Fabrizio Ulivieri

  Oh mio Dio, ch' è rimasto di me? L'ultimo me di tutti i me che ho dato? Son io ciò che vedo? O un universale Che contiene l'infinita-finita varietà Di una vita che nella vita ha cercato Del morir il senso e nel morir la vita? Come un bambino ha domandato: Perché sono nato? Perché morire? I bambini son grandi filosofi I bambini son essenziali I bambini hanno meno strutture E compagna vicina, la luce che genera.

  Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemus— The ancient rose remains in name; we hold only empty names. When I think of Fello, this is all I grasp: a name, a pure name. Almost nothing else lingers in my memory. I recall big eyes, a broad nose, full lips—a face forever caught in a smile. Nothing more. It is a faded-away world that I resume to recall. The faded-away world of my childhood, so far away as a distant planet in space. Light years away. Fello is one of the many stars lost in this space. I endure his energy pulsing inside, nearly lost, nearly invisible. No, people don't die, people stay.

  In the beginning was the word, and the word was the beginning all I know of him was the word—without the word I would never have known him, because I’ve never met my grandfather Luigi. He died of tuberculosis long before I was born.   All I know of him are words, words spoken by my mother and father. My mother never loved him, her father, my grandfather—he was cattivo , she said. They lived in Settefrati, a podere  near le Mura, a bunch of houses in the comune of Montaione. My mother was a little stubborn bull, she never changed her mind when she decided to do something. I do not know why—one day her father was furious with her, he in a sudden rage hit her on the head with a sickle and cut her scalp deeply. It was a new beginning, a different life from that day on. She no longer trusted life—that blow distanced her from the world she had lived in before. She withdrew from the world.   A magician I met many years later, who came from South Korea, said—your mother as...

Il sangue ha un odore Il sangue di un padre Nella figlia di una madre Nel figlio ha un odore Una linea che mai muore E riconosce l'animale Basta fiutare e sentir la pelle Riconoscer il sapore dell'amore Che ti ha legato quando Alla luce la sua venuta ha urlato Il figlio di un altro di altro Ha il sentore e nega calore.

  Agradezco el azar al haberte recibido eres un misterio—tu presencia cada día algo que divino, hayas tú en mí vivido

  I sit here in front of the sea—blue water, light wind, hot is the sun, I sit among the cacti on a bench overlooking the sea along the small promenade that runs along the coves of the Castiglioncello sea. Am I happy? Maybe. I am alone. And in my loneliness I remember you, Ida. You saw the sea for the first time—you were 60—only one magic word it was until that day. You, Ida, you believed that rain brings frogs from one place to another. What a strange creature you have been? You, who at the age of 5 were riding a horse bareback through the forests near Volterra? You, who, when my grandfather saw you for the first time at eighteen, made him think—she has large, firm breasts like marble that I could sit on? What a strange creature you have been in this world, you? This sea has forgotten you, yet the wind whispers you—you dead whisper—you alive I keep.