Tag Archives: memory

#GloPoWriMo 2017 10 – Halls


Non è la tua voce né la sua assenza
che rimane impressa anche anni dopo
ma un odore specifico associato ad una
sensazione particolare che viene
dal ciucciare una caramella Halls
nel pacchetto nero extra forte
rigorosamente senza zucchero
più delle sopracciglia più del naso rotto
più dei sistemi del Totocalcio
sono le Halls che bruciano la lingua
che più ricordano te.



Veniva dal sud, quel pomeriggio,
come vennero loro tempo prima,
e portava con sé il gelsomino. Ne portava
l’odore, i fiori, i colori e i rami.
Li portava in mano e li porgeva
uno ad uno, con delicatezza a volte,
a volte a manciate, tirate in faccia,
quando meno te lo aspetti.

Sembrava un pomeriggio da innamorarsi
fra l’estate dietro la pagina e le nuvole oziose,
fra la brezza e il sole a pioggia fra i capelli,
fra calabroni e motorini che si corteggiavano
a distanza di un paio di strade e qualche cortile.

Il gelsomino, a tardo pomeriggio, strinse le foglie
e prese mira, spietato, tra occhi e bocca dello stomaco,
con calma, dolcezza, odore di spezie rimaste
dagli avanzi del pasto ancora in tavola.
Mostrare i denti è aggressione, per alcuni
reazione immediata di un senso spiazzato,
lasciati per la strada – risolino, occhiata, paura
che striscia e ronza tra le foglie.

Era un pomeriggio soleggiato, da riposo,
ma il gelsomino non dava tregua. Tralicci
lanciati all’assalto di balconi e memorie,
arpioni nell’intimo, selvaggio nel suo agguato.
In cucina, piatti sporchi, un portatile aperto,
bozza di una lettera mai inviata, bottiglia d’acqua vuota.

NaPoWriMo / GloPoWriMo 2016 29 – Mi ricordo


Mi ricordo di quando lo dicesti in dialetto. Amarcord, improvvisato.
Mi ricordo di quando eri rossa di capelli. E dicesti di no, ma anche sì.
Mi ricordo di quando non avevi ancora visto Guerre Stellari. Né te, né te.
Mi ricordo di quando mi vomitasti addosso, mentre ti tenevo sulle ginocchia.
Mi ricordo di quando ti ho fatto piangere. Eravamo in auto, e avevo sbagliato.
Mi ricordo di quando mi sono visto piangere. Ero in aeroporto, in autobus, in treno.
Mi ricordo di quando provavi a stringermi le braccia. Avevi la faccia cattiva.
Mi ricordo di quando ti ho baciato. Era quasi per sbaglio, ed è durata per anni.
Mi ricordo di quando sono partito la prima volta. Non ho mai smesso, di partire.
Mi ricordo di quando creasti una strana famiglia. Per qualche motivo, ne ero a capo.
Mi ricordo di quando mi hai detto che ti saresti mangiata le mani. Ma ormai è tardi.
Mi ricordo di quando ti ho visto sul palco. Avevo la febbre, entrambe le volte.
Mi ricordo di quando ho provato a conoscerti. E provato. E provato. E fallito.
Mi ricordo di quando eravamo in tre, e tu fosti il primo a buttarti. Sul riccio, in pieno.
Mi ricordo di quando mi hai baciato. Sapevi di fragola, e ridevamo, ed ero nervoso.
Mi ricordo di quando sei arrivata a casa. Eri piccola, dolcissima, un disastro.
Mi ricordo di quando sono crollato la prima volta. Ero da solo, a letto, tremavo.
Mi ricordo di quando me li hai presentati. I libri, i CD, e tuttora ne faccio parte.
Mi ricordo di quando sei venuto a piangere da me. Fino alle quattro di mattina.
Mi ricordo di quando facevamo progetti. Dovevamo essere io e te, poi sono andato solo io.
Mi ricordo di quando ti ho visto furioso. Era l’unica volta, e ci hai terrorizzato.
Mi ricordo di quando ho bevuto per l’ultima volta. Mi sentii male, e smisi del tutto.
Mi ricordo di quando mi leggesti il tatuaggio. Eri l’unica a cui piacesse, allora.
Mi ricordo di quando ho iniziato a scrivere. Ancora, a volte, tentenno a metà frase.

(Input da Napowrimo.net giorno 29.)

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 21 – Yesterday


it did not happen
I tell myself.

