Pride Flag Book Recs — reads rainbow

Pride Month

Our first rec list of the month has a theme! And that is, books which fit the labels assigned to the colours in Gilbert Baker’s pride flag (with the added black and brown stripes, obviously). So we took each label as a prompt and tried our best to come up with a theme, and a […]

Pride Flag Book Recs — reads rainbow

Rainbow Tweets #15 – Collective Writing Challenge

🇬🇧 Each week a photo prompt will be provided for you to tell a story in 280 characters or less. Post your little story/entry inspired by the picture in the comments of this post, in the format you prefer (prose, poetry, picture, etc) and using the language of your choice. You can choose to add to an existing story or to start a new entry. This is an experiment around collective writing and micro fiction. Have fun with it!

🇮🇹 Ogni settimana verrà fornita una foto per raccontare una storia in 280 caratteri o meno. Pubblica la tua storia breve ispirata dall’immagine nei commenti di questo post, nel formato che preferisci (prosa, poesia, immagine, ecc.) e nella la lingua che preferisci. Puoi scegliere di aggiungere una storia esistente o iniziare con un nuovo commento. Questo è un esperimento di scrittura collettiva e micro fiction. Buon divertimento!

This week’s picture is:

Photo by Josh Hild on Pexels.com

Rainbow Tweets #1

Rainbow Tweets #2

Federico García Lorca

Miranda_de_Ebro_-_Graffitis_literarios_02

Marking the 122nd anniversary of the birth of Federico García Lorca born on 5th June 1898.

The most prominent poet of the group Generation of ’27 and one of the most celebrated and influencial Spanish poets, García Lorca is famous also for his political commitment in the period of turmoil leading to the Civil War in Spain. He ended up being one of the victims of the violence of the Nationalists, who executed him in August 1936. 

His artistic body of work includes not only poetry but also theatre plays, filmscripts and visual art, frequently in collaboration with other fellow artists of his time of the calibre of Salvador Dali, Manuel de Falla and Luis Buñuel. 

Poems by Federico García Lorca, from his less known poetry collections, have been published over the past months in this blog, in original with translations into Italian and English:

Primer romancero gitano (1928): The project to write a series of romances about the gypsy and andalusian world matured in the creativity of García Lorca during the summer of 1924, with the gypsy folkore taken as the starting point of this poetics:

Diván del Tamarit (1931-34): Collection of poems, under the name of “casidas” and “gacelas”, in homage to the Arab poets of Granada:

Sonetos del amor oscuro (1936): The Sonnets of Dark Love, or simply Sonnets, are a collection of sonnets written during their last years of life by Federico García Lorca, compiled and published posthumously:

One of the most famous poems by García Lorca, Romance de la luna, is interpreted as a song by Carmen Paris with music by Madredeus in this video on YouTube.

Romance de la luna by Garcīa Lorca.

Translated Poetry

Poesia in traduzione

Book Reviews

Boneca de trapos, by Pedro Parga

Poem by Pedro Parga in Portuguese, with translation into English by Enzo Martinelli

