Gianpaolo G. MASTROPASQUA (Italy)

 
Gianpaolo G. MASTROPASQUA (Italy)
 
Gianpaolo G. MASTROPASQUA was born in Bari in November 1979. After completing part of his studies in Seville, he graduated from the University of Bari with a thesis in Psychiatry. He has also completed a Post Graduate Course, at the same University, in Bioethics with a thesis on the relationship betweenpsychiatry and art therapy. Psychiatrist and received a master’s degree in Criminology. He works in Lecce as a psychiatrist in the “Santa Maria Novella” Hospital (ASL – DSM). He also graduated from the Conservatory of Brescia «Luca Marenzio«, after musical studies at the Conservatory «Egidio Duni» of Matera. He has published “Silence with variations”, by Lietocolle, 2005 (finalist for the Prix Festival of the Arts in Bologna in 2006 and winner of the 2007 New International Prize for Literature, the Italian Institute of Culture in Naples), which later became «PoesiaConcerto» of original music by A. Ciavarella for «The Great Narratives.» In 2008, again by Lietocolle editions, he has published “Andante of the lost fragments”, “Match for silence and orchestra” in 2015, “Danzas de Amor y Duende” (Ed. Enkuadres, Valencia, bilingual edition, 2016)
“Dansuri de Dragoste sin Duende” (Ed. Anamarol, Bucharest, 2017 bilingual edition), Lifesaving Journey (2018, foreword by Giuseppe Conte, among the 10 finalist books at the International Award Gradiva graded 2019 University of New York), “Hologram in A minor” (ed. Caosfera, 2019, foreword By Tomaso Kemeny and Valentina Colonna). In 2018 he won the Nabokov international Literary Prize. His lyrics are present in journals, anthologies,newspapers and literary blogs. He edited the anthology “If / say / year” and the Anthology “tag and portray” (Ed. Lietocolle) on poetry in the time of Facebook.With new texts, in 2011, he won the International award Alda Merini. He also promoted various artistic and literary events including “South Tour Lietocolle” and “Artists against the gag”. He participated in the Biennale of Young Artists from Europe and the Mediterranean and in 2013, a monograph on his poetry has appeared in the Anthology «South of the South of Saints – One Hundred Years of Literary History«, published by Lietocolle. Some of his books are in the book “The evolution of poetic forms – the best poetry of the last twenty years”, published by Kairos 2013. He is currently one of the creators and curators of the Poetic Grand Tour. He participated, among others, in the Sardam Alternative Literary Readings Festival of Cyprus, at the Benidorm y Costa Blanca International Festival of Poetry and chosen among the Italian poets for the “Bombardeo de Poemas sobre Milan” by the Chilean collective Casagrande. He is a member and delegate of the Poetic High School of Benidorm. Chosen in the “Rising Oxygen” Atlas of Contemporary Poetry of the University of Bologna, in VIP (Voice of Italian Poetry) of the University of Turin and in Poetry Sound Library, the world poetic sound map. He is one of the 7 contemporary Italian poets who star in the documentary film of the director Donatella Baglivo “The future in a poem” presented at the Venice Film Festival.
 
 
Mediterranea

 
Quando eravamo dèi e camminavamo con gli alberi
e le vesti erano anime e animali vivi
e ancora festeggiavamo i compleanni delle nuvole
e all’ora danzavamo sulle acque come anemoni
e chiamavamo Israele la neve del deserto
e l’arcangelo bambino affacciato sull’abisso
e le sorgenti cantavano dai mari alla fonte
e le foglie erano velieri e lingue all’unisono
e i rami ponti trascendenti della luce
e l’impossibile mostro era libero di amare
e ogni passo un sapore e un nome pedante
e le caverne erano occhi appena aperti sull’ignoto
e le pietre dialogavano nel concentrico giorno
ora che passeggiamo senza gambe strisciando
tra la folla calpestata dal silenzio assassino
e le feste nucleari ci attendono al varco
e sogniamo a brandelli tra i respiri delle bombe
e chiamiamo vita eroica l’abbraccio del piombo
e le pietre sono masse che lapidano al pascolo
e le foglie e gli alberi hanno finito la primavera
e il mare dalla lingua di petrolio più non parla
e le lucciole sono nere e il gabbiano viene corvo
e il becco una lamalenta che vibra che penetra
e logora la fauna che affolla in cadaveri pensieri
e l’impossibile mostro è già in gabbia da tempo
e i pugni si combattono nell’aria sanguinaria
e le cave hanno il profumo delle fosse comuni
e ogni passo è una palude da cui uscire vivi
procediamo non siamo nessuno sa perché dormiamo.
 
