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Cos’è un Poetry Reading?
Il rapporto tra i caffè, il caffè, e la poesia.

Quando vivevo a San Diego, frequentavo degli eventi dove poeti professionisti leggevano le loro opere in un ambiente supportante e confortevole – che diventava non solo uno spazio di condivisione, ma una sorta di terapia di ascolto collettiva.

Si chiamavano “Poetry Readings” – letteralmente “Letture di Poesia”.

Erano sempre in coffee shops, cioè caffè in cui ci si dilungava molto di più dei nostri “bar”.
Sempre di sera o di notte.
I coffee shops sono naturalmente figli dei caffè letterari del Quartier Latin di Parigi, a loro volta figli dei caffè intellettuali di Vienna.
Il caffè – chiamato dalla chiesa cattolica “la bevanda del diavolo”.

Avevo fatto un po’ di fatica a trovarli, i poeti di San Diego. San Diego e il Sud della California non sono New York.
I poeti si nascondono, e, molte volte, eventi di natura artistica, in California come in Calabria, non hanno una cadenza regolare.

Ma il gruppo che avevo scovato su Instagram, grazie al mio amico scrittore ed esperto di coffee shops e caffè John Rippo, si incontrava ogni settimana, nel seminterrato (basement) di un grande coffee shop annesso a pub/ ristorante, con spazi interni ed esterni vicino ad un piccolo parco urbano.
Era nella zona est di San Diego (East Village), il vecchio quartiere degli artisti di San Diego, prima che arrivasse la gentrificazione.

I poeti, gli outsiders e i “disadattati” ( perché gli artisti sono sempre fuori degli schemi, fuori posto, e si sentono a casa solo nella loro testa e cuore) scendevano nel seminterrato scuro, dove c’era un barman, tavolini, sgabelli, un palco e luci.

Si chiamavano Poets Underground – i “Poeti Sottoterra”. Il progetto era stato fondato da una giovane coppia di attivisti e poeti di San Diego. L’arte è bellezza, e loro erano belli, intelligenti e fotogenici. L’avvenenza, dalla nascita della pubblicità, viene usata per lo più a scopi consumistici e manipolatori – ma in questo caso, era a servizio dell’arte. Non si sarebbe potuto chiedere campioni migliori per la poesia.

Durante i poetry readings domenicali, un giovane poeta al microfono, che si chiamava con un nome femminile, invitava gli artisti per nome, da una lista, e commentava le poesie lette con parole di seta, abbracci letterari.
C’era il mixer e il tutto era molto avanzato.
Una scultrice locale era stata chiamata a provvedere la scenografia.

In prima fila, un pittore dipingeva ritratti estemporanei di tutti i poeti – li connetteva alle immagini che ognuno evocava. Li regalava, queste opere su cartoncino per acquerello di 15cm x 20, ad ognuno.
Faceva parte di un gruppo di artisti a cui avevo aderito anche io, si andava a dipingere i musicisti jazz ogni mercoledì sera a Balboa Park.

Questa ultima frase sembra l’inizio di un racconto, di un libro. Forse era tutto un sogno…

—

L’idea di organizzare un salotto poetico / poetry reading qui in Calabria, nella mia zona, mi è venuta lo scorso Settembre, il mese più dolce, quando ho organizzato la festa di compleanno alla mia Baracca del Bucaniere – e ho chiesto a tutti gli invitati di portarmi poesie sulla Calabria, se mai volessero portare un regalo.

La Baracca si è trasformata per una sera in uno spazio di poesia per la nostra terra; la sua magia di scultura, di sale e di storia, si è unita alla magia delle parole, al calore del dialetto Calabrese.

Abbiamo anche avuto l’intervento di un poeta Calabrese “deportato” al nord, Tito Truglia, che ci ha regalato il suo canto sul pane; la sua voce arrivata via messenger, come le registrazioni del mare nel film “Il Postino”- solo con mezzi più sofisticati.
Non potevo chiedere un compleanno più bello.

“I poeti sono pittori di parole,
la voce umana il più antico modo
per imparare”

Come continuare questo momento d’incontro in versi quando il tempo non permetteva più di riunirsi sotto le stelle, accanto al rumore delle onde?

È nata la necessità di trovare un rifugio, una casa per incontri di poesia e arte per la stagione più fredda.

Da quando sono arrivata in Calabria cerco un coffee shop dove lavorare e incontrare; un salotto, come lo era per me Cafè Bassam a San Diego. Non c’è niente da fare, si cerca sempre di sostituire ciò che si è perso. Visitavo bar e caffè locali come se facessi colloqui di lavoro, per scegliere il mio candidato. L’atmosfera è tutto. Come la simpatia e disponibilità dello staff.

Da quest’estate facevo sopralluoghi a Calabrian Bakery; un giorno sono andata a sbirciare la locanda del seminterrato (da architetto e artista, sono sempre curiosa dei vari spazi proposti e situazioni di bar e caffè).
Ho capito immediatamente che quello spazio era perfetto per un incontro di poetry reading : intimo, nascosto, isolato ma accessibile- come tutti gli artisti – generoso in misura giusta e accogliente.
Un riparo perfetto dal mondo, la stiva di una barca, un rifugio anti-bomba.

Parentesi : Gli artisti amano e hanno bisogno di attici e scantinati, poesie e grotte.
Grotte? Si. Avete visto il film “ Carpe Diem”?
I ragazzi si riunivano in una grotta, di notte, a leggere a lume di candela poesie di “poeti morti”.
Perché sempre isolati?
Perché Sebastian leggeva il libro della Storia Infinita in una mansarda polverosa della scuola, chiusa? Perche’ io da adolescente quando “salavo” ( marinavo la scuola) andavo in case abbandonate vicino a Pietragrande o nei non finiti palazzi a leggere i libri di Stephen King, pensando a Sebastian?
Perché solai?
Perché è così. Perché gli artisti sono “strani” e diversi e sono sempre “altrove”. Forse hanno bisogno di isolarsi per ricreare e proteggere quel mondo interiore che portano dentro di loro.
Se mi vengono altre spiegazioni ve le dirò la prossima volta. Chiusa parentesi.

