
Life has become a garbage heap
where one can barely find company
one throws away mother, father and friend,
casually, only to follow a trend.
And so one company for another company,
one friendship for another friendship,
children, brother, sister and whoever else may be.
These are terrible times
a real curse
that make people sad
in search of worries.
The stench slips inside you
it clouds your head like heavy sleep
and almost no one has sentiments,
vocation, principles any longer.
Only the glutton and the swindler
are laughing it up.
The blind speak to the deaf
and the deaf teach the blind.
They all get mad
and curse St. Anthony
instead of talking they bark
and you slowly lose all desire.
The remedy is to look around
with your eyes open wide
your ears picking every sound
and to stay awake night and day
so as not to go back, but forward
so you won't hear them say
"Some live, some die"
or "those were the times!"
With garbage you make manure
with manure you enrich the soil,
with a rich soil you make bread,
with bread you live without hunger,
without hunger you eat,
with thoughts you can grow,
by growing you get strong
so nothing's thrown out
but everything is used, enjoyed
and is also felt.
To feel means to live
to live without getting drunk,
to chat with a hug,
to sing holding each other
without knowing who's on top
or who's tumbled under.
Florence 1974
HEART POUNDING
As soon as I see you
my heart starts to pound
I almost can't believe
that this can be love.
And fortunately even if it accelerates
the beats are regular
like a damned machine.
To keep it this way
I'll need a jar of blood
a ton of madness
and a vat of time.
But what! you still don't see?
Then it can't be
this way it's all over
and I'll put it to rest.
But on one thing I have to be clear:
if the deaf man is deaf
or just turns a deaf ear
playing smart.
Is he deaf? Pity the man.
Is he smart? Pity the sucker.
Pound, my heart, because it's spring
over the roofs the swallows are flying
the day is warm and cool is the evening
and you sing at the top of your voice.
THE BREATH OF SO MANY PEOPLE
Cold in winter
heat in summer
one on top of the other
never enough to eat
always hungry.
Around the fireplace, the flame,
with roasted fava or ceci beans
with the fire-shovel and bellows
always teasing the brand
tic-tic-tac like a game.
With the pot babbling, my grandfather
telling stories
and the fire crackling.
You'd get burned in front
and freeze behind.
Childblain and heat spots,
in the cold bed
that the warmer didn't warm
and the brick or bottle burned you
the chilled sheets embraced you.
The only warmth was the breath of so many people.
In the summer open doors
the jug with cool water
your head shaved, chatting
barefoot outside the door
a blanket on the ground
and a great hunger to breathe.
THE HEN LAID AN EGG
The hen laid an egg,
and the rooster crowed
that's how it goes someone does something
and someone else takes credit for it.
When I hear me, me,
you can be sure he didn't lay an egg
but he believes that the egg is his.
There is too much crowing
and that's why the jackass brays,
digs his heels in or gets mad
and if he walks, while walking
he finishes the hay.