Biografia: Giovanna Lorio
Giovanna Iorio vive a Londra dal 2017. a pubblicato diverse raccolte tra cui Succede nei paesi (Fara,2018) Poesie d’amore per un albero (Albeggi Edizioni, 2017) La neve è altrove (Fara, 2017), Haiku dell’Inquietudine (Fusibilia, 2016), Frammenti di un profilo (Pellicano, 2015, con Postpoesia di Renzo Paris). È presente in diverse antologie tra cui Cuore di preda (CFR) e SignorNo (SEAM). Scrive racconti (Dormiveglia, Regina Zabo, 2016 e Raccontibrevi.it) e radiodrammi (Rai 3 e Radiolibramioci web). Collabora con DiarioRomano e L’EstroVerso. Nel 2012 ha portato il progetto Little Free Library in Italia. Tuttora cura e dirige il blog e la pagina FB delle Little Free Library Italia. Ha creato la Poetry Sound Library map, la prima mappa mondiale delle voci poetiche (2018).
maybe it wanted to end that tortuous thought a path as far as the house
of smooth stones where the sound of things is softer
*
if I close my eyes I’m not in this room anymore I listen to the house’s
bones suddenly I’m white made smooth in the light it flows over things
and over my voice if I close my eyes
*
my heart is tired the sound of a drop in a gutter it could do better
than this little nail that scratches on the glass it asks to go out it asks
to come in
*
a light blue coffee cup on the table might be the sky I push my lips out
over the precipice I remain suspended on the sounds
*
I’ve come to wait in a church the only house that is open apart from
a bar and I’m not hungry outside there’s the noise of cars that flow who
knows where if I close my eyes maybe you hear the sea the light comes in
through ogival windows and shines it changes the contours of thoughts
the face of the saints brightens now
*
today I’m driving slowly and looking at things they flow alongside me
fast and there’s a slowness in me in my heart a laziness maybe this is how
the body heals a vessel anchored to the gaze I remain entangled to things
a falcon follows me I see its shadow on the asphalt I drive slowly
*
idle and white a rose ignores the imminent storm I’d gone out so much
sleep in your bent neck I need to get free from these images something
hurries from the very heart of things I am a child who plays the flute
because every earthly instant is a crossroads oh saint of the scorched
restored hands teach me to recite the lines of Yves Bonnefoy at random
*
the delicate scent of butterfly wings on my fingers I confess to not believing
in time magic carpet hidden figures two different parts of the design and that
visitors stumble over anyway the greatest joy of the absence of time is when
I find rare butterflies and plants and the ecstasy another thing that’s hard to
explain being one with sun and stone and the wind that leafs through Nabokov
*
we have a second memory the thread of which runs through the drunken
hours a pair of trousers and a torn shirt as along an incandescent chain
wine is the symbol of blood the Lumbarda grapevines put down roots in
sandy earth the dust had parched our throats the satyr has a preference
for scenes like this there are situations in which the profound sense of
the most familiar words suddenly becomes clear cistern we’re not at all
amazed by the wonderful they’re still alive the Heroes’ mother islands
they flower again each year
*
you realise from the sound of these words that time is cracked in front
of the sky a glimpse of another unbroken sky nothing is left but removing
layers to the motionless air sound after sound revealing the mute expanse
of providential sense the echo of a thunder arrives
*
the thin sound of the grass the sigh of a gate the pensiveness of a
fence the gentle eyes of a herd suddenly the race of time stumbles on
hares’ black holes
*
an angel fell in the middle of nothing the sky evaporated the fish were
left at the bottom of a glass the eyes of whoever watches the flightless
wings unarmed are salty a man dressed in black picks up white rain in a
hat he offers feathers to passersby he writes on walls
*
a fox is asleep in the dark of fragile bones the silence is bristly it has the
red fur of a wild animal
*
do not deceive time you have to show it the way the road that goes
ahead you must not let it turn back again it has followed me and now it
plays outside with the last light of the day it loosens the sun’s rays among
the old houses like a braid
*
listen to the night closed inside of a walnut it sounds like a shell that
falls in the nothingness
12 13
*
mia nonna lo chiamava il sole malato un fuoco fatuo quasi spento nello
specchio di un lago mi viene voglia di asciugarlo con un telo e rimetterlo
in cielo il sole guarito. Si scioglie la luce sulla mia ombra la vita è questa
macchia sul muro testimone del nostro svanire
*
bianco è il colore del tempo avete fatto bene tutti è auspicabile il
vuoto non hanno più peso i pensieri e niente accade l’esperimento della
notte non ha bisogno di gravità io sono la piuma che accompagna il
sasso cadere insieme e cercare il fondo del giorno
*
si capisce dal colore scuro delle rose che l’inverno ha le spine il giorno
striscia nel roseto con la sua corona povero cristo
*
se non avessi avuto il seno vi avrei nutrito con la rugiada avrei poggiato
sulle labbra il verde di una foglia ma il latte è bianco per una ragione a noi
sconosciuta al suo candore affidiamo il pianto nella culla
*
e se domani non ci fosse più il mondo ma solo il cielo e le rondini io
sarei il filo dondolo da un nulla all’altro unisco distanze
*
my grandma would call it the sick sun a nearly extinguished