🇧🇷

Sou feito boneca de trapos!
Sim, boneca.
Nenhum problema em ser de trapos,
tampouco em ser boneca.
Sim, de trapos, restos de panos alheios.
Sim, boneca de saias,
igual aos escoceses mais másculos.
Costuraram em mim uma certa masculinidade,
um trapo, só mais um trapo.
Costurada em mim que ser femininx é errado,
um trapo, só mais um trapo.
"Isso é de menino, aquilo de menina".
"Bonecas é (só) de garotas, carrinhos (só) de garotos".
Trapos, muitos trapos.
Tem, de certo, trapos bem vistos:
Costuraram em mim um sorriso.
Me ensinaram a ser hospitaleirx.
"Agregue, nao exclua!"
Mas tudo um trapo, só trapos.
Alguns amarram, em meu corpo, trapos bem quistos, outros "esquisitos".
Mas quem olha e me diz isso ou aquilo
me vê por olhos costurados,
amarrados por linha assim ou assado,
Portanto, trapos.
Possuem trapos tapando os olhos,
Mas insistem em julgar meus trapinhos,
meu mosaico desengonçado.
Existem, em mim, trapos sobrepostos,
junção de tecidos que não combinam.
Uns dados por elas, outros por eles.
Escolho, entre trapos, o que amarro.
Uns trapos costurados,
outros descartados.
Prefiro os trapinhos que não impedem de costurar mais trapinhos.
Sim, os pequeninos,
formando um mosaico.
Uma boneca de trapos meio mosaico,
um pouco bagunçada,
muito desengonçada,
sem propensão para coerência,
mas que agrega trapos.
Amarro os trapinhos menos vistos e quistos
Sou um mosaico de trapinhos excluídos.
As fábricas disseram:
"Este trapo não serve para nada!"
Os bancos:
"Isto é um trapo, não dá lucro"
Os conservadores:
"Vejam este trapo, tão errado"
Sou um encontro feito de sobras,
de trapinhos pequenos,
todos lá à mostra.
Agrego trapos, mas tambŕm excluo.
Deixo de lado os trapos enormes,
pois tapam os olhos de botões e trapos.
Sou uma boneca de trapinhos.
Todos amarrados de forma única,
mas nem por isso exclusivos.
Recebo trapinhos de uns e de outras,
Pego trapos de todxs
De nada me desfaço.
Uns amarro em mosaico,
outros escondo ou descarto.
Uns nem gosto muito.
As vezes, me julgo um trapo.
O mosaico nunca fica pronto.
Trapos desamarram e caem pelo caminho.
Quanto mais a costura envelhece,
mais trapos perco.
Nem todos trapos escolhi, é verdade.
Uns tento remover, 
outros eu tapo, deixando sobrepostos.
Ficam lá escondidos, onde nem eu mesmo planejo,
de baixo de outros trapos.
Cavando fundo, as vezes encontro.
Retiro trapos que excluem trapos.
Vou assim, sendo uma boneca incompleta, meio mosaico desengonçado, de trapos diversos, nada coerente,
Mas que escolheu agregar trapinhos.
(inspirado trapinhos atribuídos à Cora Coralina”

por Pedro Parga

Pedro Parga é historiador e profesor carioca. Ele escreve poesia e é gay.

Outros poemas de Pedro Parga neste blog:

🇬🇧

Rag Doll

I'm like a rag doll!
Yes, doll.
No problem with being rags,
neither in being a doll.
Yes, of rags, the remains of other people's cloths.
Yes, doll in skirts,
just like the most masculine Scots.
They sewed me a certain masculinity,
a rag, just another rag.
Stitched on me that being feminine is wrong,
a rag, just another rag.
"This is a boy, that is a girl".
"Dolls are (only) girls, carts (only) boys".
Rags, many rags.
There are certainly well seen rags:
A smile was sewn on me.
They taught me to be hospitable.
"Put it together, don't exclude it!"
But everything is rag, just rags.
Some tie well-liked rags to my body, others "weird".
But whoever looks at me and says this or that,
See me through stitched eyes,
tied by thread like roast beef,
So rags.
They have patches covering their eyes,
But they insist on judging my rags,
my ungainly mosaic.
There are overlapping rags in me,
junction of fabrics that do not match.
Some given by them, some others by other.
I choose, among rags, what I bind.
Some rags sewn together,
others discarded.
I prefer rags that do not prevent sewing more rags.
Yes, the little ones,
forming a patchwork.
A ragdoll half patchwork,
a little messy,
very clumsy,
with no propensity for consistency,
but that adds rags.
I bind the least-seen rags and cysts
I am a mosaic of excluded rags.
The factories said:
"This rag is useless!"
The banks:
"This is a rag, it doesn't make a profit"
Conservatives:
"Look at this rag, so wrong"
I'm an ensamble made up of leftovers,
of little rags,
everyone there on display.
I put rags together, but I also exclude them.
I leave aside the huge rags,
because they cover my button eys and rags.
I'm a rag doll.
All tied in a unique way,
but not exclusive.
I get rags from each other,
I take all rags
I do nothing.
Some tie in a patchwork,
others I hide or discard.
Some I dont even like them very much.
Sometimes I think of myself as a rag.
The mosaic is never ready.
Rags untie and fall down the path.
The more the seam gets older,
more rags I lose.
Not all rags I chose, that's true.
Some I try to remove,
some others I cover, leaving them overlapping.
They stay hidden there, where even I don’t plan,
under other rags.
Digging deep, sometimes I find them.
I remove rags that exclude rags.
I am going like this, being an incomplete doll, half disjointed mosaic, with different rags, nothing coherent,
Other that I chose to add rags.
(inspired by rags attributed to Cora Coralina) 

