{"id":3863,"date":"2018-12-23T16:22:06","date_gmt":"2018-12-24T00:22:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/?p=3863"},"modified":"2022-03-20T10:15:44","modified_gmt":"2022-03-20T17:15:44","slug":"gramscis-ashes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/gramscis-ashes\/","title":{"rendered":"Gramsci’s Ashes"},"content":{"rendered":"

I may be dating myself, indeed “classing” myself by embracing this poem so passionately.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

At the turn of this century after several months in Tuscany during which I escaped by train to Rome at any sign of depression, I made an abortive attempt at the opening lines of this poem.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

I loved the opening imagery, largely preserved in my current version, but even back then I knew I\u2019d need to put a real version of my own into terza rima, the high classic form which goes back to Dante. I was not poet enough to do it, I said to myself. So I stashed it away in the archives and thought of it sadly whenever I crossed it in occasional harrowing of my files.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

I don\u2019t want to imply that I have become poet enough to take up this challenge again. That is for others to decide. But something else changed.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

1<\/p>\n

How unlike May, this polluted pall of air
\nmade even murkier in the murk
\n<\/span>of a foreign cemetery plot where<\/p>\n

dazzling shards of light mark
\noff the slobbering sky from calcified
\nyellow fa\u00e7ades set in an immense arc<\/p>\n

hiding the blue hills of Lazio, hanging beside
\n<\/span>the curves of the Tiber. This elegiac May,
\nlike us displaced, malcontent, dissatisfied,<\/p>\n

casts a deathly, peaceful aura of decay
\nover crumbling ramparts. In this twilight
\nappears through the gloom of grey
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

rubble the spectre of an ingenuous fight
\nto make human life over, lost decades
\nof frustration, silence, rotting blight \u2026.
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

You, young hero, lived when delusion
\nwas rife, an Italian May, one which imbues
\nlife with passions, be they grave illusion,<\/p>\n

like our robust fathers\u2019 feckless views.
\nWith a hand already snarled, emaciated,
\n<\/span>not as father but brother, you laid out new<\/p>\n

ideals which elucidate this impasse, fated
\nfor you in death as for ourselves, as dead
\n<\/span>now as you in this dank antiquated
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

boneyard. Once again you are in dreaded
\ndetention, not with virile inmates enclosed
\nbut with aristocrats, in whom ennui is inbred.<\/p>\n

The sole presence beyond theirs is composed
\nof faint clinks on anvils which drift in
\nfrom the forges of Testaccio, juxtaposed<\/p>\n

with Vespers floating over heaps of tin
\njunk, delapidated hovels fallen apart,
\nbeside which an urchin finds within<\/p>\n

the words of a ribald song, as the clouds part.<\/p>\n

2<\/p>\n

In this clash between two worlds: no respite.
\nWe must choose, commit, but there is no end sense
\nbeyond this wretched plot where the trite,<\/p>\n

stubborn and hypocritical pretense
\nprevails that life goes on after living.
\n<\/span>Among the epitaphs there is no suspense.\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n

Graven on these tombs are legends giving
\nbare accounts of the short and brutal fate
\n<\/span>dealt out by common lot, which is unforgiving.<\/p>\n

Billionaires from every imperial state,
\nwhose flesh reeks of greed and rapacity,
\nleave but whiffs of scandal, petty or great.<\/p>\n

Princes and pederasts of known voracity
\nlet just rumors escape from their gilded urns
\nof the unexpunged capacity<\/p>\n

for malevolence which unabashedly burns
\nin their bones. So silence here testifies
\nto the courteous concerns<\/p>\n

of men who remain human, likewise
\n<\/span>that this dull tedium fully becomes
\n<\/span>this dreary place. The indifferent city tries\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n

to confine hush to churches or to slums
\n\u2014 impious piety which costs it splendor.
\nBut the soil within this plot, which succumbs<\/p>\n

to weeds and nettles, also breeds the slender
\ncypress, and dark humidity bedecks
\nthe walls with random shoots of tender<\/p>\n

box which dusk lightens with the complex
\nsavour of moss \u2026. ragged inodorous herbs
\nonto which the purple sky projects<\/p>\n

a hint of mint or rotten hay, which curbs
\nthe melancholy of day and is prelude
\nto a trepidation which disturbs<\/p>\n

the evening. The weather may be rude
\nbut the redolent soil within these grounds
\nrecalls others of a different latitude.<\/p>\n