Lo staff di Calabrian Bakery è stato molto accogliente quando ho presentato l’idea di incontri artistico-poetici. La cadenza regolare era fondamentale.
Volevo combinare tutte le idee belle che avevo vissuto a San Diego: poesia e arte.
Un “open mike”, un “microfono aperto”, che invitava anche musicisti, cantautori, sessioni acustiche, unplugged.
Potremo fare anche jazz prossimamente, con un gruppo di artisti che li ritrae – così da rendere il trapianto “Calabriforniano” completo .
Si vive nelle città fuori per imparare, e poi si importano idee.

Da subito, ho proposto la collaborazione e co-creazione del salotto con Gabriele Ruggiu e Anna Lisa e il loro Collettivo Pamuk, un collettivo di artisti e creativi di cui sono co-fondatrice.

Gabriele e Anna Lisa sono entrati nella mia vita tramite il Professore Giuseppe Pisano, con cui ho cominciato a lavorare per il progetto MiA Calabria, un progetto arrivato dalla California e da Luisa Schultz. Questo per dire che la California, e Luisa, hanno cambiato la mia vita qui in Calabria, e ne saro’ grata per sempre. Questo per dire che il Basement Poets’ Cafe’ é Calabriforniano come me.

Il Collettivo Pamuk ha attivato le sue forze e reti ;
le locandine e i contatti che ho avuto la fortuna di creare in questo primo anno qui hanno fatto il resto,
fra proteste contro pale eoliche, cerchi di donne sotto la luna, attivismo per la Palestina, e la conoscenza di donne impegnate contro la violenza su altre donne.
Le mie reti sono fatte di pace, arte e protesta.

Così, il 13 Febbraio abbiamo avuto il nostro primo evento, il nostro esordio.

Ho scritto questo dopo essere tornata a casa :

“E’ difficile mettere a parole cosa è successo questa sera al primo incontro del nostro salotto poetico – artistico.
Dovevi esserci.
Ho fatto solo un paio di foto velocissime perché ero presente nel qui-adesso.
Ma posso dire che si è creato qualcosa di magico.

Trenta persone sono venute dai paesini e paesi vicino Montepaone Lido, e alcuni persino da Catanzaro, la capitale della Calabria- e ci hanno onorato .. si è scoperto che non hanno poetry readings a cadenza regolare lí.

Il talento dei poeti che hanno letto mi ha
LETTERALMENTE SPIAZZATO.
La Calabria mi spiazza sempre.
Abbiamo avuto arte, poesie ed estratti di libri, persino teatro— musica di pace, canzoni internazionali e canzoni italiane che sembravano già famose.
Ci siamo commossi, perché è vero, l’arte e la bellezza salvano il mondo.

Altra parentesi: qualcuno si è sorpreso per quanto l’evento fosse partecipato nonostante il Festival di Sanremo; ma gli outsiders non mettono eventi nazionalpopolari come priorità – e l’arte l’abbiamo vista dal vivo, senza schermi. Canzoni originali molto ma molto più belle di alcune presentate in Liguria.
Essendo Calabresi, si guarda solo per tifare per il nostro poeta di Cosenza, Dario Brunori Brunori Sas.
Chiusa parentesi.

I poetry readings ed eventi di arte non devono essere condivisi nella loro integrità- sono come cibo squisito.
Le riprese di una cena indimenticabile non renderanno mai cosa vuol dire aver avuto la fortuna di assaporare e vivere quel pasto.

La poesia tradotta, insegna il film Paterson, è come fare la doccia con l’ impermeabile. Non si può spiegare l’essere insieme ed essere toccati da tutte le Muse in contemporanea.

I poetry readings vanno vissuti, come i baci, come la musica dal vivo, non rendono ad essere raccontati. L’arte va vissuta sulla pelle.

E questa sera le nostre anime si sono riempite perché questa terra che tutti dicono in emorragia di abitanti, ha energie nascoste- ha diamanti se li sai cercare…
è proprio perché le luci sono più rare che sono ancora più belle quando le trovi.
Mai sottovalutare la Calabria e i Calabresi.

Abbiamo avuto un’ospite speciale a sorpresa,
l’antropologa e raconteur Patrizia Giancotti, che porta sempre storie da lontano.. ci ha trasportato in Brasile e ci ha fatto un regalo che non dimenticheremo mai.
Luci nella nebbia fitta, ecco cosa sono i salotti di poesia in Calabria, a Febbraio.

incongruenza in un mondo di produzione, eppure abbiamo VOLATO stasera.

Siamo stati a New York, in California, poi in Calabria con una bellissima poesia in dialetto, siamo stati nelle note di bellissime canzoni italiane e suoni di pace in Inglese.

Siamo radicati qui, ma abbiamo il mondo in testa.
radici ed ali.

Ho ascoltato per la prima volta poeti italiani e stanotte il mio cuore é pieno perché ha trovato casa, altri poeti e artisti.
Altre persone che parlano la mia lingua.

E la cosa più bella é stata vedervi parlare alla fine e conoscervi tutti, come naufraghi che si ritrovano, e non volevate andare via dopo che il bar aveva chiuso. Gli artisti, assieme, cambiano il mondo.

Forse sono una sognatrice, ma da ragazza ho letto del salotto di Madame De Stael, e poi da grande di Gertrude Stein, e degli artisti e scrittori che aveva riunito nella Parigi negli anni ‘20.

Poi ci sono stati i tanti poetry readings negli Stati Uniti. I poeti del Mercoledì ( Wednesday Night Poets) di Fargo.

Tutto nasce però prima dai libri e poesie di Gianni Rodari e la mia scuola a Milano, il liceo linguistico, con letteratura Romantica in Inglese, Francese e Tedesco ; il film “Dead Poets’ Society”- La Società dei Poeti Morti ( in Italiano Carpe Diem). Grazie a mio cugino Alexander Aiello che mi ha regalato la videocassetta l’ho visto fino ad impararlo a memoria.

Poi i miei grandi professori di letteratura negli USA, dove ho quasi preso una laurea minore in letteratura Inglese : Dale Hanneman, Steve Ward, David Martinson.
Tutti tasselli che spiegano parte del mosaico della mia vita.

