Seven editions of the National Poetry Competition "City of St. Anastasia "is an important goal and scope, if you think that many such initiatives are born and die soon after. Instead, we have always looked forward with courage, commitment and passion for literature, which has rewarded and encouraged to continue, sometimes not without some difficulty. Our desire and commitment, is to continue in the future, thereby contributing to the cultural and "poetry" of our society and in particular our Vesuvius area, often ill-treated and disfigured. Poetry is a vehicle of civilization, social progress and reaffirmation of ancient, irreplaceable human values.
heartfelt thanks to all those poets, institutions, Friends, collaborators, who have joined this important initiative, believed and supported in every way.
Joseph Vetromile
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SEA IN WINTER
not freeze the snow that fell last night on the roof.
not burn more than the log on the fire. Do not cry
breastfed the child at a time breasts dry.
not swinging the branch of fir in the air that trembles shivers down
Bora.
not be more off-white foam that sea
which bellows for days and carries wrecks
alla spiaggia che amo percorrere a piedi il mattino
cercando i ricordi di un mondo di fossili vite
trascorse, conchiglie svuotate,
bottiglie di vetro col tappo richiuso ma senza messaggi,
dei piccoli pezzi di legno istoriati
da mille tempeste ed erosi dal sale, barattoli vuoti
e forme improbabili e strane di blocchi scavati
di polistirolo. E frange verdastre, diffuse,
di alghe, le chiome di mostri marini.
E piccole boe galleggianti strappate agli ormeggi
in porti lontani e tappi di sughero rossi
e zoccoli in legno spaiati.
Il mare si acquieta al mattino e la schiuma
non lascia più a riva che un debole filo di bava.
Cammino laddove la sabbia bagnata
é più dura e compatta al passaggio dei piedi
che lasciano appena una traccia.
Le vite che passano a turno sul bordo del mare
imprimono segni profondi quel tanto
che il peso di vivere vuole.
Si passa da sempre su spiagge deserte soltanto
per essere certi di vivere ancora.
Poi l'orma si colma pian piano dell'acqua
che il mare trasporta da sempre
col ritmo solenne d'un corpo infinito
che dorme e respira.
E l'acqua che bacia la riva
erode pian piano le tracce di vite trascorse.
La vita immortale del mare che frange
cancella le impronte
di tutte le vite trascorse sull'umida riva.
Di tutto non resta nient'altro
che l'ampia distesa di sabbia, l'immensa
lavagna che porta per poco il disegno di un uomo,
poi tutto ritorna infinito.
Per molti
il gelo di neve sul tetto di casa,
per altri
il fuoco di un ciocco, un seno che allatta
e un brivido lungo di bora.
E il mare d'inverno a mugghiare.
Rodolfo Vettorello, Milano
1° premio Sez. A
Motivazione:
Lirica di ampio spessore filosofico e di alta meditazione esistenziale. Già dall’incipit le scelte lessicali pregnanti, assolute, pomacee, approcciano ad una teologia negativa con un panta rei che conduce ad una stazione di pietrificazione, ad una dialettica di esclusione e di non positività, in cui molti vivono the newspaper without problematization, not noticing that the design of man on the sand, hard and compact, it remains for long.
(Anna Gertrude Pessina)
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CABIN hundred and twenty one hundred twenty
Baracca, a long scream of numbers
dug on the skin and in counterpoint to the echo of the stars in the night
ice.
helpless and broken on the plank
beyond the dark days of the passing of
dropping salt tears to the faces of the furnaces
waiting for an ancestral hatred.
Cabin hundred and twenty, in the evenings
ancora i fumi delle ciminiere
acri tra i corpi stesi nell’orrore
cumuli d’ossa senza dignità
stremati burattini senza fili
snodati e vuoti, soli, abbandonati,
umani non più umani
desiderosi dell’eternità. Tra le mani
giorni che se ne vanno tutti uguali
e rimpianti e preghiere.
Un vecchio figge gli occhi nella gora
ove è costretto a stare a lungo in piedi
per inutili appelli, ripetuti
nella notte più volte e ancora e ancora
in cerca di un’aurora,
che sa che non verrà. La libertà
è sepolta nei ghigni dei guardiani.