Its clammy fragrance founds
\nmemories of distant horizons where
\nwoodlands crown lakes scattered out of bounds<\/p>\n

under the English sky, meadows which are
\n<\/span>as green as emeralds or billiard table baize
\nacross which resounds like a prayer:<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd O ye fountains<\/i>\u201d \u2014 a rhapsodic praise
\nof invocation\u2026.<\/p>\n

3<\/p>\n

A red bandana like those insurgents tie
\nrolled around their throats, plus a different shade
\nof scarlet on the waxen earth nearby<\/p>\n

where symbolic geraniums have been laid ….
\nLying among foreign dead, ostracized
\nby bleak Catholic logic to this morbid glade,<\/p>\n

you are reduced to Gramsci\u2019s Ashes<\/i>, despised.
\nTorn between incipient hope and an old distrust,
\nI’ve wended my way to this modest site, surprised<\/p>\n

at the presence of your spirit in your dust
\nhere among us living. (Or maybe is it
\nsomething else, more like lust,<\/p>\n

or even simpler, an enraptured adolescent
\n<\/span>symbiosis of death and sex?)
\nIn this forsaken country, which would not let<\/p>\n

you rest, it feels wrong among these effects
\nof the speechless dead (but also somehow right,
\nsince upon us all falls the same fated hex)<\/p>\n

that more pages would have been left to write
\nof your magnum opus on the day you died.
\nThe blue-bloods buried here bear outright<\/p>\n

witness to the primeval powers plied
\nby those who hold the right to own, who possess
\ncontrol that over sordid centuries has tied<\/p>\n

pomp to scandalous shame. Those without excess
\nwealth bequeath the faintest echoes, like the muted
\nclinks on anvil ringing here which express<\/p>\n

the end of the world in which work was rooted.
\nAnd here I am, a poor man modestly clad
\n<\/span>in clothes paupers ogle in windows reputed<\/p>\n

for bargains which now show the patina added
\nby the filth of lonely streets, the smear
\nof streetcar benches \u2014 I, nomad<\/p>\n

caught between spheres who struggles with the mere
\ndecision to live or not, a daily torment.
\nBut I want to embrace life out of sheer<\/p>\n

love of it, not with the callow, violent
\nand voluptuous love of a confused
\nadolescent, a phase of malcontent<\/p>\n

I detested, since in it was fused
\nbourgeois hatred of the bourgeois I was.
\nYet since the two of us have both been refused<\/p>\n

by and reject power\u2019s ubiquitous laws,
\nis it more than bitterness misused
\nto espouse this other righteous cause?<\/p>\n

Because I lack your rigour, I have not
\nmade real choices, rather perform the rite
\nof postwar decline, besotted with what<\/p>\n

I hate, caught in a despicable plight
\nof divided consciousness…<\/p>\n

4<\/p>\n

My shameful contradiction is clear-cut.
\nAt the same time I am with you and against,
\nwith you in my heart, against you in my gut.<\/p>\n

Traitor in my thoughts to my father\u2019s pretense
\nof social rank, at best a sham of action,
\nI ape his bourgeois state in heated defence<\/p>\n

of instinct and of esthetic passion.
\nEven before I read you I was drawn
\nto the working class, its joys the attraction,<\/p>\n

not its struggle or the millennial dawn
\n<\/span>it promised, not its consciousness of class
\nbut the natural primal force of human<\/p>\n

undertakings, which is lost in mass
\nmovements but casts a poetic glow
\n<\/span>of nostalgia on disasters come to pass.<\/p>\n

More than that I cannot say, since I know
\nmy attachment is abstract, like insincere
\nwords of love when feeling doesn\u2019t flow.<\/p>\n

Like the poor, the hope in which I persevere
\ndemeans me; it becomes an obsession.
\nAs they do I struggle every day for sheer<\/p>\n

survival. Yet in my state of dispossession,
\nhowever bleak, I am the one possessed,
\nbewitched by the most exalting illusion<\/p>\n

of bourgeois mastery, the most blessed
\nand absolute: I own history. But it owns me,
\nenlightens me. What use are insights wrest<\/p>\n

from this perception?<\/p>\n

5<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t mean the individual me, composed
\n<\/span>of given sensual and emotional parts \u2026
\nI have many vices, my fate disclosed<\/p>\n

by provocative names which parse
\nmy original sin, blended with everyday
\ninborn foibles — iniquity of all sorts.<\/p>\n