Mi sono detta: se non c’è un evento a cui vuoi andare, crealo- e ho imparato da Marco Manfredini e Antonella Pascuzzo l’espressione italiana ‘fare rete’.

L’esordio del Basement Poets’ Cafe non sarebbe successo senza l’aiuto di Gabriele e Anna Lisa, i loro sforzi e risorse.
Il @collettivopamuk, figlio di Gabriele, farà grandi cose per la nostra zona e la Calabria – e per noi artisti.

É ora di andare a letto ma volevo catturare l’impossibile, la magia di una notte,
come catturare lucciole che illuminino la strada
fino al nostro prossimo incontro.

Il mio cuore é felice e sono tre metri sopra il cielo.
Le parole sincere che avete detto a me, ad Anna Lisa e a Gabriele per ció che abbiamo creato sono il nostro CARBURANTE.

É celebrando la creatività umana che ci guariamo e guariamo, un pezzettino alla volta, un mondo malato di tecnologia, violenze,
egoismo e apatia

Forse in tempi di tempesta
la cosa migliore
é essere faro.

”

Grazie a chi ha partecipato con la sua essenza, grazie di averci regalato un po’ di voi— e grazie a chi ascoltato.
I pittori hanno bisogno dei vostri occhi, i poeti hanno bisogno di chi li legge e ama.

[]

Basement Poets’ Café

The birth and origins of a poetic-artistic salon in Montepaone Lido (Catanzaro).

What is a Poetry Reading?
The relationship between cafés, coffee, and poetry.

When I lived in San Diego, I attended events where professional poets read their works in a supportive and comfortable environment – which became not only a space for sharing but a sort of collective listening therapy.

They were called “Poetry Readings.”

They were always in coffee shops – places where one could linger much longer than in our “bars.”
Always in the evening or at night.
Coffee shops are naturally the descendants of the literary cafés of the Latin Quarter in Paris, which in turn are descendants of the intellectual cafés of Vienna.
Coffee – called by the Catholic Church “the devil’s drink.”

I had a bit of trouble finding them, the poets in San Diego. San Diego and Southern California are not New York. Poets hide, and often, artistic events, in California as well as in Calabria, don’t have a regular rhythm.

But the group I found on Instagram, thanks to my writer friend and coffee shop expert John Rippo, met every week in the basement of a large coffee shop attached to a pub/restaurant, with indoor and outdoor spaces near a small urban park.
It was in the East Village of San Diego, the old artist neighborhood of the city, before gentrification arrived.

The poets, outsiders, and “misfits” (because artists are always outside of the norm, out of place, and feel at home only in their heads and hearts) would descend into the dark basement, where there was a bartender, tables, stools, a stage, and lights.

They were called Poets Underground. The project was founded by a young couple of activists and poets from San Diego. Art is beauty, and they were beautiful, intelligent, and photogenic. Beauty, since the birth of advertising, has mostly been used for consumerist and manipulative purposes – but in this case, it was in the service of art. You couldn’t have asked for better role models for poetry.

During the Sunday poetry readings, a young poet, with a female name, would invite artists by name from a list and comment on the poems read with silky words, literary embraces.
There was a mixer, and everything was very advanced.
A local sculptor had been asked to provide the set design.

In the front row, a painter would paint impromptu portraits of all the poets – connecting them to the images each one evoked.
He would gift them, these works on watercolor cardboard 15cm x 20cm, to each poet.
He was part of a group of artists I had joined, and every Wednesday night we would go to paint jazz musicians at Balboa Park.

This last sentence sounds like the beginning of a story, a book. Perhaps it was all a dream…

The idea of organizing a poetry salon/reading here in Calabria, in my area, came to me last September, the sweetest month, when I organized my birthday party at my Baracca del Bucaniere – and I asked all the guests to bring me poems about Calabria, in case they wanted to bring a gift.

The Baracca transformed for one evening into a poetry space for our land; its magic of sculpture, rooms, and history merged with the magic of words, the warmth of the Calabrian dialect.

We even had the intervention of a Calabrian poet “deported” to the North, Tito Truglia, who gifted us his song about bread; his voice arrived via messenger, like the recordings of the sea in the movie Il Postino – just with more sophisticated means.
I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful birthday.

“Poets are painters of words,
the human voice the oldest way
to learn.”

How to continue this moment of meeting in verses when time no longer allowed us to gather under the stars, by the sound of the waves?

The need arose to find a refuge, a home for poetry and art meetings for the colder season.

Since I arrived in Calabria, I’ve been looking for a coffee shop to work and meet in; a salon, like Café Bassam was for me in San Diego. There’s no denying it – we always try to replace what we’ve lost. I visited local bars and cafés as if I were doing job interviews, to choose my candidate. The atmosphere is everything. As is the friendliness and availability of the staff.

Since this summer, I’ve been scouting Calabrian Bakery; one day I went to peek into the basement inn (as an architect and artist, I’m always curious about the various spaces proposed and bar/café situations).
I immediately understood that this space was perfect for a poetry reading: intimate, hidden, isolated yet accessible – like all artists – generously just the right amount and welcoming.
A perfect shelter from the world, the hold of a boat, a bomb shelter.

Side note: Artists love and need attics and basements, poems and caves.
Caves? Yes. Have you seen the movie Carpe Diem?
The boys gathered in a cave at night, reading by candlelight poems of “dead poets.”
Why always isolated?
Why did Sebastian read the book The Neverending Story in a dusty attic of the school, locked? Because I, as a teenager, when I “skipped” school, went to abandoned houses near Pietragrande or unfinished buildings to read Stephen King’s books, thinking about Sebastian?
Why attics?
Because that’s how it is. Artists are “strange” and different, and they are always “elsewhere.” Perhaps they need to isolate themselves to recreate and protect the inner world they carry inside them.
If I come up with other explanations, I’ll tell you next time. End of side note.

