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Cristina Annino

poems that are placed by Cristina Annino, chosen from his latest collection: "eagle's home."
besides being a wonderful person, Cristina is a wonderful poet, original.
I like the relationship it has with certain natural elements such as rain, with water in general ... but also with fire, and then the contrast between earth and sky, often repeated.
I love its atmosphere ... full of life and presence.
place those poems in which the bond is greater with the way I feel, those texts in which most reflects my character. This is because this blog does not claim to criticism, but simply as a container, a little 'like a diary, to collect what has touched me more deeply in the steps of my life.

good read.


Symphony for S.


They had never written letters together, and yet he was carrying

the letterhead. Always. Really, he loved her in
that way, and that's it. But she

raccaterebbe back on the streets, the heart-
massacres
things slowly, there is time, indeed! - and
back home, in color
without to stay still in the fire
difference between them.


answer is no obligation

pizzerias are you, dementia
bright, corners, crossroads and
climbs.
She is the earthly sense that I have, if the flickering
muscle splitting your fingers on the wall. But how many

loves, you know
last on earth? If you know it. Or how many murders
should do, what
reading, language on the ground, tirandoci
the spoon on the lips?
How many hours will you give us not to finish it so,
paw in the pan, to fry.


time ever, his beautiful


Folly is with the inside. Often
put on the wall in front of the Latvian
curly "please be for a soup of mullet and

deadly as the sea." The
scuoierà, and meanwhile the
palpable sucking storms
hand conifer. Accordingly, he
dumb bottoms of
itself, with that
his way to smoke one, and also with the rest
Great Cotta.
not tell her anything to anyone.

Maxine Cartoon- Birthdays

bloodless

As can be dizzying time. Where am I? Is the man asked. Here or then? I was never a moment that was not it?


for a moment I had the absolute certainty that she would be out of there, and I would have passed her without saying a word.
The man shook his head slightly.
- But nothing happened, because life lacks something to be perfect .


- As one strives to live a single life, others will see there in a thousand, and this is the reason why you can not avoid getting hurt.


Then she said something on a party many years ago, where there was a famous singer who had invited her to dance. In a low voice that told him he was old, but it moved too lightly, and before the music ended had explained how the fate of a woman is written in a way that has to dance . Then he told her she was dancing as if it were a sin.


Then he thought for what life is incomprehensible, we probably go through with the only desire to return to hell that we have generated, and to live alongside those who, once, from hell saved us. Try asking where it came from that absurd loyalty to horror, but found have no answers. He understood only that nothing is stronger than the instinct to return to where we were broken, and to replicate that moment for years. Only thinking that those who saved us once then it will forever . In a long hell identical to that from which we come. But suddenly forgiving. And without blood.


Alessandro Baricco .

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rain on pine eye

it rains, it rains and ripiove ... This morning I woke up around 10:00 ... and it was raining , I woke up with the house empty and only the sound of rain.

so, you know how ... like when you have a song for your mind that you can not help but sing? likewise, I woke up and I head for D'Annunzio, with his " rain in the pinewood ... it will not be a discovery for anyone, this beautiful poem that place, but maybe it can be for everyone a good time to reread that, although there you it rains, I assure you that its a nice! :)

good read!!


Taci. On the threshold of the woods I hear


human words you say, but I hear more new words

speaking
drops away and leaves.
Play. It rains from
scattered clouds.
rains on the tamarisk
brackish and burned,
rain on the pines and steep scaly
,
raining on the myrtles
divine
shining on the broom
Flowers accepted, on the junipers
thick fragrant
of pampering, it rains on
our faces
sylvan,
raining on our hands
naked, on our clothes

light
on the fresh thoughts that the soul

novel opens,
on the lovely fable that yesterday

t'illuse, Today m'illude,
or Hermione.

hear? The rain falls on the lonely


vegetables with a rattle that lasts
and varies according to the fronds in the air
more rare, less sparse.
Play.
responds to the cry of cicadas singing

that crying Southern
not afraid, neither
the ashen sky.

And the pine has a sound, and other sound
myrtle, juniper and
more, stromenti

under many different fingers.
And we are in the spirit of immense

Scotch
of arboreal life living;
and your face is soft rain ebro

like a leaf, and your hair

auliscono
as the clear broom, or creature
Earth
you name
Hermione.

Play, Play. The agreement
of cicadas flying
gradually
deader
is done under the plant that grows
;
but there is a song mixes
more raucous than there
salt, damp shade
remote. More and more deaf

s'allenta dim, goes out. Only a note

still trembles, turns off,
rises, trembles, turns off.
not we hear about all the leaves
Crosc

the silver rain that cleanses,
Crosc the foliage that varies according to the

thicker, less dense.
Play. The air

daughter is mute, but her daughter
silt away,
the frog sings
deepest shadows,
who knows where, who knows where!
And it rains on your eyelashes,
Hermione.

raining up your eyelashes black
so that it seems you cry
but pleasure, not white but almost done
virente,
seems to peel you out.
All my life is in us
fresh fragrant,
my heart in my chest is like fishing
intact
between the eyelids
eyes are like pools in the grass, in the alveoli

teeth are like bitter almonds. And we go in
offal offal, or joint or dissolved

( rude vigor and green
us belting melleoli
c'intrica knees )
who knows where, who knows where! And it rains on our
faces
sylvan,
raining on our hands

naked, on our clothes

light
on the fresh thoughts that the soul

novel opens,
on the lovely fable that yesterday

m'illuse that t'illude today,
or Hermione.

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history

I read in a few hours last night, this book: "Story of the Eye" by Georges Bataille. Erotic novel, is called ...
pages are full of excess, without an aim that is not annihilation. A chasm inexorable sex. It seems the only thing that can really exist in this novel, the rest of the world is only a shadow, a dim outline in that single flame, generating and devouring, is eroticism, a vortex without any rationality.

These are only my impressions, I can personally say that he was a little disturbed by the debacle that have those pages, maybe because I'm still here, I try to find a reason for a story that is lacking.


Carry a few steps:

"then I stretched on the grass. I leaned my head on a stone and lay flat, with open eyes, turned to the Milky Way: strange spot of astral semen and urine through the sky again skull of the constellations: open wound in the sky, apparently formed from ammonia fumes become bright immensity - the empty space where it cuts like a rooster's cry in the silence - an egg, an eye gouged or blinded my skull, glued to the stone, postponing indefinitely the symmetrical images. "

" For others, the universe seems honest. It seems honest people honest because they have eyes neutered. 'S why they fear the obscenity. They feel no fear when they hear the cock crow, or if they see the starry sky. Generally, they enjoy the pleasures of the flesh provided that they are tasteless. But even then there were no more Concerns: I did not love those who are called euphemistically pleasures of the flesh, perhaps because they are tasteless. I loved what is judged as obscene . "

" pulses against us that day that it had canceled each other out, leaving us blind. They puts us a long way in a world in which gestures are ineffective, as voices in a space that is not sound. "