The private and public acts to which I\u2019m prey
\nincarnate my time on earth
\nand are not immune to the dismay<\/p>\n

of true believers, who, beholden since birth
\nto death, embrace religion to shunt away
\nlight, shedding light on light\u2019s own dearth.<\/p>\n

My own remains are destined for burial
\nat Verano. Catholic too is my struggle,
\nas manical and adversarial<\/p>\n

as any Jesuit\u2019s, while within I juggle
\nboth Talmudic ruse and a histrionic
\nprogressive zeal. Into this muddle<\/p>\n

is also mixed the pretentious chronic
\ntastes of a dandy born back of beyond
\ninto ruddy rustic health. The demonic<\/p>\n

minutiae in my depths where clash and bond
\nAuthority and Anarchy protect me
\nfrom inebriate sin, virtue foregone.<\/p>\n

So the ego lives, conscientiously
\npreserving its own naivet\u00e9. So live I,
\neluding the gist of life, obsessively<\/p>\n

feeling within I cannot deny
\nlife comes down to nasty, brutish oblivion.
\nAt last I grasp (wordless in the wet wind\u2019s sigh<\/p>\n

near you here in Rome, herself hushed, among
\n<\/span>a stand of weary, disconcerted cypress)
\n<\/span>the soul of the man whose own inscription<\/p>\n

reads Shelley. <\/i>Now <\/i>I understand the release
\n<\/span><\/i>of passions so Greek in a patrician
\npilgrim from the North whose caprice<\/p>\n

engulfed him in blind, acqueous perdition,
\nthe carnal and aesthetic glee
\nof his daredevil, juvenile mission.<\/p>\n

Prostrate Italy, as if in the belly
\nof a huge cicada, splays limbs of gleaming
\nsand out along that same sea,<\/p>\n

bestrewn in Lazio with thickets teeming
\nwith baroque pine, glades of green-golden
\narugula. In one of them naps, dreaming<\/p>\n

a Goethean dream, his member swollen
\n<\/span>beneath his rags, a local swain .\u2026
\n<\/span>And on the Maremma coast open<\/p>\n

conduits of dark arrowhead are stained
\nbright by stands of hazel alongside bovine
\npaths a herdsman fills with the Augean<\/p>\n

smells of his youth, heedless of them. The shoreline
\nat Versillia curves before perfumed blind
\n<\/span>tangles of the sea. Inlaid tile roofs shine<\/p>\n

over stucco \u2014 a landscape for humankind
\n<\/span>ressurrected which then disentangles,
\nexposing in somber Cinquale, confined<\/p>\n

by the torrid Apuan Alps, pink spangles
\nagainst the vitreous blue of tumbled rock slides
\ncollapsed in panicked shambles<\/p>\n

of soft, steep fragrance down to the waterside,
\nwhere the sun wrestles with the breeze
\nto extract supreme sweetness from the tides.<\/p>\n

\u2026 Everywhere hums with percussive ease
\nthe unbounded instruments of sex
\nand light. Italy, so used to these,<\/p>\n

doesn\u2019t deign to tremble, instead projects
\na living image of its own demise.
\nYet in hundreds of ports youths on swaying decks,<\/p>\n

their swarthy faces wet with sweat, rise
\n<\/span>and shout out the names of friends on land
\nnear gardens of herbs and cardoons<\/p>\n

or on beaches with fouled sand \u2026<\/p>\n

Would you ask me, here wherein you are walled,
\nto abandon my desperate passion
\nfor being alive in this world?<\/p>\n

6<\/p>\n

I\u2019m going now. I leave you to the evening
\nwhich, though gloomy, falls almost sweetly
\nfor us the living, its pallid light blending<\/p>\n

with shadows in the neighborhood, completely
\nmixing with them, filling up the void around.
\n<\/span>Meanwhile, in the background, discreetly,<\/p>\n

lust for life reignites in the raucous sound
\nof trams rumbling on their rails and human cries
\nin dialect \u2014 music muffled yet profound.<\/p>\n