The staff at Calabrian Bakery was very welcoming when I presented the idea of artistic-poetic gatherings. A regular cadence was essential.
I wanted to combine all the beautiful ideas I had experienced in San Diego: poetry and art.
An “open mike” that also invited musicians, singer-songwriters, acoustic sessions, unplugged.
We could even do jazz soon, with a group of artists who would paint them – thus completing the “Calabrifornian” transplant .
We live in cities to learn, and then import ideas.

From the start, I proposed collaborating and co-creating the salon with Gabriele Ruggiu and Anna Lisa and their Collettivo Pamuk, a collective of artists and creatives of which I am a co-founder.

Gabriele and Anna Lisa entered my life through Professor Giuseppe Pisano, with whom I began working for the MiA Calabria project, a project that came from California and Luisa Schultz. This is to say that California, and Luisa, changed my life here in Calabria, and I will be forever grateful. This is to say that the Basement Poets’ Café is Calabrifornian, just like me.

The Collettivo Pamuk activated its forces and networks;
the posters and contacts I’ve had the fortune of creating in this first year here did the rest,
among protests against wind turbines, women’s circles under the moon, activism for Palestine, and meeting women engaged against violence toward other women.
My networks are made of peace, art, and protest.

So, on February 13th, we had our first event, our debut.

I wrote this after returning home:

“It’s hard to put into words what happened tonight at the first meeting of our artistic-poetic salon.
You should have been there.
I only took a couple of very quick photos because I was present in the here-and-now.
But I can say that something magical was created.

Thirty people came from the little towns and villages near Montepaone Lido, and some even from Catanzaro, the capital of Calabria – and they honored us… it turned out they don’t have regular poetry readings there.

The talent of the poets who read literally BLOWN MY MIND.
Calabria always blows my mind.
We had art, poetry, and book excerpts, music of peace, international songs, and Italian songs that already seemed famous.
We were moved because it’s true, art and beauty save the world.

Poetry readings and art events should not be shared in their entirety – they are like exquisite food.
Footage of an unforgettable dinner will never explain what it means to have had the fortune of savoring and living that meal.

Poetry, translated, teaches the movie Paterson, is like taking a shower with a raincoat on. You can’t explain being together and being touched by all the Muses at once.

Poetry readings need to be lived, like kisses, like live music – they don’t translate well into being told.
Art needs to be felt on the skin.

And tonight, our souls were filled, and we were moved – because this land, which everyone says is hemorrhaging inhabitants, has hidden energies – it has diamonds if you know how to look for them…
it’s precisely because the lights are rarer that they are even more beautiful when you find them.

We had a surprise special guest,
anthropologist and raconteur Patrizia Giancotti, who always brings stories from afar, and stories of Calabria… who took us to Brazil and gave us a gift we will never forget.
Lights in the thick fog – that’s what poetry salons in Calabria are like, in February.

Incongruity in a world of production, yet we FLEW tonight.

We were in New York, in California, then in Calabria with a beautiful poem in dialect, we were in the notes of beautiful Italian songs and sounds of peace in English.

We are rooted here, but we have the world in our heads.
Roots and wings.

I listened for the first time to Italian poets, and tonight my heart is full because it found a home, other poets and artists.
Other people who speak my language.

And the most beautiful thing was seeing you talk at the end and getting to know each other, like castaways finding each other, and you didn’t want to leave after the bar had closed. Artists, together, change the world.

Perhaps I’m a dreamer, but as a young girl, I read about Madame De Stael’s salon in Paris Here’s the translation to English:

“Then, as an adult, Gertrude Stein, and the artists and writers she gathered in Paris in the 1920s.

Then there were the many poetry readings in the United States. The Wednesday Night Poets of Fargo. Ryan Trauman.

But it all begins earlier with the books and poems of Gianni Rodari and my school in Milan, the linguistic high school, with Romantic literature in English, French, and German; the movie Dead Poets’ Society (in Italian Carpe Diem). Thanks to my cousin Alexander Aiello, who gave me the VHS tape, I watched it until I memorized it. Then my great English teachers, poets, and literature professors in the USA, where I almost earned a minor in English literature: Dale Hanneman, Steve Ward, David Martinson.
All pieces that explain part of the mosaic of my life.

I told myself: if there’s no event you want to go to, create it—and I learned from Marco and Antonella the Italian expression ‘fare rete’ (building a network).

The debut of the Basement Poets’ Cafe wouldn’t have happened without the help of Gabriele and Anna Lisa, their efforts and resources.
The @collettivopamuk, Gabriele’s son, will do great things for our area and for Calabria—and for us artists.

It’s time to go to bed, but I wanted to capture the impossible, the magic of a night,
like catching fireflies that light the way to our next meeting.

My heart is happy, and I’m three meters above the sky.
The sincere words you said to me and to Anna Lisa and Gabriele for what we created are our FUEL.

It is by celebrating human creativity that we heal and heal, piece by piece, a world sick with technology, violence,
selfishness, and apathy.

Perhaps in times of storm
the best thing
is to be a lighthouse.

”

Thank you to those who participated with their essence, thank you for giving us a bit of yourselves—and thanks to those who listened.
Painters need your eyes, poets need those who read them and love them.”

[ENG/ITA]

In times of wars

what did we save

from the fire

what survived 

the strong southern winds 

come to bring me back home

— all my things are still 

lining the staircase.

fools that we were, 

thinking we could find love

in times of wars.

like painting with sea water. 

i did not know

moves are made of 

dozens of cuts.

if you’re going to leave, 

leave fast, she wrote, 

and don’t look back. 

books were hard—

the poetry books the hardest.

dear drawings and notebooks

ephemera, possible futures

a Ganesha statue 

—all the beloved housethings

that made up a tender home.

Let go. 

moves are made of pyres

and mournings.

blow it all away

the intricate sand mandala 

of that life

everything is different now, and brand new

‘evolution requires elimination’

erykah says. 

yet, why do things left behind

still rip through me at times?

we donated, we sorted, 

i packed and shipped

i packed and shipped

i packed and shipped

it was not enough.

delusional about the weight of things, and time 

in the mad last day 

a lot was left in the motel room

a u-haul worth of beauty in the dumpsters, 

unpretty side of town.

