Marino Moretti was born in Cesenatico in the province of Forlì, July 18, 1885 and died in the same city July 6, 1979. What Marino Moretti is an independent and unique journey in the twentieth century literary itliano. In 1905 she released her first book, fraternity and from that moment, his fidelity to literature knew no interruption. He participated in the WWI Red Cross services. In 1952 the prize was dei Lincei. His voluminous literary work has focused on the search for identity, the awareness of not knowing, the pain of living in a comfortless gray, and his refuge is the memory, love for literature, the ancient objects, the house of 'time, the days passed, the present age. After the decline of his life, he polished the old, yet you repeat the question " who I am?" , a man who dug and dug into his sentence, making ground for life and an occasion for poetry.
"It's raining. It's Wednesday. Cesena are "-" Chinar the head is / where life is always the same? "-" The sadness is my bread and my piada. This is its moral lesson, melancholy lines, yes, but, even beyond the most bitter conflicts, reveal in each case, albeit in a characteristically self-deprecating way, an acceptance of life. His poems are strongly questions about the human condition (What is? Who are you, who are they?, Where Are You?) ; responses are those of ritual: the sadness, indifference, loneliness and the dark color of life, which is also found in the figure of "pencil" used metaphorically as a means of writing his poems.
from this great scholar of the twentieth century suggest two poems: The memory further and sorrows The first, taken right from one of his many collections of verse, Poems written in pencil.
poems written in pencil, collection of poetry published in 1910, when the author was twenty-five years, has done a shabby image without boundaries, and often an emotion that fades nell'autoironia. The century just born, in fact, was recording his first crisis of values; crisis Marino Moretti has expressed so clear in this work that, even today, in the third millennium started, proves that he has successfully defied the times and fashions.
"It's raining. It's Wednesday. Cesena are "-" Chinar the head is / where life is always the same? "-" The sadness is my bread and my piada. This is its moral lesson, melancholy lines, yes, but, even beyond the most bitter conflicts, reveal in each case, albeit in a characteristically self-deprecating way, an acceptance of life. His poems are strongly questions about the human condition (What is? Who are you, who are they?, Where Are You?) ; responses are those of ritual: the sadness, indifference, loneliness and the dark color of life, which is also found in the figure of "pencil" used metaphorically as a means of writing his poems.
from this great scholar of the twentieth century suggest two poems: The memory further and sorrows The first, taken right from one of his many collections of verse, Poems written in pencil.
poems written in pencil, collection of poetry published in 1910, when the author was twenty-five years, has done a shabby image without boundaries, and often an emotion that fades nell'autoironia. The century just born, in fact, was recording his first crisis of values; crisis Marino Moretti has expressed so clear in this work that, even today, in the third millennium started, proves that he has successfully defied the times and fashions.
REMEMBER THE FURTHER
fundamental reason: the mother, who finds himself in the pages of memoirs of his best, the novel's mother, my mother , The happy time, here surrounded by a scary place where prenatal, carnal in the matrix, identified the romance and happiness, then that life inevitably destroys.
Maybe I remember that I had a sweet time
your own, your body and your heart,
when it was in you, live
thought that it was not a glimmer of my life.
Maybe I felt what you felt
tacit closed in my hiding place;
I reached us some glimpses of the living
dreams that you dreamed of for your child:
some jerk you scotea fors'
who was also to your flesh shivered,
the loss of limbs tired
and a sudden reminder of God
thinking, dreaming, you were giving
to my face its physiognomy,
and I felt your gentle signs
s'imprimevan that in my flesh.
I felt your heart: the
was close to my heart more than what time trick or rock,
and was so garrulous and
little I could do with a toy.
I format without my
wild rush, not knowing the unknown
be expected which made
slow journey to reach its destination in a vacuum;
I formed without a
word of my own arcane will
I was as docile creature
that fears nothing and knows nothing and look.
perhaps I was happy, my life
was a reflection of your own: but because
was sweeter and almost indefinite
for the sweetness of that enchantment.
But one day I came out of your blood: m'arresi.
heart I was crying, flesh pain.
I was too old, I had too many months
to live that life still warm.
