Tag Archives: bilingual

#GloPoWriMo 2017 15 – like

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And i was like
and she was like

alza lo sguardo
da quello che fai
e prestami attenzione
but then i was like
then she was like

non tutto arriva
a fine percorso
alcune si fermano
a metà strada
but she was like
so I was like

la strada a volte
dipende da come
metti il piede
e non sempre
sembra una strada
so then she was like
and like, i was like

guardati i piedi
ma non troppo
guarda indietro
ma solo se devi
guarda avanti
ma non da solo
and like when i
like she when i

arrivato a metà
nemmeno te ne accorgi
ma provaci comunque
like i was and
then, she was too

 

[With thanks to E.C.]

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Duemilafourteen

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Because it’s 2014, because I loathe the rhetoric building up again in the UK (and beyond), because I cannot believe some people can be so devious and twisted, because Kitchener was chosen for coins.

San Martino del Carso

Di queste case
non è rimasto
che qualche
brandello di muro

Di tanti
che mi corrispondevano
non è rimasto
neppure tanto

Ma nel cuore
nessuna croce manca

E’ il mio cuore
il paese più straziato

(G. Ungaretti – 1916)



Perché è il 2014, e in parti d’Europa si iniziano a ‘celebrare’ i 100 anni dell’inizio della prima guerra mondiale. Perché c’è una retorica in Europa che mette i brividi. Perché non si dimentichi.

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

(W. Owen – 1917)

NaPoWriMo Day 10 – Battle!

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Boom! kaboom! krakaboom! krakathoom! krraakle! crack!
snap! snip! slash! smash! splash! crash! bash!
flash! fling! twing! zwiiing! fiii! sfiond!
spoom! zoom! whoom! shoom! thoom! thwock!
shock! sok! shazam! pzazz! p-taff! pewpewpew!
pow! kapow! vap! bratatat! ratatatatatat…

PRIGISTISCATAFIAMM

SSSHHHHEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAGH!

The battle continues
in the next issue.

 

 

(With thanks to Written Sound.)