I know this is not true
as I got up
I had breakfast
I took a bus
I had a talk
I took a lift
I walked
I walked
I changed
I walked
I read
I watched
I slept


I know this is true
as I watch
as I change
as I walk
as I sleep
and I walk
and I walk
and I read of
and I talk of
how I break
how I fast
how I get
I take what
I have that
I take

I tell myself
it did not happen

The Unwritten: Apocalypse #10



In the first chapter of the final UNWRITTEN story art, “Annals of Comparative Literature,” Pullman has the maanim, and the end is as nigh as it’s ever going to get. But even magic trumpets have rules, and this one has a homing instinct – and there’s only one place in all the worlds of fiction where it can do its apocalyptic thing. Which just happens to be the one place Tom is afraid to go…

After one issue setting the stage, in somewhat of a breather pause, The Unwritten starts hurtling towards its conclusion in ‘Annals of Comparative Literature’, exposing once again its core themes, as explicitly as possible. Bonds are tested, reality even more so, stories need their characters, and the parallels between all the plots take centre stage – only for everything to change once more.
Mike Carey returns to his earlier dabblings with literature, writing Tom and his cast through the end of last issue back into post-literary London, bringing back the Christopher Robin conundrum as a last resort for the main cast of Tom, Lizzie and Savoy to save the world before bedtime. But Pullman is also trying his best to end his own misery, and the world with it. And everyone encounters bigger obstacles, slithering in the dark, shaded backgrounds.
The issue is intentionally slower in pace, as it condenses the entire beginning of the final arc of the series (!), bringing back multiple threads and strands from The Unwritten and Apocalypse into two tight spots. And yet, the sense of impending doom, of spilt ink and blood to come, of betrayal and jeopardy and danger are so tense that not even gleeful vampires, boy wizards, nor swearing rabbits can help shift the sense of unease.

Peter Gross bears the bulk of the linework this month, and he does a wondrous job of mirroring the script in the layouts and panel arrangements on the pag. Particularly worth highlighting is the Wilson/Pullman double page spread, showing just how similar the two characters might be after all, and how the situation is pretty much identical. Savoy reaching through panel borders, lines bending and adjusting to punches thrown, a sinister splash page and some great perspective are just examples of the storytelling at work here.
Of course though, the differences between the converging parallels of the story could not be as clearly marked if it were not for Chris Chuckry’s colours: the contrast is more obvious towards the end of the issue, but the shift in tones between one side of London and Pullman’s HQ (and more) are fantastically placed, as is the saturation chosen for the flashbacks. Additionally, we get to see some more of Todd Klein’s handiwork, from the crumbling title page to how some characters bend their own speech to his will and fonts, and more sound effects are materialised in the spaces between realities.
Yuko Shimizu brings another superb cover piece to the series, highlighting all the points made by co-plotters Gross and Carey about Tom’s identity and his father’s power over him on an ominously red background, grounded in ink and writing. The whirlwind of ghost pages justify Tom’s terrified expression, but it’s Wilson’s sombre concentrated face that is particularly unsettling.

Thoughts (May Contain Spoilers)
As the first issue of the final arc of the entire series, #10 is another wonderful piece of the puzzle, with some extremely dark and unsettling scenes and interactions, especially towards the latter part of the book. Gross and Chuckry’s visual work are phenomenally well executed on Carey’s script, and there is one page that still has me smirking, and another that shows off the creators’ twisted sense of cruelty towards their characters that bode well (?) for the full-on, impending Apocalypse.

The Unwritten: Apocalypse #10 is now available in shops and digitally here.

The Unwritten: Apocalypse #9



The three immortals – Wilson, Rausch and Pullman – are moving toward their respective endgames. But when was the last time they were all in the same room together? Answer: half a century ago, in Oxford, England. And the reasons for what they’re doing now can be found in what they said to each other back then…

The penultimate story arc of The Unwritten: Apocalypse ended in ‘Sang’ Part III (last issue) with multiple endings and dazzlingly knotted plots and threads, in what is increasingly becoming a game of triple crossing and multiple jeopardy – but issue #9 tries setting the record straight, for lack of a better word, as we see a story and read another.
Dropping the current Tom Taylor storyline for the issue, we move back to a younger Taylor/Tallis, as he conveniently joins the mythology enthusiasts of Oxford, the Inklings. Mike Carey is not a stranger to tinkering with literature, and that is pretty much the scope of the series, but this particular twist is especially juicy, adorning Taylor with even more power and resources than we had seen so far. And then Pullman shows up. Followed by Madame Rausch.
The interaction between the different characters, their voices included, is well crafted, both with the Inklings and the fearsome threesome, and the parallel scripts used to show the extent of the characters’ powers are a well-executed example of the possibilities of comics as a medium. Taylor’s voice, however, is the most intriguing aspect of the issue, showing him as a new writer, a naive perhaps, manipulator of stories – with one, significant change in his tone towards the end.