I deserved better but

— then only planes. 

in another life

i would carry

heapfuls in my arms, 

as mothers carry their children 

out of a burning building. 

i would have more time,

i could save more.

but my back needed heat to function

my shoulder was injured

and my hands, 

the same long fingers made for art,

swollen and painful, nails down to nubs.

it took three months to recover.

i did not know moves and possessions

could destroy a body

this way. 

don’t tell me you know

if you have not emptied a home 

and a storage  

of thirteen years

If you haven’t been away

for twenty-eight

if you never lost 

one thousand books

these days I tell myself

it couldn’t have gone any different 

(and how can i speak of loss

in times of wars and genocide) 

I look at what made it and 

i’m grateful. 

i forgive me.

thirty-one boxes.

the rest, i imagine, was lost in a shipwreck,

containers flying into the sea, north atlantic.

i have my hands. and all my art.

my life was never american

but my leaving town yes

messy, hurried, 

few loose ends

a fugitive 

quick, before california the sweet 

— a siren —

sinks her claws into you again

quick, before california the beautiful 

sings ‘but you can never leave

i made it out

not enough is written about how difficult it is

to leave what is easy for what is real

living in paradise could cost

your soul 

in a movie I would drive off with sunglasses

never look in the rear-view mirror 

cowboy boots, miniskirt, cigarette 

I would cross into Mexico.

I would never come back.

In tempi di Guerra

cosa abbiamo salvato

dal fuoco

cosa e’ sopravvissuto

ai forti venti meridionali

venuti a riportarmi a casa

— tutte le mie cose sono ancora

allineate sulla scala.

sciocchi che eravamo,

pensando di poter trovare amore

in tempi di guerre.

come dipingere con acqua di mare.

non sapevo

che I traslochi fossero fatti di

dozzine di tagli.

se te ne vai,

vai veloce, scrisse lei,

e non guardare indietro.

i libri sono stati duri —

 i libri di poesia ancora di piu.

cari disegni e quaderni

materiale per collage, futuri possibili

una statua di Ganesha

— tutte le amate cose domestiche

che costituivano una tenera casa.

Lascia andare.

i traslochi sono fatti di roghi

e lutti.

soffia via tutto!

l’ intricato mandala di sabbia

di quella vita

ora tutto è diverso e completamente nuovo

‘l’evoluzione richiede eliminazione’

dice erykah.

eppure, perché le cose lasciate alle spalle

mi squarciano ancora, a volte?

abbiamo donato, abbiamo ordinato,

ho imballato e spedito

ho imballato e spedito

ho imballato e spedito

non è stato sufficiente.

Ignara e illusa riguardo al peso delle cose, al tempo

nel folle ultimo giorno

molto è stato lasciato nella stanza del motel

un furgone pieno di bellezza nei cassonetti,

lato poco attraente della città.

meritavo di meglio ma

— poi solo aerei.

in un’altra vita

porterei le mie cose. tra le braccia,

come le madri portano i loro bambini

fuori da un edificio in fiamme.

avrei più tempo,

potrei salvare di più.

ma la mia schiena aveva bisogno di calore per funzionare

la mia spalla era ferita

e le mie mani,

le stesse dita lunghe fatte per l’arte, gonfie e doloranti,

unghie ridotte a moncherini.

ci sono voluti tre mesi per riprendermii.

non sapevo che i traslochi, e cio’ che uno possiede

potessero distruggere un corpo

in questo modo.

non dirmi che lo sai

se non hai svuotato una casa

e uno scantinato

di tredici anni

se non sei tornato

dopo ventotto,

se non hai mai perso

mille libri

in questi giorni mi dico

non poteva andare diversamente

guardo cosa è sopravvissuto e

sono grata.

mi perdono.

trentuno scatole.

il resto, immagino, è stato perso in un naufragio,

containers che volavano in mare, nord atlantico.

ho le mie mani. e tutta la mia arte.

la mia vita non è mai stata americana

ma la mia partenza sì

confusa, frettolosa,

alcune cose da sistemare

una fuggiasca

veloce, prima che la dolce california

— una sirena —

ti affondi di nuovo le unghie addosso

veloce, prima che la bella california

canti ‘ma non potrai mai andare via’

ce l’ho fatta ad uscire

non si scrive abbastanza su quanto sia difficile

lasciare ciò che è facile per ciò che è reale

vivere in un paradiso potrebbe costare

l’anima

in un film guiderei via con gli occhiali da sole

non guarderei mai nello specchietto retrovisore

stivali da cowboy, minigonna, sigaretta

attraverserei il confine con il Messico.

non tornerei mai più.

Miti Aiello, Calalunga di Montauro, March 5th, 2024

Katherine Graham writes in her Pulitzer Prize-winning memoir, Personal History:

“There are certain experiences — childbirth is one; moving is another — that nature and time definitely draw a curtain on, so you forget in between times how painful they are.”

As Graham highlights for us, moving is one of life’s great “pains.”

Huff Post

Poetry is a form of confession.

This poem processes an oversea move after twenty-eight years, a return home and inherent metamorphoses. In tectonic life shifts there are bound to be casualties.

Moving is the start of “a new history” (New York Times), and the end of an era.

Moving is so much more than packing, purging, losses, exhaustion, burnout and overwhelm, then unpacking and settling.

It’s about self-compassion.

It’s about surrendering to, and managing, negative perfectionism.

It’s about the gentle dance of needing space and time to process, while seeking and desiring new networks, new sights.

In its highest expression, releasing is cathartic.

My move involved countless cuts; it was funeral pyre. It required mournings.

The innermost workings – and bargaining- required in one of the major tests of our life are invisible and unknowable to even our close family members. As for us, each layer of learning is peeled and revealed over time.

Time- the greatest balm to our sore bodies and minds, covering all aches in welcome veils of forgetfulness.

In short, moving it’s a whole process.

Moves are enormous external work, before, during, and after – yet the massive labor is internal.

I had no idea — and, while the fruit and the rewards are sweet indeed, it was an ordeal- and the most physically Demanding backbreaking work i had to do in my life.

