Ilenia M. Sciarroni: ‘A quest'ora si pedala tra schiamazzi di cicale e suoni di piatti.’

Elizabeth Bishop: ‘lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.’

Elizabeth Bishop: Today's a day when those who work are idling. Those who played must work and hurry, too, to get it done, with little dignity or none. The newspapers are sold; the kiosk shutters crash down. But anyway, in the night the headlines wrote themselves, see, on the streets and sidewalks everywhere; a sediment's splashed even to the first floors of apartment houses.

Sergio Piccioni: The whisper of the sky as the day is closing; You would think the earth would be the same even if you are not there, even when you are not. I wonder, now, the breathing beings, every one of them, are friends in this brief window of life. They will disappear as you

‘The Cats Will Know by Cesare Pavese’ translated by Geoffrey Brock: Rain will fall again on your smooth pavement, a light rain like a breath or a step. The breeze and the dawn will flourish again when you return, as if beneath your step. Between flowers and sills the cats will know. There will be other days, there will be other voices. You will smile alone. The cats will know. You will hear words old and spent and useless like costumes left over from yesterday’s parties. You too will make gestures. You’ll answer with words— face of springtime, you too will make gestures. The cats will know, face of springtime; and the light rain and the hyacinth dawn that wrench the heart of him who hopes no more for you— they are the sad smile you smile by yourself. There will be other days, other voices and renewals. Face of springtime, we will suffer at daybreak.

‘Elizabeth Bishop, The Art of Poetry No. 27’ Interviewed by Elizabeth Spires The interview took place at Lewis Wharf, Boston, on the afternoon of June 28, 1978, three days before Miss Bishop and two friends were to leave for North Haven, a Maine island in Penobscot Bay where she summered. Her living room, on the fourth floor of Lewis Wharf, had a spectacular view of Boston Harbor; when I arrived, she immediately took me out on the balcony to point out such Boston landmarks as Old North Church in the distance, mentioning that Old Ironsides was moored nearby.

‘Dylan Thomas’ Vision and Prayer (1939) Who Are you Who is born In the next room So loud to my own That I can hear the womb Opening and the dark run

‘Анна Ахматова’ 8 НОЯБРЯ 1913 ГОДА Солнце комнату наполнило Пылью желтой и сквозной. Я проснулась и припомнила: Милый, нынче праздник твой. Оттого и оснеженная Даль за окнами тепла, Оттого и я, бессонная, Как причастница спала.

‘Patrizia Cavalli’ Poesie (1974-1992) Se ora tu bussassi alla mia porta e io togliessi gli occhiali e io togliessi i miei che sono uguali e poi tu entrassi nella mia bocca senza temere baci disuguali e mi dicessi: «Amore Mio, ma che è susccesso?», sarebbe un pezzo di teatro di successo.

‘Elizabeth Bishop’ A Miracle For Breakfast I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle. A beautiful villa stood in the sun and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee. In front, a baroque white plaster balcony added by birds, who nest along the river, —I saw it with one eye close to the crumb— and galleries and marble chambers.