The parallel scripts, of course, only work with the layouts and artwork of the co-plotter, Peter Gross. The pacing is really well done, and two pages in particular really stand out (including the final one). Additionally, Vince Locke’s finishes on the art really help in setting the time scale of the issue, and make the mythopoeic splash page look truly outstanding.
If possible, Chris Chuckry’s colours take that even further, contrasting the pub scenes with the ones showing Rausch, Pullman and Taylor in such a way that the latter are eerily appropriate to the events taking place. Todd Klein’s hand in the typewritten captions is subtle, but necessary to the duplicitous script, and there is one particularly well-placed sound effect that really jumps off the page.
As for the cover, as always by the excellent Yuko Shimizu, it serves as a very distinct reminder that yes, this is the book-shattering conclusion approaching, Tom is not the knight he could’ve been in ‘Sang’ – but there is something more in the image: what has Tom realised, that we haven’t yet?

Thoughts (May Contain Spoilers)
With only three more issues to go, Inklings is a superb intake of breath before the plunge, delving back into the past and motives of the three key players, seemingly revealed at last. As the saying goes, though, the storyteller is not to be believed, only the story – and we’ve seen in this issue that we cannot trust those either; but thanks to the nature of the comics medium, we are able to view multiple sides of the same tale at once, however unreliable any of them may be. So follow the threads of what’s to come, but beware: there is no indication whether they’ll get you in or out of the labyrinth.

The Unwritten: Apocalypse #9 is now available in shops and digitally here.

NaPoWriMo Day 25 – Una Mattina


Ci sveglieremo, una mattina,
e non sentiremo più il bisogno
di spiegare, di sprecare fiato
parole, tempo, gioie e dolori
con chi non sa e non vuole
saperne d’ascoltare.

Non saremo piú legati ad un passato
sempre troppo presente,
non per negligenza, memorie offuscate,
politicanti o revisionismi,
ma perchè non più necessario.

Non saranno più importanti
nuovi o vecchi patriottismi;
niente paesi, niente confini,
niente odi, sberleffi, fischi,
pregiudizi ed illusioni;
verde, rosso, bianco, nero,
torneranno ad essere solo colori.

Non saranno solo coloro che adesso
non capiscono, o capiscono benissimo.
Ci sveglieremo, tutti, e saremo obsoleti.

Abbasseremo le braccia, apriremo le mani,
alzeremo gli occhi e ci lasceremo andare.
Una mattina. Ma non oggi, non ancora.

NaPoWriMo Day 16 – 1979


A few solitary notes
as instruments are roused
from their slumber.
Lights dim.

You invited us into your memories
and along a troubled road
littered with diffidence and pride.

But you promised we’d get through the night
as long as we trusted you, and listened.
So we sang with you and we walked with you
we danced with you and we rode the tiger.

We found new friends along the way
and seasons passed and changed.
We felt the warmth of homes and fires
of dust and sand and ash and wind.
We found god and remembered we don’t care.

You told us of drifting, and keeping too much in
so we cried with you, and loved with you,
and as you, loved again.

And as you ushered us back home,
we cheered you and smiled.
Leaving your fading memories
to other stages, and other crowds.

Lights dim.
A few solitary words
still linger
just behind the bar.

Good part of the poem is inspired by the lyrics and/or titles of the Pain of Salvation, Anneke van Giersbergen and Árstíðir concert setlist in London, 15th April 2013.

NaPoWriMo Day 8 – Falling


and the clocks strike autumn.

She stands, alone
as the evening lingers
for a little while longer
before submitting, fully, to dark.
The snailing pavements
of streets around her
remain quiet
in the dimming light.

She walks, alone.
Whenever she would visit
time simply stopped.
And yet, this once,
she watches the walls peel
in dregs and flakes of
leftover summer days.
The majesty of stone
of a faith now crumbling.

She stops, alone,
to look at the creatures,
still on their towers,
watching upon the city
below them, a rhapsody
sounding through their wings
as the wind blows through.

She smiles, alone,
at the memories of past
seasons, lost and regained
with another closed circle.
Different feelings,
tastes and smells,
from different places.

And this is where she stays.
As the ageless faces
of clocks remain silent,
as the austere backs
of walls light up,
as the grave wings
of stone rest,
we leave her here