#poeth

compagna e ospite del corpo,

ora t’appresti a scendere in luoghi

incolori, ardui e spogli,

ove non avrai più gli svaghi consueti…

And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed

Like a waste garden, flowering at its will

With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed

Black and unruffled; there were white lilies

A few, and crocuses, and violets

Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries

Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets

Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.

And there were curious flowers, before unknown,

Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades

Of Nature's willful moods; and here a one

That had drunk in the transitory tone

Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades

Of grass that in an hundred springs had been

Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars,

And watered with the scented dew long cupped

In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen

Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars

The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt,

A grey stone wall. o'ergrown with velvet moss

Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed

To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair.

And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across

The garden came a youth; one hand he raised

To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair

Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore

A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes

Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,

White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,

Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes

A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.

And he came near me, with his lips uncurled

And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,

And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend,

Come I will show thee shadows of the world

And images of life. See from the South

Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.'

And lo! within the garden of my dream

I saw two walking on a shining plain

Of golden light. The one did joyous seem

And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain

Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids

And joyous love of comely girl and boy,

His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades

Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy;

And in his hand he held an ivory lute

With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair,

And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute,

And round his neck three chains of roses were.

But he that was his comrade walked aside;

He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes

Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide

With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs

That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white

Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red

Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight,

And yet again unclenched, and his head

Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death.

A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold

With the device of a great snake, whose breath

Was fiery flame: which when I did behold

I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth,

Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove

These pleasent realms? I pray thee speak me sooth

What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.'

Then straight the first did turn himself to me

And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame,

But I am Love, and I was wont to be

Alone in this fair garden, till he came

Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill

The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'

Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will,

I am the love that dare not speak its name.’

Siocled Poeth wedi'i Rewi Serendipity

Mae siocled poeth wedi'i rewi Serendipity yn ddysgl lofnod yn y Serendipity 3, yn swatio yng nghanol ochr ddwyreiniol uchaf Efrog Newydd. Mae'r lle yn siop a bwyty cyffredinol wedi'i gyfuno â ffynnon coffi a soda ac mae'n gwasanaethu'r pwdin enwocaf yn Efrog Newydd.

Sefydlwyd Serendipity Efrog Newydd gan Stephen Bruce a'i ddau bartner, Calvin Holt a Preston "Patch" Caradine ym 1954. Ers yr amser…

Cosa fai: cerco di comunicare – ascolto – osservo – poi riverso sugli altri quella che credo sia la realtà delle cose che vedo,  almeno una sua possibile interpretazione  in un’immagine – racconto attimi, intuizioni, momenti sospesi. Per certi aspetti facendo radio e facendo poesia mi è sempre sembrato di fare la stessa cosa. “Glimpses”, come dicono gli inglesi. Memorie, illuminazioni.

Sono alla ricerca del dialogo, del comunicare me stesso non per narcisismo ma per confronto. Ho iniziato a farlo scrivendo, si può dire che tutto è partito da li.

Il giornalismo è venuto dopo, anche se mi piace dire di essere prima di tutto un radiofonico e poi un giornalista. Questo perché la radio fa parte della mia infanzia: con mio padre, la sera, .  Era un rito. IL nostro “radio day”: ascoltavamo le notizie e i primi esperimenti di programmi con le telefonate degli ascoltatori, già dal 1968 più o meno.  Ho fatto il 68 così, ascoltando il mondo che ribolliva, e gracchiava da una radio, a 4 anni Per me la radio, l’oggetto fisico , era affascinantissimo: si illuminava, aveva dietro le scritte “Berlino”, “Tokyo”, “Parigi”, ma non sapevo quasi nulla  se no n che fossero città lontane. Non esisteva la modulazione di frequenza e dunque arrivavano storie di paesi lontani, si faceva un grande esercizio d’immaginazione e di ascolto. Non avevo un Salgari da leggere, avevo una radio con le manopole e il vetro illuminato e i nomi di luoghi lontani da guardare ..

In sostanza sono sempre stato uno che parlava poco e ascoltava molto: oggi per me fare radio significa allo stesso tempo dialogare con il mondo e mantenere una mia dimensione intima.

EDGAR ALLAN POE