NOTA *impossibile mostro: cervello umano (Neurologia, Walter)
 
 
 
Mediterranean
 
When we were gods and we walked with trees
And the robes were souls and live animals
And still we celebrated the birthdays of the clouds
And at the time we danced on the water like anemones
And we called Israel the snow of the desert
And the archangel child faced over the abyss
And the sources sang from the seas to the spring
And the leaves were sailing ships and languages in unison
And the braches transcendental bridges of the light
And the impossible monster was free to love
And each step a flavour and a pedantic name
And the caves were eyes barely open on the unknown
And the stones dialogued in the concentric day
Now that we walk with no legs crawling back
Among the crowd trampled by the killing silence
And the nuclear feasts are expecting us at the gate
And we dream in shreds among the breath of the bombs
And we call the embrace of lead heroic life
And the stones are masses that stone at pasture
And the leaves and the trees ran out/ ended the spring
And the sea with petroleum tongue does not speak anymore
And the fireflies are black and the seagull becoming crow
And the slow blade bill that vibrates and that penetrates
And drains fauna that crowds in stiff thoughts
And the impossible monster is in the cage by now
And the punches are fighting each other in the bloody air
And the caves have the smell of mass graves
And each step is a swamp from which getting out alive
Move forward we are nobody knows why we sleep.
 
NOTA * impossible monster: human brain (Neurology, Walter)
 
 
 
Testamento dell’invisibile
 
perché sei la casa dell’essere
la domanda abitata da tutte le risposte
 
Figliolo, ora che la clessidra terrestre è stata
capovolta, ora che il tempo divora gli ultimi
grani di voce residui, sebbene non sia stato
un padre esemplare, sebbene non abbia avuto
che un paio di versi come eletti discendenti
prima di ritornare a casa nella mia vera casa
voglio dirti la verità anche se è solo una verità:
ricorda che la realtà è un ponte e una luna
ha una faccia visibile al cuore e l’altra invisibile
agli occhi, ricorda che l’anima e l’inconscio
sono gemelli siamesi, hanno un solo volto
di bimbo millenario che sorride, rammento
ma il primo sorriso distingue il bene dal male,
il secondo si nutre di emozioni e non distingue
alcun male; ricordati che Dio ha molti nomi
come l’io, che l’arte e la scienza sono figlie
della poesia, e non credere a chi crede
che la poesia solo letteratura sia, ricordati
di essere folle, perché solo chi è folle, folle
di sogni, folle d’amore, folle di vita,
non diventerà mai pazzo come il mondo.
Figliolo, quando il sole scomparirà nelle ossa
accendi una candela per me e combatti:
quando la pupilla fisserà pietrificata
il Tibet della fiamma, nel silenzio fulvo
di un minuto, ti unirai gradatamente
all’assemblea delle albe, fino a svegliarti
in un lago nudo che evaporerà
in un grido di giorni in preghiera
e in quel viaggio d’ombra, nervo
e luce, non avrai sete perché sarò lì
ad espirare in te questo tepore
per ispirarti parole mai pronunciate,
sulla nuca dei tempi ti solleverò nutrendoti
con foreste di raggi, foglie di neve,
lì aspetterò galoppando l’inquieto seme
del fuoco, nel timido sibilo esplosivo
tra l’aria e il fulmine, perché lì solo
ho vissuto, ai confini dei venti taglienti,
non ho mai camminato sulla cera molle
non mi sono mai addormentato al centro
di un sorriso, ma sempre tra le onde acute
dei margini, specchiandomi nel buio
di un pennello colorato, impastando
le linee in sillabe minute sulla tela
della parola spirito in via della libertà,
benché il male bussasse ogni notte forte
alla mia porta con sembianze amiche,
nessuno mai ha varcato la soglia di casa,
e mai la lava mi ha mutato in pietra
e mai mi sono sentito a casa.
 