Part of me wishes I prepared myself better but, I realize it was all a demonstration on the impermanence of things (isn’t all of life ?), necessary to teach me about non-attachment.

As with all major life events, life gives you the test first, then the lesson..

Moving is a death experience, Rosemary Beavis writes in her ‘Poem About Moving’. She talks about a ‘process to establish a new root system’’, and how we are given careful instructions for transplanting seedlings, but not ourselves. Michael Walker in Moving House talks about a traveler who may not say goodbye.

I had a faint idea idea that moving was ranked alongside divorce as one of the most stressful life events one will ever go through — now I fully, fully understand. I just learned about moving/ transitional trauma, and there is even such a thing as relocation stress syndrome.

In moves we must leave behind “the stuff that has our souls built in “ (anonymous).

‘Saying goodbye to stuff’ and simplifying can be part of a spiritual test of endurance, it is the spring cleaning of our entire lives.

On the other side of the fire, a new life, and fresh energies.

There is something glorious in escaping the past, and certain futures — movies you have seen before. Here is the alternate ending.

Moves, more or less traumatic, are a right of passage in life’s journey. A lot is lost.. but much more is gained- along with resilience and fortitude.

As for me, in the next life I will hire a move manager. Or become a move manager so I never have to go through the terrible thing.

“The move manager is part psychologist, part mediator, part daughter, who swoops in with a positive, informed attitude and takes the stress off the entire situation.”

Huff Post

What is your experience with moving?

Is there a line in my poem that resonates with you?

Let me know in the comments!

My dearest readers, I can’t believe almost two years have passed since I posted here! So much has happened since Fall/Winter 2020 and my last watercolors.

Since then, more months of partial pandemic living, but the beginning 2021 saw me traveling to Mexico for an extended stay while teaching remotely, and seeing Italy and Florence ( twice! to make up for the Annus Horribilis).

This year I divided my time between Calabria and San Diego. Transformational times, all – and not always conducive to art. Yet, I learned something new every single day.

I teach History of Modern Architecture at the beautiful University of San Diego now. It was a quality leap for me, and I’m inspired and grateful everyday. I also furthered my studies this year and became a Mayo Clinic- trained Wellness Coach, completing the program in Summer 2022. This is something I have longed to study and practice for a while, and I would like to specialize in a holistic approach of mind-body-soul wellness. The idea is also to combine wellness and well-being with architecture.

Art has been at time languishing, at times proceeding in small spurts. Discipline, as my readers know, was never my forte.

What I did make in the past two years ( this summer I was almost back ) I published on Instagram, where I have been focusing on the growth of my account. I started posting all the work from the SketchBloom archives there, and now I have to catch up on my blog with work from my Instagram feed . Obviously this doesn’t make sense. The new workflow, as of today, is to post new work here first, then use Instagram for teasers and as a gallery. Hopefully my followers there will appreciate my words as much as my art.

I wish I presently had more watercolors from the classes I’m taking from my Maestro Luis Camara ( who zooms from Madrid) , but I’m slowly easing into that again, while I continue my “anthology of Visual Poetry” and collecting ideas for future series ( and there is some exciting stuff coming!) . Some people can churn out creative output even under enemy fire, because art is a lifeline and the non-negotiable to everyday. It is their daily therapy, prayer and supreme act of self-care. I am not there yet, and require a modicum of sustained homeostasis, care, and rest to show up to my drawing table, to my sketchbook, to my brushes and colors. Like a plant needs sun and water. The dream is to also have meditation and yoga equally dialed in daily. But I read, practice before inspiration/ motivation (or something like that) …and I get it. We want to have the good habits locked in for when the storms of life come.

But, I have been making enormous strides in the self—care and healing department and currently have lots of projects going on. You will see the branches, fruits and roots that have grown since you last read me.

All along something was missing, though: my long form pieces, writing poetry and cultivating the garden, Sketchbloom, I so lovingly built twelve years ago. Instagram does not allow for a whole lot beyond the canned templates, and, while it was exciting to learn about reels, making videos with my amazing Canvas lamp, and focus on the ( slow,organic) growth of my page, I read about a famous IG personality making a point to post on her blog three times a week. This was the last push I needed to come back to connect and write in a more personal, slow, and mindful way, to take back ownership of my art and write poetry again.

There is something liberating in being able to be in this space without advertising, manipulative algorithms and big corporations. I hope this blog becomes a breath of fresh air to rediscover the quietness of the heart found in art and poetry, and to breathe. I feel like that when I visit DailyZen.

The past in the end, the narrative, the marketplace, as Alan Watts calls it, are all irrelevant, save for the lessons. The last three years have been full of them, and of setbacks both collective and personal. Ten long months of winter. Some brilliant moments and days of absolute joy and beauty stood out: diamonds amongst the thorns, you can count them on one hand.

What matters is this moment, what matters is that I picked up the blogger pen again. My digital studio was never dead but dormant, in hibernation while I solved myself and my life. What matters is that I have not felt this good and this free and this complete in myself since I was a young girl. I read that the prepubescent years are the most unencumbered, spontaneous time in a woman’s life, before hormones, society and the patriarchy begin their programming.

What matters is that I found my voice, and I’m back. Back to myself and here to stay.

Bougainvillea. Watercolor exercise from my class with the watercolor Master Luis Càmara from Madrid. October 2020.

Somewhen else. Perspective and watercolor. Exercise from my class with Maestro Luis Camara from Madrid. October 2020.

The world needs your gift as much as you need to bestow it. May Sargon warns us that “ the gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.”

My teacher Crystal Marie said that, for the artist not to create, or not to be able to create, it is a kind of death.

So to celebrate my return to art in a more intentional direction in 2020, I offer you my new series. The theme is Spirit Trees : I have been drawn to the healing power of trees since quarantine started in March, and they have emerged as my salvation and refuge since the. I live a stone’s throw away from San Diego’s jewel, Balboa Park, where I go daily to walk, hike, do yoga, read, meditate and even use as an “office” and classroom sometimes.

Never before have I been so drawn to trees, and while I have always wanted to spend time in the park I was always too ” busy” and caught up in a myriad préoccupations with no time to sit in nature. I am thankful that one of the silver linings of this year has been reconnecting to Mother Earth and her beautiful trees.

