Lisa Corva

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The trees are coming into leaf like something almost being said.

Friday, 28 March 2014 @08:22

"The trees are coming into leaf
like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
their greenness is a kind of grief"
(Philip Larkin)

A cold spring: the trees still hesitate. But everywhere, the beauty of beginning.

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Tople zvezde padajo na polja. Pomlad. (Warm stars fall in the fields. Spring).

Friday, 21 March 2014 @08:48

"Burja je odprla okno.
Tople zvezde
padajo na polja.
Pomlad.
Pomlad.
Bel obraz je zasijal v sinjini,
svila zašumela
po dolini.
Stekleno nebo
se je razbilo,
nad nami mehki, temni oblaki.
Svila".
(Srečko Kosovel)

The wind has suddenly opened the window. Warm stars fall in the fields. Spring. Spring!

(To remember Trieste and poetry across the borders, on the first day of spring, the words of Kosovel, born in 1904 in Kras, overlooking my beloved Trieste, and who died very young, in his twenties. But the spring stars keep falling).

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In strange towns there is an unknown joy, the cold bliss of a new glance.

Friday, 14 March 2014 @09:43

"In strange towns there is an unknown joy,
the cold bliss of a new glance.
Yellow-plastered tenements where the sun
climbs like a nimble spider
exist, yet not for me. Not for me are the town-hall,
port, jail, and courthouse built.
The sea flows through the town in a salty
tide, sinking cellars and verandas.
At a street market, pyramids of apples
stand for the eternity of one afternoon.
And even suffering isn’t really
mine; a local idiot mumbles
in a foreign tongue, and the despair of a lonely
girl in a café resembles a patch
of canvas in a poorly lit museum.
Huge flags of trees flutter as in familiar places,
and pieces of the same lead-weights
are sewn to the hems of sheets, and to dreams,
and to imagination, which is homeless and wild".
(Adam Zagajewski)

I came back from Poland with a new poem in my iPhone. And the unknown joy of foreign towns. The english version of Zagajewski's poem is by Renata Gorczynski and Benjamin Ivry.

"Nelle città straniere c’è una gioia sconosciuta,
la fredda felicità di un nuovo sguardo.
Gli intonaci gialli delle case, sui quali il sole
si arrampica come un agile ragno, esistono
ma non per me. Non per me furono costruiti
il municipio, il porto, il tribunale, la prigione.
Il mare scorre per la città con una marea
salata e allaga le verande e le cantine.
Al mercato i prismi delle mele, piramidi
che svettano per l’eternità di un pomeriggio.
E pure la sofferenza non è poi così
mia: il matto locale farfuglia
in una lingua straniera, e la disperazione
di una ragazza sola in un caffè è come
il frammento di una tela in un cupo museo.
Le grandi bandiere degli alberi si agitano
al vento così come nei luoghi
a noi noti, e lo stesso piombo fu cucito
negli orli di lenzuola, di sogni,
dell’immaginazione folle e senza casa".
(Adam Zagajewski)
La poesia è tratta da "Dalla vita degli oggetti", Adelphi, e tradotta da Krystyna Jaworski.

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Je suis une femme libre. J’ai étè, donc je sais être, une femme heureuse… Qu’y a-t-il de plus rare au monde?

Friday, 7 March 2014 @08:36

"Je suis une femme libre. J’ai étè, donc je sais être, une femme heureuse… Qu’y a-t-il de plus rare au monde?"
(Françoise Giroud)
Only a free woman can be utterly happy.

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Lisa Corva

Yes, I write. Yes, I believe in the magic of words. That’s why you’ll find me here, every Friday: Lisa “globish”!

I believe in the magic of words, and I believe Piazza Unità in Trieste, where I was born, is the most romantic square in the world. (And yes, it’s in Italy, proudly facing the sea). I love roses in every form. And, of course, I do love my blog, expecially now that I can carry it around on my iPhone.