 
 
Testament of undetectable
 
Because you are the house of being
the question populated by all the answers
 
Son, now that time hourglass has been
Inverted, now that the time devours the last
Grains of remaining voice, although I have not been
An exemplary father, although I have only had
a couple of lines as elected descendants
before to go back to home to my real home
I want to tell you the truth even if it is only a truth:
Remember that reality is a bridge and a moon
It has one side visible to the heart and the other invisible
to the eyes, remember that the soul and the unconscious
are Siamese twins, they have one face
of millennial smiling child, I recall
the first smile distinguishes the good from the evil,
the second it nourishes emotions and it does not distinguish
any evil, remember that God has many names
like I, that art and science are daughters
of the poetry, and do not believe to who believes
that poetry is only literature, remember
to be fool, because only who is fool, fool
of dreams, fool of love, fool of life,
will never go insane like the world.
Son, when the sun disappears in the bones
Light a candle for me and fight:
When the pupil stares the petrified
Tibet of the flame, the tawny silence
Of a minute, you will gradually join
the assembly of dawns, until to wake up
in a lake naked that will vaporise
in a scream of days in pray
and in that shadow journey, sinew
and light, you will never be thirsty because I will be there
to purge this warmth in you
to inspire you words never pronounced,
on the nape of times I will raise you nourishing you
with forests of rays, leaves of snow,
I will wait galloping the restless seed
of fire, in the shy explosive hiss
between the air and the lightning, because I have
Only lived there, on the borders of sharping winds,
I have never walked on the soft wax
I have never fallen asleep in the middle
Of a smile, but always among the acute waves
Of margins, mirroring myself in the dark
Of a coloured brush, kneading
The lines in tiny syllables on the word canvas
Spirit on the way of freedom,
Although the evil was knocking strong every night
On my door with friendly forms,
Nobody has crossed the doorstep,
And never the lava has mutated me in stone
And never I have felt at home.
 
 
 
Voce fuoricampo
 
Sono l’ultimo della mia specie
posso procedere in posizione eretta
senza vacillare, guardare le aquile
e divenire vento, senza fiatare
aprire il cielo senza incendiarmi,
non ho altari per inginocchiarmi o
divorare, non ho madri né padri, e voi
non siete miei fratelli, né miei figli.
Vi ascoltai brancolando, come si ascolta
un rumore di vuoti sovrapposti
e caduti, nel ripostiglio della grazia,
ero io la danza nel labirinto temporale
dei corpi, il chiodo fisso di un dio
di famiglia, quella sinfonia incompiuta
e incarnata, un setticlavio ferito, una morte
di sette consonanti, il legno che beveva l’aria
per cantare più forte, e ho mentito solo
per amore, perché avevo un’altra lingua
che non vi appartiene, un altro cuore
da battere e un nome d’ossigeno.
Ho cercato di sembrare un vostro simile
di essere una retorica, un imbroglio,
una marcia funebre di formiche fulve,
un attore rupestre, un saltimbanco
della domenica, una recita, una chiesa,
avevo fili silenziosi per accorciarvi la distanza
dalle stelle, ma per voi ero solo un’anima
appassita, nel portafiori del mondo, una parola
che taceva per rimanere viva, un’ombra
seduta, sul tavolo delle vostri astri visibili
con una mano per spegnere la luce
e l’altra per accendere il buio.
 
 
 
Voice overs
 
I am the last of my kind
I can proceed in an upright position
Without wavering, I can look at the eagles
And become wind, without saying a word
I can open the sky without setting fire to me,
I have no altars to kneel or
Devour, I have no mothers or fathers, and you
You are not my brothers, nor my children.
I listened to you groping, as you listen
A noise of superimposed voids
And fallen, in the closet of grace,
I was the dance in the temporal labyrinth
Of bodies, the fixed nail of a god
Family, that unfinished symphony
And incarnate, a wounded septiclavius, a death
Of seven consonants, the wood that drank the air
To sing louder, and I only lied
Out of love, because I had another language
That does not belong to you, another heart
Beating and an oxygen name.
I tried to look like you
To be a rhetoric, a scam,
A funeral march of tawny ants,
A rock performer, an acrobat
Sunday, a play, a church,
I had silent threads to shorten the distance
From the stars, but for you I was just a soul
Withered, in the flower box of the world, a word
Who was silent to stay alive, a shadow
Sitting on the table of your visible stars
With one hand to turn off the light
And the other to turn on the dark.
 
 

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