You feel in these alien\u00a0human allies,
\nas they shout out and laugh, that they are alive
\nin their cubicles, in their wretched highrise<\/p>\n

tenements where the sinister drive
\nand gift of life is like a match consumed,
\ntheir existence but a shudder, a shiver,<\/p>\n

a mortal, communal moment they are doomed
\nto pursue without higher aim
\n<\/span>beyond subsistence, presumed<\/p>\n

the point of life itself. They show the same
\nbehavior as a species whose obsession
\nremains, by whatever name,<\/p>\n

the daily grind of work, corruption
\nhumbly lending to their humble zeal
\na touch of festivity. Useless digression,
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

to speak of ideals in this historically real
\nemptiness, this roar which has fallen still.
\nBetter to admire the stupendous sun-seared<\/p>\n

almost Alexandrian thrill
\n<\/span>of sensuality that shrinks and burns
\n<\/span>everything away impurely, until<\/span><\/p>\n

this world implodes, returns
\nto murk, dragging us back to deserted
\npublic piazzas, to desolate workshop norms \u2026.<\/p>\n

Across bare Testaccio assorted
\nlights already sparkle in the throughfares,
\nfrom the mountain converted<\/p>\n

from shards, over public squares,
\n<\/span>across the bends of the Tiber to the vast
\nblack backdrop hanging in Monteverde air.
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

Then this dazzling diadem shatters. One last
\nburst is followed by a sadness almost
\nmaritime. Nearly time for a repast \u2026.<\/p>\n

Increasingly rare buses host
\nbunches of workers swinging from their doors.
\n<\/span>Unhurried soldiers on leave from their posts<\/p>\n

amble up the slopes past scores
\nof heaps of mud and dry piles of rubbish.
\nIn the shadows hide irate little whores<\/p>\n

waiting among the aphrodisiac trash.
\n<\/span>Not much further among the shanty slums
\nclinging to the hillside or in a gash<\/p>\n

between more sturdy buildings urchins frail
\nas rags play in a spring breeze no longer chill.
\nBurning with brash juvenile<\/p>\n

insolence, bumptious adolescents fill
\nthe festive Roman evening with whistles
\nas they stride down the sidewalk, full<\/p>\n

of themselves. Once darkness signals
\nthat serene night has finally come, rolling
\nmetal shutters crash down closed with joy.<\/p>\n

Then in Piazza Testaccio the sycamores
\nrustle in a wind as mild as after a squall,
\ngently sweeping over the basaltic tuff<\/p>\n

of the Slaughterhouse, steeped in gore
\nand blood. Every gust wafts waste,
\nthe odor of misery and despair.<\/p>\n

Life is movement and commotion.
\n<\/span>They<\/i> are lost in it but lose it with peace
\n<\/span>of mind, since their hearts are full of its emotion.<\/span><\/p>\n

There they are, defenceless people, miserable
\n<\/span>in their enjoyment of the evening. For them
\nare myths born anew. But for me, conscious<\/p>\n

life takes place in history, how can I pretend
\n<\/span>now to act out of genuine passion
\nif I know our history has come to an end?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

After Pier Paolo Pasolini, Le Ceneri di Gramsci<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

1
\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/em>
\nNon \u00e8 di maggio questa impura aria<\/em>
\nche il buio giardino straniero<\/em>
\nfa ancora pi\u00f9 buio, o l\u2019abbaglia<\/em><\/p>\n

con cieche schiarite \u2026 questo cielo<\/em>
\ndi bave sopra gli attici giallini<\/em>
\nche in semicerchi immensi fanno velo<\/em><\/p>\n

alle curve del Tevere, ai turchini<\/em>
\nmonti del Lazio\u2026 Spande una mortale<\/em>
\npace, disamorata come i nostri destini,<\/em><\/p>\n

tra le vecchie muraglie l\u2019autunnale<\/em>
\nmaggio. In esso c\u2019\u00e8 il grigiore del mondo;<\/em>
\nla fine del decennio in cui appare<\/em><\/p>\n

tra le macerie finito il profondo<\/em>
\ne ingenuo sforzo di rifare la vita;<\/em>
\nil silenzio, fradicio e infecondo\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n