By Pedro Parga

translation by Enzo Martinelli

Pedro Parga is a historian and professor in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He writes poetry and is gay.

Other poems by Pedro Parga in this blog:

Photo by David López on Pexels.com

Rainbow Tweets #14 – Collective Writing Challenge

🇬🇧 Each week a photo prompt will be provided for you to tell a story in 280 characters or less. Post your little story/entry inspired by the picture in the comments of this post, in the format you prefer (prose, poetry, picture, etc) and using the language of your choice. You can choose to add to an existing story or to start a new entry. This is an experiment around collective writing and micro fiction. Have fun with it!

🇮🇹 Ogni settimana verrà fornita una foto per raccontare una storia in 280 caratteri o meno. Pubblica la tua storia breve ispirata dall’immagine nei commenti di questo post, nel formato che preferisci (prosa, poesia, immagine, ecc.) e nella la lingua che preferisci. Puoi scegliere di aggiungere una storia esistente o iniziare con un nuovo commento. Questo è un esperimento di scrittura collettiva e micro fiction. Buon divertimento!

This week’s picture is:

Photo by João Cabral on Pexels.com

Rainbow Tweets #1

Rainbow Tweets #2

Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman 1848Celebrating the 201st  anniversary of Walt Whitman’s birth, born on  31/5/1819

Among the most influencial American poets and a great interpreter of the American soul in the second half of the XIX century. Also an innovator in poetry, often recognised as the father of the free verse. His collection of poems “Leaves of Grass” was first published in 1855, at his own costs, and then costantly revisited and changed until his death in 1892. This collection has always represented a milestone in American literature and new poetry, with °Calamus° being one section of the collection where he expressed more freely around his sexuality and attraction for other men. These aspects become more apparent when his poetry is translated into languages that are more gender sensitive than English. 

Poems by Walt Whitman, from the collection “Leaves of Grass” have been published over the past months in this blog, in original language, with translations in Italian:

One of the most popular poems by Whitman, “O Captain! My Captain!” was inspired by the assassination of Presiden Abraham Lincoln and is interpreted by Tom O’Bedlam in this video on YouTube.

Translated Poetry

Books 📚📖📚

Código de cores, by Pedro Parga

Poem by Pedro Parga in Portuguese, with translation into English by Enzo Martinelli

🇧🇷

Vivemos um código autoritário de cores.
Elas insistem em dizer quem sou,
ao invés de me escutarem.
Sim, não me dão ouvidos.
Definem meus gostos e identidades,
sem nunca me consultarem.
Se sou negro, bandidx;
Vermelho, comunista;
Rosa, femininx;
Azul, masculinx.
Cada cor, uma regra.
Notem, não uso nem artigo,
De roupa até visto,
Antes fosse só no frio.
Mas fora artigo de vestuário nada uso.
Prefiro os sutiãs queimadxs em protesto.
Minhas palavras não tem gênero.
Alimentício até como,
Antes fossem todos.
Mas fora alimentos nada uso.
Prefiro a incerteza que abarca o arco-íris.

por Pedro Parga

Pedro Parga é historiador e profesor carioca. Ele escreve poesia e é gay.

