NINETY NINE YEARS WITH ANTONIA WELLS (and mention of complaints) Il 13 febbraio del 1912 (novantanove anni fa) nasceva a Milano Antonia Pozzi.
Giovane intellettuale timida e silenziosa, eppure frizzante e colma di vita e acutezza, è passata su questo mondo quasi inosservata, lasciandoci troppo presto, donandoci però tutta se stessa.
E noi siamo così poco riconoscenti, così ciechi.
Accenno ora (ma mi occuperò meglio della questione e più approfonditamente in un giorno che non sia festoso quanto questo)alla poca attenzione that the City of Milan has placed against the poet: in via Mascheroni, where she has lived all his short life and where I visited recently, there is the slightest trace of Antonia, the minimum recommendation.
But it is right to show the fruits of his love, his pain and his research shows how important his coming knocking on the doors of the world that on February 13. The
celebrate, for as little as I can, with some extracts from the diaries and letters, and, of course, with some poetry.
It 's been this Christmas. [...] Day of celebration, therefore, but, like any other date as singularly important and solemn day regret for past ones.
feel strange, unfair to me, which are still almost a child, I should only look to the future, confident, serene! Maybe in previous years felt so, this year, however, no, it's different, I do not know why. I'm afraid, and I know not: it's what comes up to me, no, because what I hope and trust. I'm afraid of time, the time flies so fast. Flees? No, not escape, and even flies: slides, fades and disappears as the sand that seeps from the already closed fist through your fingers and the palm leaves that unpleasant feeling of emptiness. But, as the sand remain in the wrinkles of the skin, scattered grains, so the time passing left to us the track. Maybe it's because that remained in me is excited, perhaps because, even if painful or anything violent in my life has gone quiet, I have lived this life intensely enjoying almost of my own suffering, rejoicing in the joy of being able to live in me, to feel inside, as in a closed casket, a soul, a soul throbbing, laughing, nostalgic, passionate, perhaps this is full of feelings, so I suffer and enjoy a day that apparently you can enjoy and pain in my whole life, I regret the past, I love this, I do not consider the future, because I'm happy to be me, with my faults and my few virtues, because I do not know if I can still be so in the future. (Christmas 1926, wrote the school).
lightheadedness I remember one September afternoon,
on Montello. I, still a child, skinny and Trecciolino
with an itch
of crazy runs on the knees.
My father, huddled in a corridor
dug in a rise in the ground, pointed out to me through a crack
the Piave and the hills and I talked
of war, of himself, of his soldiers.
shade, the grass and sharp cold
I touched his calves: under the ground, the roots
succhiavan
perhaps even a few drops of blood. But I
I burned with the desire to take out
nell'invadente sun
to collect a fistful of blackberries from a bush.
Milan, May 22, 1929
Cry not have a God
not have a grave
not have anything firm
only living things that escape -
be no tomorrow without yesterday
be
and blinded to nothing -
- help -
for the misery that has no end - February 10, 1932
Life On the threshold of a sunset in autumn
dumb
discover the wave of your time and yield
secret
as from branch to branch
a slight fall in the wings of birds
no longer hold.
August 18, 1935
sisters, you do not mind ... sisters, you do not mind
tonight I also follow your path? So sweet is passing
speechless
to the dark streets of the world -
for the white streets of your thoughts - so sweet
is feeling a little shadow
near the light - so sweet
bolt against the silence of the heart
as your life based only
listening to your souls to go - just stealing
staring
the spirit of things -
sisters, if you do not mind - I will follow every night
thinking your way to a night sky
for which two white stars lead a star
blind to the bosom of the sea.
Milan, December 6, 1930
Pasturo, July 13, 1929
Antonio Maria Cervi Cervi
dear
I want to dedicate to you this evening that the first step in my ugly, sweet country. What is a return? One thing, for a few hours, melting the hard groppi that separate today from yesterday and blends the past and present with fresh safety, where evil has no place.
My soul today, my soul the past year, have been found and are still embraced senz'urto tonight, in my study this strange, made of old furniture, begged a little 'everywhere, the wooden shoe, the closet, smelling of pine, the low, wide window, ceiling and walls give it the appearance of irregular an Alpine hut.
is so far from other rooms, there comes no noise in the house.
Solo, from the garden of the monotonous buzz today, nell'afa afternoon was the drone of bees linden flowers, now is the indolence of a drizzle apathy.
few hours ago when I entered, the smell characteristic of these walls I invested my heart and twisted as an abrupt pull the reins ...
From this table, last year, I never thought of God
This year we think. A Carnisio, so I studied: calmly, without worry. I'm glad. They are also quite good. Before coming to write, I have rung the Fountains of Rome, to smooth soul.
's terrible to be a woman, and have seventeen years. Inside
do not have a mad desire to give themselves.
She is right to say that women are nothing.
We see first, but our eyes are closed before. We see the peaks, but if someone comes to you, is because it has very manly.
not demeaning, Bucks, feel more cleansed because of the music through its own will? That 's what happens to me tonight. Still, do not despair. Since last year, I walked a little. I will walk again.
I think?
All my love, Antonia Pozzi
his