Tu giovane, in quel maggio in cui l\u2019errore<\/em>
\nera ancora vita, in quel maggio italiano<\/em>
\nche alla vita aggiungeva almeno ardore;<\/em><\/p>\n

Tu Gramsci, meno sventato e pi\u00f9 sano<\/em>
\ndei nostri padri \u2013 non padre. Ma umile<\/em>
\nfratello \u2013 gi\u00e0 con la tua magra mano<\/em><\/p>\n

delineavi l\u2019ideale che illumina<\/em>
\n(ma non per noi: tu, morto, e noi<\/em>
\nmorti ugualmente, con te, nell\u2019umido<\/em><\/p>\n

giardino) questo silenzio. Non puoi,<\/em>
\nlo vedi?, che riposare in questo sito<\/em>
\nestraneo, ancora confinato. Noia<\/em><\/p>\n

patrizia ti \u00e8 intorno. E, sbiadito,<\/em>
\nsolo ti giunge qualche colpo d\u2019incudine<\/em>
\ndalle officine di Testaccio, sopito<\/em><\/p>\n

nel vespro: tra misere tettoie, nudi<\/em>
\nmucchi di latta, ferrivecchi, dove<\/em>
\ncantando vizioso un garzone gi\u00e0 chiude<\/em><\/p>\n

la sua giornata, mentre intorno spiove.<\/em><\/p>\n

2<\/em><\/p>\n

Tra i due mondi, la tregua, i cui non siamo.<\/em>
\nScelte, dedizioni\u2026. altro suono non hanno<\/em>
\normai che questo del giardino gramo<\/em><\/p>\n

e nobile, in cui caparbio l\u2019inganno<\/em>
\nche tuttavia la vita resta nella morte.<\/em>
\nNei cerchi dei sarcofaghi non fanno<\/em><\/p>\n

che mostrare la superstite sorte<\/em>
\ndi gente laica le laiche iscrizioni<\/em>
\nin queste grige pietre, corte<\/em><\/p>\n

e impotenti. Ancora di passioni<\/em>
\nsfrenate senza scandalo son arse<\/em>
\nle ossa dei miliardari di nazioni<\/em><\/p>\n

pi\u00f9 grandi; ronzano, quasi mai scomparse,<\/em>
\nle ironie dei principi, dei pederasti,<\/em>
\ni cui corpi sono nell\u2019urne sparse<\/em><\/p>\n

inceneriti e non ancora casti.<\/em>
\nQui il silenzio della morte \u00e8 fede<\/em>
\ndi un civile silenzio di uomini rimasti<\/em><\/p>\n

uomini, di un tedio che nel tedio<\/em>
\ndel Parco, discreto muta:e la citt\u00e0<\/em>
\nche, indifferente, lo confina in mezzo<\/em><\/p>\n

a tuguri e a chiese, empia nella piet\u00e0,<\/em>
\nvi perde il suo splendore. La sua terra<\/em>
\ngrassa di ortiche e di legumi d\u00e0<\/em><\/p>\n

questi magri cipressi, questa nera<\/em>
\numidit\u00e0 che chiazza i\u00a0 muri intorno<\/em>
\na smorti ghirigori di bosso, che la sera<\/em><\/p>\n

rasserenando spegne in disadorni<\/em>
\nsentori d\u2019alga\u2026. quest\u2019erbetta stenta<\/em>
\ne inodora, dove violetta si sprofonda<\/em><\/p>\n

l\u2019atmosfera, con un brivido di menta,<\/em>
\no fieno marcio, e quieta vi prelude<\/em>
\ncon diurna malinconia, la spenta<\/em><\/p>\n

trepidazione della notte. Rude<\/em>
\ndi clima, dolcissimo di storia, \u00e8<\/em>
\ntra questi muri il suolo in cui trasuda<\/em><\/p>\n

altro suolo; questo umido che<\/em>
\nricorda altro umido, e risuonano<\/em>
\nfamiliari da latitudini e<\/em><\/p>\n

orizzonti dove inglesi selve coronano<\/em>
\nlaghi spersi nel cielo, tra praterie<\/em>
\nverdi come fosforici biliardi o come<\/em><\/p>\n

