Meeting Benches World art in all forms
He began to write poetry since he was very young, when he was no more than seven years. In ’28 Attilio Bertolucci collaborated in the Gazzetta di Parma. He is born on November day, 1911 near Parma. In ’31 he enrolled at the Faculty of Law in Parma. In ’33 was a lifelong companion, Ninetta Giovanardi, and he published the intense and beautiful Fireworks in November. On March day of ‘41 was born the son Bernardo (who will become the great Director that we know). In ’93, a new collection of poems, Toward the headwaters of the Circle. In ‘97 he released the Meridiano Mondadori of his works, edited by Paolo Lagazzi and Gabriella Palli Baroni. The great poet went off on June day, 2000.
STREAM – Bubbly, cold, flowery water from the streams, enchantment you give me, that most beautiful never met. Your noise makes me deaf, born echoes in my heart. Where am I? Among large rusty boulders, trees, forests covered by shady paths? The sun makes me a little sweat, color me with gold. Oh, this quiet noise, this loneliness. And that mill you see and not see, between the chestnut trees, abandoned. I feel tired, happy as a cloud or a wet tree.
GULLS – I had never seen gulls on the banks of the Tiber, changing in this end of winter pens and water. I was leaning against the granite, as do those who watch over their life or death, using an intent patience, but my eyes distracted followed the glide of robbery bird leaden-silver, until they were sated bellies tapered, beaks already shining on other waves, at a different sun. For the inevitable progress of time, my tired eyes and even voracious, now times on the movable emporium of the populous streets of Rome, to look desperate hour of hypoglycemia, of a sudden food, only known to me, in a joyful and sterile revelation, shadows bloody light, from attics and eaves meridians, fumigando the hills the green branches of pruning up to darken the pitiful sky back.
LOVE – The moon crowned with daisies, laughs in the blurred eyes sick, silver deer joke in the clearings of the sky. The flowers are stained with blood. Oh, far, far away, on this night, like a ship with its sails in the dark sea. But soon the dry time and melodious poppies, and you will be returned already a woman. The snow. How heavy snow on these branches, as the years weigh on the shoulders you love. Winter is the most loving season.
https://www.amazon.it/Selected-Poems-Attilio-Bertolucci/dp/1852242426