Trees: they are our brothers and sisters, giving love and life unconditionally; each with their unique personality and look, just like human beings.

In Balboa Park i have my two favorite meditation trees, where a squirrel always likes to hang out and we have become friends. One of these trees is pictured in the watercolor above. I have also been looking at and taking photos of trees –aiming to combine spirituality, atmosphere and nature.

It is no wonder that the Buddha meditated under a Bodhi tree- where he found enlightenment. Krishna is said to have given the Gita sermon under a Banyan tree.

It is in this spirit that I have started my tree series in October. Enjoy.

“Some things, like the gift of sacred idleness, are completely impractical, yet necessary”.

Paraphrasing from “Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy” by Sarah Ban Breathnach

Happy Fall!

Is it “oh my God” or “Finally?”

How has your summer been?

Mine was a summer that wasn’t, between the lockdown on international flights and non-stop fulltime teaching plus fulltime academic duties. More work, adjustments, screentime and zoomed/voiced out feelings than i care to admit.

Still, there is gratitude for being able to work, pride in the results achieved with colleagues this summer, and beautiful moments of connections with my students, as we thankfully learn, adapt and evolve to communicate solely through these new media. It was a summer of intense learning, yet the curve was gentler than in the terrible Spring.

The closeness of the human voice substitutes the immediacy of vision – and this whole business of teaching and working remotely is getting a little less painful/ more bearable.

Have patience. All things are difficult before they become easy.

Saadi of Shiraz, Persian Poet, 1210

We are learning, fast, multiple new ways to transmit knowledge, of being there for someone, new ways to stay present, engaging and caring. We are growing and expanding- and this growth will stay with us even when “things return to normal”…whenever and whatever that is. I’m thankful for the enormous adaptability we possess as human beings.

With more Covid-related uncertainty, rightful continued political protests and unrest against police brutality and killings in the U.S, waves of closures and reopenings here in San Diego, the California/ West Coast fires, alarming news from Lebanon, immense trepidation for the upcoming U.S elections –and these are just the top things that come to mind – the summer of 2020 continued the general trend of this year’s suckiness (yes I just used that term) and moments of poignant glory.

(just added, since drafting this on the first day of Fall, the passing of the indomitable US Supreme Court Judge Ruth Bader Ginsburg, a tremendous loss and the terrifying prospect of trump nominating a third judge to the highest court of the land, with multigenerational repercussions)

—- b. r. e. a. t. h. e. —

Personally, there was heartbreak and loss, hope, and gentle local travel in my beautiful state of California and the West Coast.

Endings and beginnings.

As ever, the lovely friends and helpful spirits, old and new, God /Universe put in my path —along with a renewed spiritual practice— saved the day.

I hope you were able to find moments of peace and beauty in the storms of your life, the nation.. the world. I hope you my readers found oases of joy in nature, friends, loved ones, cooking, yoga, joyful movement….art and spiritual practices. Time for yourself, to learn from solitude and silence. I hope, more than ever, you are taking better care of yourselves physically, mentally, spiritually and emotionally – for we are asked to function normally- and, some of us, to work even more, while there is a war going on.

The Surface and the Deep. Watercolor. July 2020.

“When under, remember the surface. When on the surface, remember the deep”. When our days are turbulent and troubled, our challenge is to remember the wave is not the sea. Though it pounds us, the pounding will pass. Though it tosses us about, the tossing will pass, if we don’t fight it. Often our fear misleads us to stay in close to shore, when the safest place is in the deep, if we can get there. Any swimmer knows: stay too close to shore and you will be battered by the surf and undertow. We must swim out past the breakers if we are to know the hammock of the deep. Stay on the land or make it to the deep. It is the in-between that kills.” 

Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening.

I, ever the optimist, even started a running list of “silver linings” which resulted from this uncertain 2020.

Six months into the new reality, and with a full collection of artful masks to wear each day before I step outside —and to remind me of our strange time —these are things I know for sure:

I know right now the good is even better because we all stopped taking things for granted months ago.

Rumi

I know the Global Pause ( as a colleague called it) is a chance for all of us to reassess the “ busyness” a lot of us identified with — and perhaps were distracted by. I know this is a chance for all of us to go deeper, to interiorize, and find the center of calm and stillness inside of us. This is life changing.

I know that the work of lightworkers is needed more than ever, and these times ask each of us to lighten the load of our fellow human beings, in however capacity we can do this. Be a light and help to a neighbor, an elderly acquaintance, a friend you lost track of. We can take this time and insulate ourselves or we can greet our better selves at the end of this surreal journey.

Finally, I know and can vouch for the healing power of movement and Nature. Move that body! Move that body everyday, walk or run among trees or by the ocean. Exercise in the fresh air to revive your mind and minimize the dreaded screen time. Open your windows wide ( if there are no fires around that is ..) Make sure you move everyday at least one hour to combat fatigue, depression and what in Italian we call abbrutimento ( degradation, brutalization) which comes from never leaving your home. Challenge yourself to go to different nature spots, to give your eyes something new to look at, and revive your spirit. Rumi also said the soul needs to travel as much as the feet. Daily loving movement, as the FlyLady calls it, is the foremost way we can help our body feel better- and when we feel better we can be better to those around us. Do anything you can not to go default.

This summer I managed to steal moments of beauty and time for mini-art and writing retreats in long weekends spent in the beautiful “Spanish village by the Sea” San Clemente, California.

In June I ran away to Santa Monica.

There was a brief visit, right before the 4th of July weekend, to a subdued Seattle. The architecture was galvanizing.. and it was so healing for me to give my eyes different views to see, after months of lockdown in San Diego. I visited the Autonomous Zone there and stood in front of menacing police in riot gears . Of course I will share my photo-dossiers of these escapes of mine. All in good time.

This summer I took A LOT of art classes online to stay sane and “force” myself to show up to my art practice. I am on a journey to develop an authentic contribution and I am exploring a lot of techniques and art workshops to find my voice amongst the languages of art. There is a lot of experimenting… right now I’m more sure of what is “ not me” than what is… but the experience is filled with light and play. There is discipline, too.

