Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

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.