Dentro l’animo scuro
il vecchio esala l’ultimo sospiro.
Baracca centoventi, nell’attesa
di una fine pietosa
un respiro angoscioso e niente più.
Tramonteranno i giorni e da laggiù
risorgerà la luna, all’imbrunire,
indifferente…
S’alterneranno uguali altri domani
e giorni e giorni e giorni…
ed altri corpi al gelo seccheranno
o bruceranno ai forni…
Baracca centoventi nel grigiore
sotto un cielo di piombo e senza stelle
un violino stonato in agonia
quasi come d’antica sinfonia
d’una dimenticata giovinezza.
Baracca centoventi adesso vuota
di lai pietosa di speranze vane
only bitter tears on his cheek.
The barking of a dog
announces to all the common fate
illusions stolen ... then death.
Marcello De Santis, Tivoli (Rome)
2nd prize Sec. A
Reason:
Opera high-voltage drama, singing and crying a horror, a incainire that you can not and should not be forgotten. With national narrative desoggettivizzata, the present composition Pussy extermination, soon eased by the notes of a fiddle tune, also in agony as all the camps, cemeteries and property of men who survive the times and seasons, in petrified stillness , static and eternal, as compared to the evolution of history.
(Anna Gertrude Pessina)
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STABAT MATER
Aisha, stoned to 13 years
in Kismayo, Somalia, Oct. 27, 2008
girl who no longer have my memory
crossed the river barefoot
clear stones Sisterhood of the smooth caress step
to your kind sweet
flight to Kismayo.
So I remember you - or at least I think -
held out her arms to balance the ford,
gazelle oblivious to your dream light,
the banks and your fellow silver and laughter.
So my girl I remember you,
it were to rise a day, and you did not know
Golgotha, or fire stations:
blacks demons, evil angel,
violated your flower still immature,
host promised to hatred and imposture;
then made the Your thin reed cross
you driven in the earth.
Oh, my girl exhausted!
Now that the weather, everything is consumed, there remains this
you
your smile on the lips a little 'flushed
(larger and more lost as soon as the eyes);
you that your silence is still there,
blade to mutilate the dreams of fire.
slowly shakes your boss, lost
sore hands, your
mother,
slightly touching your hair frizzy,
gently tied back with clips
purple and carmine.
Umberto Vicaretti, Luco dei Marsi (L'Aquila)
3rd prize Sec. A
Reason:
The call to prayer of the classic "Stabat Mater", we find, however, even in the entire generzioni beautiful music of composers such as Scarlatti, Vivaldi, Pergolesi, Rossini, in this poem is really heard of el'accostamento Madre Dolorosa to the mother's most recent poor girl stoned to Kismayo, Somalia, is full and completely convincing. Like Madonna, even the poor mother of Aisha is grieving, and slowly shaking his head, he lost his hands sore.
It 's a very sweet and touching opera, the strong figures expressed in perfect poetic structure based on a melodious hendecasyllable.
(Giuseppe Vetromile)
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flatus vocis
For Aristide La Rocca, in memory
Next door is lying down at night. He has extensive voice
the lamp
sprays per day for my tired eyes
part of the newspaper in which you discover
dead for two months,
wonderful friend and poet, widely praised.
Now it's your pretty dumb pen
that no more shakes the pure gold of the sun no more
sings the poems generous
c ...... u ...... or ...... R ...... e.
(F ... s ... t ... a ... u ... s ... v ... o ... i ... c ... s ...
breathes simpering
breeze of midnight
sinuous
investing
light shining shield of darkness.)
On the balcony soul bent
follow you, my friend, between the meandering
of heaven and ambushes to your flight,
to delay it with lyrical charms, ancient heart
with it to stay.
But you who have already taken the knapsack
you no longer want to look back.
(F ... s ... t ... a ... u ... s ... v ... o ... i ... c ... s ...
short breath voice
labile verb
slipped on the sea of \u200b\u200btime that does not wave
hanging branches of wind
rides air
precarious in the sun.)
Pasquale Crossbowman, Barano d'Ischia (Na)
Special Jury Prize, sec. A
Reason:
theme of the poem the feeling of esteem and belonging to a departed poet, full of praise and encouragement, while traveling on a path of no return. The lyrics tend to the vague, impalpable, the whisper that is accompanying our good friend, lost contact with the memories of him in the sea of \u200b\u200btime.
