Another classical image of confinement. Philoktetes spent ten whole years alone in Lemnos, captive to his terrible wound and solitude, having been ruthlessly abandoned by Odysseus and the Achaean army — until, of course, he was needed again. Etching by James Barry, late XVIII century. In Sophocles’ words (409 BCE), Soph. Phil.311: […] ἀλλ’ ἀπόλλυμαι […]
In response to Edith Hall’s call for classical images of confinement (Facebook’s Classics International Group). The painting is CALYPSO AND ODYSSEUS by Sir William Russel Flint (early XX century). Below are Ovid’s hexameters of mega-bored Odysseus on the beach, telling Calypso, for the thousandth time, a war story which he draws in the sand with […]
Altro che falce pigiama della vita la morte amica — A scythe? Not really. Pyjamas of life, I say, our everyday death.
I am who I was and who I’ll be and who was not but could have been or could perhaps but will not be ( is this the magic soap to wash away regret and lather hope? ) for sure I’ll never be who I should be I am … Essere e Tempo Io sono […]
Like waves of a bay torrent, three by three, they clang along the road the Army steeds; in rhythm, striking, beautiful to see, obedient and compliant on their leads. Grey skies above: a canvas for the mood of Sergeant Doom, while lanky fractal trees are playing tricks and shameless, in the nude, they mock the […]
“È” come un re sull’ultimo gradino della sublime scala dei perché e la sostiene. Ontologia dell’Essere: inizio e fine, unica fonte della nostra verità. — Riflessioni su Sein und Zeit (Heidegger)
Una sull’altra, a chiazze, sul selciato, dormono soffici, d’oro le foglie, forse in un sogno brumoso le coglie il dubbio d’avere un po’ troppo frusciato. Ma è tardi. Ora il ramo, educato all’indifferenza del vento che toglie, tremulo avverte, gelide e spoglie le sue estremità, lassù, desolato. Bianca, la luce dell’alba autunnale tinge di fragile […]
One day in May they told us you were dead, inside a monster called Agusta Bell: “it crashed, there was no chance — no, no-one fled, it burned — but up in heaven, now, they dwell”. Our Mamma froze, she gasped yet she did not shed tears, because the three of us were so so […]
…and what are you doing there aloof, full-leafed, when all the leaves have left?!?
hanging like in the autumn on to the trees the leaves – my translation of Giuseppe Ungaretti’s poem: Soldati Si sta come d’autunno sugli alberi le foglie