Outros poemas de Pedro Parga neste blog:

🇬🇧
Colour code

We live in an authoritarian color code.
They insist on saying who I am,
instead of listening to me.
Yes, don't listen to me.
They define my tastes and identities,
without ever consulting me.
If I'm black, bandit;
Red, communist;
Pink, feminine;
Blue, masculine.
Each color, a rule.
Notice, I don't use the article,
As far as clothes,
Before they were only for the cold.
But except for a garment, I wear nothing.
I prefer the burnt bras in protest.
My words have no gender.
For food is the same,
Before that was everything.
But apart from food I use nothing.
I prefer the uncertainty that embraces the rainbow.

By Pedro Parga

translation by Enzo Martinelli

Pedro Parga is a historian and professor in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He writes poetry and is gay.

Other poems by Pedro Parga in this blog:

Photo by Ezekixl Akinnewu on Pexels.com

Aube, by Rimbaud

Arthur Rimbaud

Aube – Les illuminations – Arthur Rimbaud – 1886 – with translations from French into English and Italian by Enzo Martinelli 

🇫🇷  

Aube            

            J'ai embrassé l'aube d'été.
            Rien ne bougeait encore au front des palais. L'eau était morte. Les camps d'ombre ne quittaient pas la route du bois. J'ai marché, réveillant les haleines vives et tièdes, et les pierreries se regardèrent, et les ailes se levèrent sans bruit.
            La première entreprise fut, dans le sentier déjà empli de frais et blêmes éclats, une fleur qui me dit son nom.
            Je ris au wasserfall qui s'échevela à travers les sapins: à la cime argentée je reconnus la déesse.
            Alors je levai un à un les voiles. Dans l'allée, en agitant les bras. Par la plaine, où je l'ai dénoncée au coq. A la grand'ville, elle fuyait parmi les clochers et les dômes, et, courant comme un mendiant sur les quais de marbre, je la chassais.
            En haut de la route, près d'un bois de lauriers, je l'ai entourée avec ses voiles amassés, et j'ai senti un peu son immense corps. L'aube et l'enfant tombèrent au bas du bois.
            Au réveil, il était midi.

🇬🇧

Dawn

I kissed the summer dawn.

Nothing was still moving at the front of the palaces. The water was dead. The shadow casts did not leave the wood route. I walked, awakening the lively and warm breaths, and the precious stones looked at each other, and the wings rose silently.

            The first enterprise was, on the path already filled with fresh and pale shards, a flower which tells me its name.

            I laughed at the waterfall which became entangled through the trees: at the silver peak I recognized the goddess.

            So I lifted one by one the veils. In the aisle, waving my arms. The plain, where I announced her to the cockrel. In the big city, she fled among steeples and domes, and, running like a beggar on the marble quays, I chased her away.

            At the top of the road, near a laurel wood, I surrounded her with her piled up veils, and I felt her immense body a little. Dawn and the child fell at the bottom of the wood.

            When I woke up, it was noon.

🇮🇹

Alba

Ho baciato l’alba estiva.

            Nulla si muoveva ancora nella parte anteriore dei palazzi. L’acqua era morta. I campi d’ombra non avevano lasciato la strada del bosco. Ho camminato, risvegliando i respiri vivaci e caldi, e le pietre preziose si sono guardate e le ali si sono alzate silenziosamente.