THE FIRST SADNESS
"No, not today, I mean it!" So the boy decides. And truant. But he can not help but think of his class, his companions. Everything has a bitter taste, even a small personal dream is already present anxiety of repentance that gradually makes its way into his soul. There are no true joy, only questions with the same non-answers.
I was a child, I went to school, and one day
I say to myself: 'I do not want to go, "
and I did not go. I began to walk
all alone until noon.
And so often. At school I did not go
sometimes from that sad day.
I walked until noon
and hours ... the hours are not passavan ever.
So remorse held my heart in that sad
freedom lost, and what
anxiety, my God, of being seen by Mr Monti
, by Doctor!
I was thinking about my class, the empty place,
to register, call (oh the name, the name in my
silence) and I felt like
leaning on the abyss of the unknown.
and pushed me until around the gardens
or avenues out of town;
and I was wondering, "Now, who will be questioned
, Poggi or Poggiolini?.
O repeating myself some piece of history
(Berengar, Charlemagne,
Rosamund) and it was my voice a complain
rhythmic sound almost not human.
And how many times I asked
time a passerby and was rushed
in the request so my prayer!
But the hours ... the hours are not passavan ever.
Who will give me, who will give me that hour
so lost my childhood?
Not you, not you that nostalgia
much trouble and I laughed in his heart,
not you, that you do not lean your forehead
tacermi for a tear or thought
ch 'is on the threshold of your brow or even black
Poggi nor Poggiolini.
fundamental reason: the mother, who finds himself in the pages of memoirs of his best, the novel's mother, my mother , The happy time, here surrounded by a scary place where prenatal, carnal in the matrix, identified the romance and happiness, then that life inevitably destroys.
Maybe I remember that I had a sweet time
your own, your body and your heart,
when it was in you, live
thought that it was not a glimmer of my life.
Maybe I felt what you felt
tacit closed in my hiding place;
I reached us some glimpses of the living
dreams that you dreamed of for your child:
some jerk you scotea fors'
who was also to your flesh shivered,
the loss of limbs tired
and a sudden reminder of God
thinking, dreaming, you were giving
to my face its physiognomy,
and I felt your gentle signs
s'imprimevan that in my flesh.
I felt your heart: the
was close to my heart more than what time trick or rock,
and was so garrulous and
little I could do with a toy.
I format without my
wild rush, not knowing the unknown
be expected which made
slow journey to reach its destination in a vacuum;
I formed without a
word of my own arcane will
I was as docile creature
that fears nothing and knows nothing and look.
perhaps I was happy, my life
was a reflection of your own: but because
was sweeter and almost indefinite
for the sweetness of that enchantment.
But one day I came out of your blood: m'arresi.
heart I was crying, flesh pain.
I was too old, I had too many months
to live that life still warm.
THE FIRST SADNESS
"No, not today, I mean it!" So the boy decides. And truant. But he can not help but think of his class, his companions. Everything has a bitter taste, even a small personal dream is already present anxiety of repentance that gradually makes its way into his soul. There are no true joy, only questions with the same non-answers.
I was a child, I went to school, and one day
I say to myself: 'I do not want to go, "
and I did not go. I began to walk
all alone until noon.
And so often. At school I did not go
sometimes from that sad day.
I walked until noon
and hours ... the hours are not passavan ever.
So remorse held my heart in that sad
freedom lost, and what
anxiety, my God, of being seen by Mr Monti
, by Doctor!
I was thinking about my class, the empty place,
to register, call (oh the name, the name in my
silence) and I felt like
leaning on the abyss of the unknown.
and pushed me until around the gardens
or avenues out of town;
and I was wondering, "Now, who will be questioned
, Poggi or Poggiolini?.
O repeating myself some piece of history
(Berengar, Charlemagne,
Rosamund) and it was my voice a complain
rhythmic sound almost not human.
And how many times I asked
time a passerby and was rushed
in the request so my prayer!
But the hours ... the hours are not passavan ever.
Who will give me, who will give me that hour
so lost my childhood?
Not you, not you that nostalgia
much trouble and I laughed in his heart,
not you, that you do not lean your forehead
tacermi for a tear or thought
ch 'is on the threshold of your brow or even black
Poggi nor Poggiolini.
( Marino Moretti, from poems written in pencil , Naples, Ricciardi, 1910)