(Anna Gertrude Pessina)
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FINAL IN RED
In the village there is the shadow of the hills
unglued and falls for a project that ruins
no hand knows how to discourage.
The seller of the crater
rowan not lures more children languid
faint light from the TV, that enchants
in with obscure signs,
(if you become experts invective
scorticarsi teeth and fists above).
Cupi resentments are consumed on the sofas
remote homes off,
and faces drowned in amazement
bruises disappear, intermittent lightning
in fleeting images, like
oblivion of an abandoned ship
or behind the window soot
a tram obsolete.
I do not know if it is born in this land still dead
hawthorn that dazzles us, but certainly
we all lie down in the hammock
indolent of "don'ts",
with the loop to the heart and eyes in the pockets
encrusted with fear .
Yet there is a destiny that awaits us
practices to store unresolved
while we count all the branches rotti
della disperazione
sospesa dai gerani dei balconi,
tramandando delitto ed innocenza
con lo stesso impalpabile vigore.
E ci aggiriamo come spettri stanchi
in cunicoli di bocche abituate
a sapori malsani, dimentichi da tempo
dell’amore nascosto fatto al buio
di vicoli incrociati.
Quello che si carpiva senza voce
dalle mani tremanti di passione,
quando la luna ancora s’illudeva
piovendo, ignara, pallido splendore
per qualcuno ferito d’altri sogni!
Adolfo Silveto, Boscotrecase (Na)
1° premio Sez. B
Motivazione:
E’ un canto di denuncia, a real balance sheet in red, "this poem from strong tones and melancholy, with which the author regrets the obvious nonsense that now disfigure our world, our civilization, as we all witness indifferent" to the lightning fleeting images "and we lie down" lazy in the hammock of doing. " It 'a reminder to the rescue, an incitement to recover our true humanity? Of course, the poetry, this poem, we recommend it. And with a perfect lyric driven, with immediate and meaningful images.
(Giuseppe Vetromile)
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LAND OF VESUVIUS
and runs toward me
car overheated on the noon,
joints between rails
friend and a wind that caresses your thoughts.
and runs toward me with your
acrid smell of lemons,
clothes hanging in the windows,
dilapidated houses, sun, sea,
gray color palette
in informing the present.
Wailing children, faces harsh
old,
smiles of young girls in flower, accordion
ventures that some agreement.
dry land, sun, clinging to a rock
hope,
yet generous and strong chorus
countries around your menacing volcano
and paternal
at a time.
Land of unsolved problems,
dried lava, lapilli and ash-gray, but ready in
last collected.
Lenio Vallati, Sesto Fiorentino (Fi)
Special Award "Naples Cultural Clessic", Sec. B
Reason:
Poetry inspired by the landscape that runs parallel to meet a train window. Landscape that captures the fleeting flashes in impressionistic portraits: clothes hanging, dilapidated houses, glimpses of the sea, crying children, faces the sunset of old, young at the dawn of life. If attached to a sunny oleography of dry land, there is no doubt that is the land of Mount Vesuvius, land of tears, unresolved issues, but ready to the rescue with the rehabilitation prospects for improvement.
(Anna Gertrude Pessina)
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NIGHT!
At night you know I do?
I open one eye first to see if there are witches in my spying.
that control if I'm actually asleep. But I fall asleep too.
Then I get up on tiptoe, their launch of furtive glances and slipped out the door.
Affero my mp3 player and put my song.
mine.
So at night, I escape into the living room. AND DANCE. Dance from
alone.
On tiptoe, laughing like a child
happy and unaware of his innocence.
not grow.
I do not grow at night. I
at night and gets smaller until it becomes microscopic
slipped away under the door locked,
flight path along all the stairs and go down the street.
walking, running, dancing FLIGHT stumble laugh.
My name has wings forever.
because I have wings so I can reach the stars. And oh, remember.
I'm not grown up.
I never grows NIGHT.
fled to the streets with my striped pajamas and my colored tabs.
Arrive at my star and I'm there to dance like a lunatic.
A small step forward, one step back e. .. I fall from the star power of music.
