Amelia Rosselli : ”outside of grace the murdered poet rhymed”

Posted on December 29, 2013 by



where the I is the public, where the I is things, where the I is the things that happen.


Amelia Rosselli (1930-1996) s-a sinucis pe 11 februarie 1996 (exact în ziua ”aniversării” morții Sylviei Plath) aruncându-se de la fereastra bucătăriei apartamentului ei din centrul Romei, etajul 5. Fusese diagnosticată cu depresie severă, schizofrenie paranoidă, iar la 39 de ani a aflat că suferă de Parkinson. A fost tratată de două ori prin terapie cu electroșocuri. Când avea doar șapte ani tatăl (Carlo Rosselli, un antifascist ”celebru” – considerat martir) împreună cu fratele ei au fost uciși din ordinul lui Mussolini. Era evreică. Și-a petrecut copilăria la Paris, și a crescut învățând trei limbi: engleza, franceza și italiana. După moartea celor doi, Rosselli împreună cu mama sa vor călători prin Europa încercând să scape de naziști. La 18 ani mama ei a murit fiind nevoită să se angajeze ca traducătoare. A studiat muzica în Anglia iar mai apoi va spune că nu a putut niciodată să separe muzica de poezie. Se definea pe sine ca fiind un poet al căutării.

Pasolini observed, “Deformity implies a more integral capacity for resistance if it surrounds itself with an insurmountable wall of death and sacrality.” Rosselli writes, “Why not understand life for what it is; why not force life to understand itself? Why hadn’t she had a chance to understand life?”

Concluzia dinaintea sinuciderii a scris-o în jurnalul său – Obtuse Diary:

There’s no world ready for me so I’m leaving for a world less ready for me, which will want me to suffer roundly for the sorrows that I don’t remember having suffered, and for my presumption: I still feel the old guilt of not having known how to be somebody …

Cărți publicate:

24 poesie (Turin: Einaudi, 1963); Variazioni belliche (Milan: Garzanti, 1964); Serie ospedaliera (Milan: Saggiatore, 1969); Documento, 1966-1973 (Milan: Garzanti, 1976); Primi scritti, 1952-1963 (Milan: Guanda, 1980); Impromptu (Genoa: San Marco dei Giustiniani, 1981); Appunti sparsi e persi (Reggio Emilia: Aelia Laelia, 1983); La Libellula (Genoa: SE, 1985); Antologia poetica, edited by Giacinto Spagnoletti (Milan: Garzanti, 1987).

Am dat accidental (există coincidențe?) acum ceva vreme peste câteva poeme ale Ameliei Rosselli iar când mă gândesc la ea îmi vine în minte versul din titlul articolului: în afara grației poetul ucis rimează.

Iată cum se descria chiar ea:

            Born in Paris afflicted in the epoch of our fallacious
generation. Laid out in America among the rich fields of landowners
and the statal State. Lived in Italy, barbarous land.
Fled from England land of the sophisticated. Hopeful
in the West where nothing now grows.

— din “Contiamo infiniti morti…” in Variazioni Belliche, translation Cinzia Blum and Lara Trubowitz)

 Am ales câteva poeme iar jos veți găsi linkuri unde puteți citi mult mai multe:
Grant me chains of indulgence, rescue me from the ship that straight-
away goes down, lofty thought drives off the Argonauts from this
my dwelling of unknown dimensions; revive my supplicant lips
with alms, reduce to ash the remainder of my days
not so lockstep they can’t judge justice, transparent
if you verify it, though anything but a tranquil exploration.
Where is he who comes, he who goes, I’m none the wiser
and tramp up and down a countryman’s nightly meeting places: thick
hands rasped breath crystals of indifference, I don’t give a damn!
and I’m hurled against your target. Pressing on shifty merchants
skirting vicissitudes, no – I wanted to say, but it escaped me, the
urine and the moon and commerce innocently crystallized themselves
to kick me out – thus press on, sophisticated anguish of the
moons – thus make me understand! Night’s routine (a lively night
was the night) routine of not finding not understanding not forgiving
the bagatelle that’s my refrigerator, cudgels for the beast
so completely self-absorbed it begins sneezing.
Collision of beasts and of landslides, my dreams won’t leave
me in peace, thus press toward the pursuit of pleasure,
I seek only you.


tomorrow’s claws, ignite in deaf
whirpools the lympth of your growth; don’t
gothere; don’t play with
your strength in the hell of wind and
hail today obliges your majesty to bow! If
you believe in the grammar of the poor, listen then to
the growing envy of the rich,─you will soon get used to
being born one of them.