            La prima impresa fu, sul sentiero già pieno di schegge fresche e pallide, un fiore che mi dice il suo nome.
            Ho riso della cascata che si è impigliata tra gli alberi: al picco d'argento ho riconosciuto la dea.
            Così ho sollevato uno per uno i suoi veli. Nel corridoio, agitando le braccia. La pianura, dove l'ho annuciata al gallo. Nella grande città, fuggì tra campanili e cupole e, correndo come un mendicante sulle banchine di marmo, la cacciai via.
            In cima alla strada, vicino a un bosco di alloro, la circondai con i suoi veli ammucchiati e sentii un po' il suo corpo immenso. L'alba e il bambino caddero al fondo del bosco.

            Quando mi svegliai, era mezzogiorno.

Poèsie en traducion

Poesia in traduzione

Translated Poetry

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Rainbow Tweets #13 – Collective Writing Challenge

🇬🇧 Each week a photo prompt will be provided for you to tell a story in 280 characters or less. Post your little story/entry inspired by the picture in the comments of this post, in the format you prefer (prose, poetry, picture, etc) and using the language of your choice. You can choose to add to an existing story or to start a new entry. This is an experiment around collective writing and micro fiction. Have fun with it!

🇮🇹 Ogni settimana verrà fornita una foto per raccontare una storia in 280 caratteri o meno. Pubblica la tua storia breve ispirata dall’immagine nei commenti di questo post, nel formato che preferisci (prosa, poesia, immagine, ecc.) e nella la lingua che preferisci. Puoi scegliere di aggiungere una storia esistente o iniziare con un nuovo commento. Questo è un esperimento di scrittura collettiva e micro fiction. Buon divertimento!

This week’s picture is:

Photo by Artem Beliaikin on Pexels.com

Rainbow Tweets #1

Rainbow Tweets #2

InTRANSponivel, by Pedro Parga

Poem by Pedro Parga in Portuguese, with translation into English by Enzo Martinelli

🇧🇷
inTRANSponìvel

Queria um espelho,
Me ver em um banheiro.
Lá não me deixam entrar.
Aqui não me deixam estar.

Aqui vão me agredir
Lá não me deixam ir
Daqui quero sair
Mas quero me olhar,
Um espelho para me maquear.

Deles os medos,
Deles as fobias
São meus os desesperos,
Os sofrimentos e as agonias.

Só queria me ver
Saber porque tanto espanto
Por que não me deixam ser?
Por que me odeiam tanto?

Queria um espelho para me enfeitar
Para encontrar o que os assombra,
Passar sombra,
Para me transformar.

Identidades inversas
Marcas eternas
Temiam eu os desejar
Medravam me copiar.

Masculino
Feminino
Códigos tentando me enquadrar
Fobias a me machucar.

Deles os medos,
Deles as fobias
São meus os desesperos,
Os sofrimentos e as agonias.

Só queria me ver
Saber porque tanto espanto
Por que não me deixam ser?
Por que me odeiam tanto?

by Pedro Parga

Pedro Parga é historiador e profesor carioca. Ele escreve poesia e é gay.

Outros poemas de Pedro Parga neste blog:

🇬🇧
inTRANSmissable 

I would like a mirror,
To see me in a bathroom.
They won't let me in there.
They won't let me stay here.

Here they will attack me
They won't let me go there
I want to leave this
But I want to look at myself,
A mirror to put my makeup on.

Their fears,
Their phobias
Despairs are mine,
Sufferings and agonies.

Just wanted to see me
Know why so much astonishment
Why don't they  let me be?
Why do they hate me so much?

I would like a mirror to adorn me
To find what haunts them,
Go by shadow,
To transform me.

Inverse identities
Eternal marks
They feared I would desire them
Thrived to copy me.

Masculine
Feminine
Codes trying to fit me
Phobias hurting me.

Their fears,
Their phobias
Despairs are mine,
Sufferings and agonies.

Just wanted to see me
Know why so much astonishment
Why don't they let me be?
Why do they hate me so much.

By Pedro Parga

translation by Enzo Martinelli

Pedro Parga is a historian and professor in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He writes poetry and is gay.

Other poems by Pedro Parga in this blog:

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com
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