Posts Tagged ‘ Anny Ballardini ’

Anny Ballardini: your last translation | franzmagazine

Image Credits @ Anny Ballardini

January 11, 2021

Anny Ballardini: your last translation

Allegra Baggio Corradi

Your smell of tobacco. Your white locks close to your head. Your hoarse voice.

That time you ate crisps for two weeks straight because veganism was not yet a thing in Britain. Two weeks claiming that you were eating chips and not crisps. Just to clarify on which side of the ocean you were standing.

All those times you said “Go to the States. New York is so much better than London”.

Sister Cesarina, the only one who lifted the veil. You alone against a pack of harpies. Blind, soulless brutes.

Your eyes when you saw a white-chalked “re-hearshed” on the blackboard. All rehearsals have been for you since that afternoon.

Your last Jackie Lawson’s Christmas Card on 24 December 2020.

Your blog to share knowledge. Narcissus Works. L’abisso inabissato, played on repeat.

The music you played while you composed your poems, while you put together your collages, while you questioned the meaning of death, while you went on smoking cigarettes, fighting the fight against the smelly fumes of the restaurant underneath your apartment.

One of your favourites by Anna Guterl.
Nothing like Korean Napalm in the morning. Mike says smelling kimchi-jigae quaffing through the house a hint of a rotting carcass or something similarly familiar unburied married with sweet roasted aroma of sesame oil rain-bowing the broth.

James Finnegan, James Joyce, Henry Gould, Arturo Onofri, Kenneth Hirst, Larry Jaffe, just so you could tend to your child self.

The Poets’ Corner. Then Peirce.

When Maxine left, you were still mourning your parents’ death. You said that your intellectual self was numbed for a relative time. You said you never read so much like then, digging into the Members’ Only Section of A.R.E. Edgar Cayce Association.

Your friends from high school. Everyone looking forward to seeing you trolling around like you did when you were sixteen. Forever grounded because too loud all the time.

Lactuca virosa. The natural painkiller that grew in your backyard. Ailment for your migraines, your insomnia, your anxiety.

You are a ghost dancing in 33 Movements. Your opening and closing numbers are now at sixes and sevens.

The last text. December 31st, 2020. No reply.

You translated others all your life and now you translated yourself. Where to? New Orleans, Buenos Aires, Florence? Where to, Anny? Where to next?

 

Source: Anny Ballardini: your last translation | franzmagazine

This November, by Anny Ballardini | TRUCK November Issue 2014

Anny Ballardini

Truck, November Issue 2014

This November,
With a well in my self

Draining water to saints

Kierkegaard’s paradox

From Socrates’s endless testing

Rules

While looking into the black pond

For answers

__God answers

Inwardly

This November,
Appalling month

Over 100 answered

Joining mine to theirs – yours / ours

Under Saint Cecilia’s patronage

Musicians blew their horns

Organs woke many

While the girl grew ecstatic

In thinking she could

Be

This November,
Thick in air stuffed with light

In closed rooms

At night

Trying to think

When thought gets lost

In and out of self

To accommodate

Past / future events

On a ten fragmented score

This November,
Has seen mountain peaks

Kneel

Sturdy Siqueiros’s hands

Leak tears and grow roses

On Time’s façade

Ancestors chant

Interpretative Chinese lantern plants

Decorate Proust’s monumental

Writings
This November,
Talks

Of seeds and piano keys

Of herbs

Of

Of vincristine

Of

Of crashed & renewed hopes

Of the makers of Illusions

Of a Leap of Faith

This November,
Smiles down at us

With its temperate sun

Its derailed tracks

Its alarm clocked underground routine

Messages on trains and greyhound busses

Slit throats bathed in the forgiveness of popes

Sacraments soaked in the concept of

Anxiety

Brevity

This November,
Without choice

The eleventh

Set as an Acheronian stud in a cameo

The rows of windows

People dis/appear in dim streets

They dis/appear in my mail

Their white poems against the black of Truck

With my acknowledgment to my

Moving November Poets

This November,
In the life of all

Distanced in our flesh

Distracted in our oaths

Hyper-attentive

Booted steps in echoing bells

Coats / cloaks

“Anything but loss”

Pleading for the word God gives to the Just

From those milky sky-s.

This November, 
Cold at the end

In the bones

With Thanksgiving on Fb

Teas honey chestnuts

Coughing

Giving thanks:

The girl is still alive

Distant

But still alive.
© Anny Ballardini
TRUCK November issue 2014

Six Poems by Donna Fleischer | TRUCK – Anny Ballardini, Guest Editor, November 9, 2014

Wind Drives the Rain

by Donna Fleischer

In your time there have been those who spoke clearly for the moment of lightning.
Muriel Rukeyser (Are You Born? Are You Born?)

 

Truck: Donna Fleischer.

Anny Ballardini’s Response to Jake Berry’s Poetry Wide Open: The Otherstream (Fragments In Motion) / The Argotist Online

Fiera Lingue The Poets’ Corner

Anny Ballardini’s Response to Jake Berry’s Poetry Wide Open: The Otherstream (Fragments In Motion)

Poetry Wide Open: The Otherstream (Fragments In Motion), by Jake Berry / the Argotist

The Reader of Novels by Belgian Romanticist , Antoine Wiertz

Poetry Wide Open: The Otherstream (Fragments In Motion), by Jake Berry / the Argotist

The Barcelona I have never seen, by Anny Ballardini / On Barcelona

Anny Ballardini

The Barcelona I have never seen
How many masks wear we, and undermasks,
Upon our countenance of soul,
Fernando Pessoa, VIII
A wide expanse of walls:
surrounding thoughts
cool in summer / cold in winter
in those damp dark months
of a Barcelona I have never seen
cracked cups, blurred screens mirroring
wet windowpanes
a row of hanging pictures of departed
stiff on sepia paper, plastically distant ancestors
where their soul? Time stolen
in narrow twisting roads
echoing battering hooves
clatter, noisy rumors, disturbing chatter
to crash you into a claustral charm
no, this is not your Barcelona
maybe a distant Lisboa brought to life by Pessoa
with a restaurant, a walk, a glass of Oporto
and lines and skies, and infinite stars
trapped inside an expanse of walls
cool in summer / cold for all
***
***

Poem by Anny Ballardini / Mad Hatters’ Review Blog

Poem by Anny Ballardini | Mad Hatters’ Review Blog.

LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS / NarcissusWorks

 

 

NarcissusWorks: LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS LOSS.