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advaitam poetry movement, Advaitam Speaks Literary, contemporary italian poetry, hengul haitaal advaitam, Indian Literary Journal, Indian Literature Today, Italian poetry in advaitam, World Literarture, world poetry, world poetry today
Tiziana Magrì was born in Taranto, south of the largest polluting steel industry in Europe, formerly Ilva. She has years of experience in dealing with activating territories, the community through social and cultural projects. With experience in newsrooms, she collaborates as a freelance. As a child, raised in the Tamburi neighborhood, where the only palpable and visible thing was the red dust of the factory, she dreamed through reading and wrote poems that she read to her relatives. Today, she continues her battle against the monoculture of her city and she does it with the Mediterranean Poetry Festival Ask the dust, as artistic director and founder. He believes in the word, and in the importance of using it.
I curse the heavens
I curse the heavens
I sanctify the living
I stand by and watch
a doorsill
a bite of an apple
a white sheet
a smell of blood
hang me up
I ask you
Tear me up
I beg you
I curse the heavens
now the wound does not bleed
but it hurts
the shape
it is to die
over there
a flash remains to dig the night
hand clinging
in the bleeding world
love
in the childhood that comes
naked
she pretends
breathless life
just a miserable shudder
never searched
in a wanted nothing
she pretends
the greatest deception
she went down full of quiet silence
I heard my mother say
be careful, it is the deception
the ear does not find silence
tormented by noise and a hundred silences
a hundred, a thousand pains
suffocated in the breath
of a wrong shot
a winged cry
holds me downhill
under the bright ascent
of a fake smile
pulled up from the laughter
they are the spices
they create subtle differences
the echo of voices on the distant grave
now I write silky words
a light language
the spices are
between my ribs
then behind the hedge
the dark, the sentries
the obscene piss of a Pharisee
a penis infected by the white Saturday…
and the night advances nothing more than a lime skeleton
you
my only scythe.