And only I know how it feels to fall among the stars.
It rocks me to the sea when I land.
Sweet and salty as only he can be.
grabs me with its gentle waves and brings me back up on the beach.
But I realize that in reality
those little grains of sand are all fragments of stars.
so I find myself always between small and luminous celestial bodies.
There's music to keep me company. As always.
And just a blink of an eye and back out my house.
A look at the window of the stairs mute and disturbing, by their light drab,
and the sun peeps out there he is. I greet the stars and return home.
started to rise.
The mirror, however, always gives me a reflection of a girl who dances.
dancing between the stars and looks around.
Mah .. who knows. Maybe someone fall in his hand. She dances
still waiting.
hopeless. The
enough to dance like that. With his drive and his pajamas three times bigger than her.
When the witches return to the room there are alarm clocks that I look severe, shaking his head.
But just a little bit of my starry smile and pointed to the sign that I've got attached to the heart
"I did not grow at night."
And all I can be forgiven.
Erlinda Guide, Frattamaggiore (Na)
1st prize Sec. "Young"
Reason:
I did not grow at night: it is symptomatic but funny statement / observation of the young author of these verses fresh, immediate and genuine. During the night, in fact, she does not want to rework the burdens and oppressions of everyday life, represented by the witches who are there to spy, but he wants to stay in her simple innocent girl and cheerful, always ready to have fun, to dance and to fly between stars, in a dream that would not ever end.
The lyric, simple in its formal structure, but winds through beautiful and very unusual images.
(Giuseppe Vetromile)
-------------------------------------
OVERDOSE
Clear Day on clear glass slides
(cobalt waited and waited round the Moon) and cola
bronze needles from the last soft caress
deadbeat lover.
Melodica splashing water from a shower on the skin:
meets on the stems, kissing on the eyelashes;
s'attorciglia hips; clashes in the valley;
exhausted at last is missing in an embrace in the sea.
Omai is approaching the time ch'anco Zeus chose pe 'his acts:
where heroes were born from wombs mortals.
's it expects from the door of the evening
a gasp of stars emerge from the purple hole. But Luna
turn, scatter long strips
immiste the snowy powder, as it sinks like a needle in the vein
Ocean
I feel the sun now buzzing with asphalt and the wind and walk
rampant seduce young leaves
that allow and deny as virgin
dreamy delusions of cobalt just milked. And I
sniffing the tracks by the Supreme Monte
far Augustus poses, are now possessed. Here is the hibiscus
passenger - of around
frullanti swarms of swallows - the primroses and the learned and untrained
bignòmie
as storks and white geraniums and marigolds mystical dream, the
brugmàsie visionary and a flower without a name. Past
between herbal drugs, I climb the stairs
- twenty steps between the Earth and 'Olympus -
sniffing the eye behind the curtains moonless
and dreaming of a body's eye stalk a vase.
ever entered as a curtain between persuasive
skirts with trampling of nimble hands to unbutton
the flesh, hidden in clothing, slave
now without panting air from the lungs. Geography unknown
your body in the night, one by one account
your shores, leave traces
to return, and roll with figs picked from the woods
would mention the mountains. Lying
then we will make a passage to our hearts hourglass
where every moment will be forever one eternal.
But I'm still out here, and you do not open this port.
A nightingale came cries from the cypress trees and a requiem high rises
- he says - for my son.
The wind break plants, the moon a burka
escon of dark clouds where lightning fast, wears
and his eyes are red and black drops
murderers and strafed the body now that the blood can not talk.
pierces the consonants vowels clash
clearing the double-A chemical miracolo.
tied our bodies will spin off another two from you. "
Zeus pours this Life in the womb or in the brain
or ash body makes this for your lightning. Arise ... Awake
Love! Do not see what a beautiful sun
Liguoro Raffaele, Anastasia (NA)
1st prize Sec. "Local authority"
Reason:
It 'a piece of interesting, well-constructed based on the game of words and verses, with references to mythological and dramatic images and clear, such as in the verse describing the moon concealed by a burqa clouds. The hymn to love is well understood, between the rhymes and the story unfolds in a lyrical crescendo increasingly pronounced, until the final invitation to wake up and revive the Sun
(Giuseppe Vetromile)
