from Issue #2: Poetry by Paolo Fabrizio Iacuzzi (I)

Photo (CC) Anthony Quintano @ Flickr

Photo (CC) Anthony Quintano @ Flickr

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“Patricidio a New York” (“Parricide in New York”) was translated from Italian into English by Theodore Ell. Scroll down to read the poem in both languages.

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Patricidio a New York

Io non so cosa cadde quel giorno dalle Torri Gemelle
dentro me. Avevo appena ricevuto i risultati e quando
caddero le Torri ero già caduto nelle cartelle delle analisi.
Così seppi che c’era oltre di me un altro che cadeva
cadeva come i coriandoli a Carnevale. Da un carro
altissimo. Quando avrò il funerale voglio salire
su un carro. Sbriciolarmi sui passanti. Sentire
le urla di chi vuol restare intangibile. Io non so
se quel giorno davanti alla tivu ho pianto più
per me o per i mille coriandoli che vedevo cadere
giù. Cadevano i progetti e i sogni. Da allora
vivo murato nel mio silenzio. Il canto è finito
per sempre. Con quale parola può rimare il dolore.
Con quale speranza si aprono gli occhi. Io non so
cosa cadde quel giorno né chi. Di sicuro dovetti
sbiancare di fronte al dottore. Un giovane mite
nel camice bianco. Si-può-curare. Ma come si può
curare l’adolescenza mai cresciuta ed il desiderio
di gettarsi nelle braccia di tutto il mondo. Non ricordo
altro dell’11 settembre tranne il rumore lontano
delle edizioni speciali del tg. E un senso di pace
come quando la nave affonda col carico di umanità
che possedeva. Il canto non ci salverà. Ma finirà
un giorno la strage che è diventato il mio cuore.

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Parricide in New York

I don’t know what fell from the Twin Towers on that day
inside me. I had just received the results and when the Towers fell
I had already fallen into the sheets of analysis. Thus I knew
that beyond me there was another who fell down
like confetti at Carnevale. From a big high
wagon. When my funeral comes I want to rise
on to a wagon. Scatter myself on those passing. Hear
the screams of those who wish to stay untouchable. On that day
I don’t know if in front of the TV I cried more for myself
or for the thousands of confetti I saw falling
down. Plans and dreams fell. Since then
I have lived walled up in my silence. The poem
has finished forever. What word can rhyme with pain.
What hope can still open eyes. I don’t know on that day
what fell nor who. Certainly I must have turned pale
in front of the doctor. A kind young man in a white coat.
It-can-be-treated. But how does one cure an adolescence
that never grew up and the desire to throw oneself
into the arms of the world. I remember nothing else
of the 11th of September except the distant sound
of the special editions of the news. And a sense of peace
as when a boat goes down with the big cargo of humanity
it carried. The poem will not save us. But that day
will end the carnage that has become my heart.

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ABOUT THE POET

Paolo Fabrizio Iacuzzi was born in Pistoia, in western Tuscany, in 1961 and has lived in Florence since 1992. He has published four collections of poetry – Magnificat (1996), Jacquerie (2000), Patricidio [Parricide] (2005) and Rosso degli affetti [Red of affections] (2008) – which have increasingly focused on the frailty of the individual within violent cycles of history. Paolo has translated Frank O’Hara and Amiri Baraka (formerly LeRoi Jones) into Italian and has rediscovered and re-published numerous works of the poet Piero Bigongiari (1914-1997), whose archive he oversees. Paolo is Artistic Director of the Accademia Pistoiese del Ceppo, a literary academy in Pistoia, and chairs the Premio Letterario Internazionale Ceppo Pistoia, awarded since 1956. For information: www.paolofabrizioiacuzzi.it

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