And who can guarantee you are not one of those
who die on the shovel instead─who can warn
me of your spider web. Too late I
called the flies to shelter.


and what did that crowd want from my senses other than
my scorched defeat, or I who begged
to play with the gods and stumbled
like a poor whore up and down
the dark corridor─oh! wash my feet, take
the fierce accusations from my
bent head, bend
your accusations and undo all
my cowardice!: it wasn’t my wish to break the delicate layer of ice
not my wish to break the mounting battle, no, I swear, it wasn’t my
wish to break through your laughable
laughter!─but the hail has other reasons than
serving and the wet eastern wind of
evening does not dream of standing
watch by my
disenchanged lion sobs: no longer will I run
after every passage of beauty,─beauty is defeated, never again
at attention will I snuff out that fire now glimmering like
an old tree trunk
in which hollow swallows make nonsensical nests, child’s lay,
unreckoning misery, unreckoning misery of sympthy.


That violent rustling of birds, their flirtatious
rising in swarms from the hardest trees
(the tender lion roars in a flight of thought
and my faith lights up) their perching on the thinnest tops
their distracted gazing into the distance, this
is your desire, flying over my mountains of anxiousness
this is your warm thread of unknowing


We count endless dead! the dance is almost over! death,
the explosion, the swallow lying wounded on the ground, disease,
and hardship, poverty and the devil are my cases of
dynamite. Late I arrived to pity─late I lay among
bills in the pocket troubled by a peace that was not offered.
Near death the ground returned to the collectors the price
of glory. Late he lay on the ground that returned his blood
soaked with tears peace. Christ sitting on the ground on
reclined legs also lay in blood when Mary labored
with him.

Born in Paris labored in the epos of our flowed
generation. Lay in America among the rich fields of landlords
and of the stately State. Live in Italy, barbaric country.
Fled from England, country of sophisticates. Hopeful
in the West where for now nothing grows.

The bamboo-café was the night.

The congenitals’ tendency to goodness awakening.


The hell of light was love. The hell of love
was sex. the world’s hell was the oblivion of the
simple rules of life: stamped paper and a simple
protocol. Four beds face down on the bed four
friends dead with a gun in their hand four keys
on the piano that give back hope.

Inside of grace the number of my friends increased
and joy wove stories of impossible loves. Inside of
grace the poor tormented the rich and the hat was lifted
in an act of pure gratitude. Inside the Tao boredom vanished
outside of grace the murdered poet rhymed. Inside of
grace the passing bird dirtied the furniture
yesterday the day before yesterday there was a compass, today
the rain sadly pours and the promises of the rich are
a light that does not add up. Close to grace lay
love inside of grace every flower looked bad and at dawn
hell dirtied very light. Outside fury a hurricane
sinisterly scoured the main avenue of all our
frenzies. Such is the birth─such is the revenge of
the poor in spirit. Against the spirit of mercy
arose unanimous my salacious heart that came down touched
by grace but was unable to find the daytime sun except
in a cry of business. To find Chaos again a clarinet’s
note was enough. (Indifference itself.)

─Translated from the Italian by Lucia Re and Paul Vangelisti

(from Variazioni belliche, 1964)

Am încercat o traducere pentru acest ultim poem, nu știu cât de bună:

Înăuntrul grației numărul prietenilor mei creștea
iar bucuria țesea poveștile iubirilor imposibile. Înăuntrul
grației săracii îi chinuiau pe bogați & pălăria a fost ridicată
într-un act de pură gratitudine. Înăuntrul lui Tao plictiseala dispărea în afara
grației poetul ucis rima. Înăuntrul grației pasărea murdărea mobila plecând
ieri ziua dinaintea lui ieri exista o busolă, astăzi
ploaia curge trist iar promisiunile celor bogați sunt
o lumină într-un calcul fără sens. În apropierea grației zăcea
iubirea înăuntrul grației fiecare floare era urâtă la apus
iadul murdărea toată lumina. În afara furiei un uragan
mătura sinistru strada principală a tuturor freneziilor
noastre. Astfel e nașterea – așa e răzbunarea celor
săraci cu duhul. Împotriva spiritului milei
s-a ridicat inima mea înfometată căzută prin atingerea
grației dar incapabilă de a găsi soarele în timpul zilei decât
într-un plânset al afacerii. Pentru a re-găsi Haosul o notă de
clarinet a fost de ajuns. (indiferența însăși.)

Mulțumin, Amelia Rosselli!



More poetry and information on Amelia Rosselli (links / sources):

1. Obtuse Diary, fragment

2. Poetry & Information from her translator

3. Poetry, blog

4. About her poetry

5. Locomotrix

6. Interesting read