I hope you are able to follow me and my progress on Instagram, at least unti I develop the practice to post and write here before going for the insta-fix. Below samples of the art exercises I completed and the outcome from the Summer art classes I attended.

What else? I finally started a morning journaling practice centered on my art development, and came up with with my approach to life and art, in the form of the French word “doucement”- softly, sweetly. How to bring a quality of luminosity to everything I am, everything I do?

I watched a film that still echoes, Bright Star, on the Romantic Poet John Keats, started rereading Art & Fear and am finally, systematically, going through my possessions and purging with Marie Kondo’s book.

I know I have said this for years but it took been grounded for a whole summer to finally tackle this.

Until next time, be well!

The influence of a beautiful, helpful, hopeful character is contagious, and may revolutionize a whole town.
Eleanor H. Porter

( american windows and other psychoses )

i remember the cardboard house on the wrong side of the train tracks- perennially in twilight. screened windows shut, curtains drawn on august mornings.

how many layers does it take for you to feel safe

from the outside air

how many fluorescent bulbs for you to feel free

how many guns

we turned the light on to have breakfast. that house never knew breezes, or sunlight.

this saturday night i want to play music from my window — no balcony here. but there are screens, promptly shut if i throw them open to air out the room — the conditioning to fear starts with the white picket fence. the death of beauty with these factory sliding panes, the jail crank, the midwest faux wood panel fan cum light fixture, driveways. You can take the girl out of suburbia but

the great outdoors- a nation of weekend warriors

just not sunlight and breeze in the house

We keep flies away back home, we don’t shut ourselves
in

they don’t like balconies too close

to their neighbors either.

~intermission~ suspend judgement~

I walk the earth, the blades of grass

Tender — my instep sinks, my knees appreciate

We are made of the selfsame matter

You and I

are too

The goddess says,

right before Child’s Pose

“Breathe three-dimensionally”.

This is the global pause.

The “Great Pause” you have been waiting for.

The Slowing Down.

Here. is. your. chance.

The earth holding her breath,

so that you could learn yours.

So that “your soul could catch up

with your body.”

Like the building waiting for the sale,

the lease renewal.

We are all waiting to exhale.

Carla says there are two magic words:

Right.

Now.

I keep my phone in a leather holster :

it is the gun that kills

this moment.

That takes me away from the beauty

of this Now — this silence.

This moment calls for quiet acts.

The solemn going in.

It is a mourning time too, not just a collective coming together ( are we coming together or coming apart? The jury’s still in.)

It is a requiem for The Dream

for those who thought themselves

Untouchable, invincible, immune.

He said he never saw empty shelves in his

forty-six years.

Afterword 

If we could only put poetry

ahead of tidying up

ahead of our lists, even now that we are

home bound

ahead of laundry

I hear my neighbors laugh outside for the first time in 11 years.

The Italian nurse says she works with the same people day and night fighting this war, but she can’t even hug them.

“I haven’t seen their smiles in so long I don’t remember them, their faces before these mask”.

Still the body to still the mind

Only meditation is “like meditation”.

This is the year where everything gets canceled.

Except love

Except time, her hindsight gifts.

The padded silence.

Except our being naked as people, as countries.

Those who lose themselves in crowds in parties in bars now, finally, face themselves. Or not.

If you’ve been saving something for a special occasion:

Well, you are the occasion —

says my art teacher.

This is the time to

Write with fountain pens

on expensive paper

 imported ink.

She taught me to work in silence

So I could hear myself.

I told her about wells, not puddles.

This is the time to burn the incense, aromatherapy of supreme self-care

Light all the candles in all the churches of Italy

( the priest holds mass in front of the photos of the parishioners – and there is police tape on street benches, they are “closed”- we have crossed into the absurd)

I forgot to tell him

In my dream I was on the rooftop of a train

Flying between the skyscrapers of New York

I was exhilarated

In my dream I was riding a motorcycle, free

I forgot to tell him

New York is the beating heart of this country.

[This post and poem were written in March 2020 and only edited today, May 26.]

I return.

With some scraps pasted on watercolor paper, with a draft of a poem. Like a pater familias who periodically abandons the domestic domicile and neglects his duties to answer the siren, wearing only a backpack.

Wanderlust. It’s in my blood.

So, before they shut down California and closed all her beaches ( I can just see the headline of Italian newspapers: California Surrenders), I attended a mixed media workshop taught by an empowering teacher, Crystal Marie.

These are the outcomes ( and voyages ) from Collage and the Intuitive Voice — A Collage and Writing Collaboration , hosted at the idyllic Way Art Yonder Studio, owned by my friend Jana Freeman. My heart rejoices when we take the right turn to the house on the hill, where my spirit can sing, where it is okay to play.

I was able to join Crystal last year for an encaustics and collage workshop last February , with exciting results and exposure to new techniques. I posted my work from that workshop on Instagram and will feature it here next.

This time the experience was deeper. I came away with sooo many lessons, quotable quotes and insights: the journaling/writing aspect of the workshop was incredibly soothing and therapeutic in personal fraught times ( Italy was preeminent in my mind). I love returning to writing, my first love. Most importantly, I was able to reflect and share and CELEBRATE what it means to be an artist.

Now, I could berate myself for only producing artifacts at this intense levels once a year when I attend these workshops, but let’s not do that. Other duties and career and life commitments vie for time..I just enjoy the return each time. Like a soldier returning from war, knocking on a door— as as they say in Mad Men.

Each day is a new beginning, like the title of the little book I found in the alley of my building, full of smoke and the story of a recovering alcoholic. Each breath. Each spring.

These are the days of stasis — the dormant days or deepening ones.

Before I leave you to my draft poem ( upcoming post ) and artifacts from my latest retreat — and a retreat it was, from life and obligations…Art is always a refuge…before I push publish on these collages of words and paper and sticky stuff, I just want to say that this is the time to finally read ”La Noche que Volvimos a Ser Gente”or “The Night We Became People Again” by José Luis González, inspired by the big New York blackout of 2014.

The night will be longer this time.