smeraldi: <<And I ye Fountains\u2026>> – le pie<\/em><\/p>\n

invocazioni\u2026.<\/em><\/p>\n

3<\/em><\/p>\n

Uno straccetto rosso, come quello<\/em>
\narrotolato al collo ai partigiani<\/em>
\ne, presso, l\u2019urna, sul terreno cereo,<\/em><\/p>\n

diversamente rossi, due gerani.<\/em>
\nL\u00ec tu stai, bandito e con dura eleganza<\/em>
\nnon cattolica, elencato tra estranei<\/em><\/p>\n

morti: Le ceneri di Gramsci\u2026Tra speranza<\/em>
\ne vecchia sfiducia, ti accosto, capitato<\/em>
\nper caso in questa magra serra, innanzi<\/em><\/p>\n

alla tua tomba, al tuo spirito restato<\/em>
\nquaggi\u00f9 tra questi liberi. ( O \u00e8 qualcosa<\/em>
\ndi diverso, forse, d pi\u00f9 estasiato<\/em><\/p>\n

e anche di pi\u00f9 umile, ebbra simbiosi<\/em>
\nd\u2019adolescente di sesso con morte\u2026)<\/em>
\nE, da questo paese in cui non ebbe posa<\/em><\/p>\n

la tua tensione, sento quale torto<\/em>
\nqui nella quiete delle tombe \u2013 e insieme<\/em>
\nquale ragione \u2013 nell\u2019inquieta sorte<\/em><\/p>\n

nostra \u2013 tu avessi stilando le supreme<\/em>
\npagine nei giorni del tuo assassinio.<\/em>
\nEcco qui ad attestare il seme<\/em><\/p>\n

non ancora disperso dell\u2019antico dominio,<\/em>
\nquesti morti attaccati a un possesso<\/em>
\nche affonda nei secoli il suo abominio<\/em><\/p>\n

e la sua grandezza: e insieme, ossesso,<\/em>
\nquel vibrare d\u2019incudini, in sordina,<\/em>
\nsoffocato e accorante \u2013 dal dimesso<\/em><\/p>\n

rione \u2013 ad attestarne la fine.<\/em>
\nEd ecco qui me stesso\u2026povero, vestito<\/em>
\ndei panni che i poveri adocchiano in vetrine<\/em><\/p>\n

dal rozzo splendore, e che ha smarrito<\/em>
\nla sporcizia delle pi\u00f9 sperdute strade,<\/em>
\ndelle panche dei tram, da cui stranito<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e8 il mio giorno: mentre sempre pi\u00f9 rade<\/em>
\nho di queste vacanze, nel tormento<\/em>
\ndel mantenermi in vita; e se mi accade<\/em><\/p>\n

di amare il mondo non \u00e8 che per violento<\/em>
\ne ingenuo amore sensuale<\/em>
\ncos\u00ec come, confuso adolescente, un tempo<\/em><\/p>\n

l\u2019odiai, se in esso mi feriva il male<\/em>
\nborghese di me borghese: e ora, scisso<\/em>
\ncon te \u2013 il mondo, oggetto non appare<\/em><\/p>\n

di rancore e quasi di mistico<\/em>
\ndisprezzo, la parte che ne ha il potere?<\/em>
\nEppure senza il tuo rigore, sussisto<\/em><\/p>\n

perch\u00e9 non scelgo. Vivo nel non volere<\/em>
\ndel tramontato dopoguerra: amando<\/em>
\nil mondo che odio \u2013 nella sua miseria<\/em><\/p>\n

sprezzante e perso \u2013 per un oscuro scandalo<\/em>
\ndella coscienza.<\/em><\/p>\n

4<\/i><\/p>\n

Lo scandalo del contraddirmi, dell\u2019essere<\/em>
\nCon te e contro te; con te nel cuore,<\/em>
\nin luce, contro te nelle buie viscere;<\/em><\/p>\n

del mio paterno stato traditore<\/em>
\nnel pensiero, in un\u2019ombra di azione \u2013<\/em>
\nmi so ad esso attaccato nel calore<\/em><\/p>\n

degli istinti, dell\u2019estetica passione,<\/em>
\nattratto da una vita proletaria<\/em>
\na te anteriore, \u00e8 per me religione<\/em><\/p>\n

la sua allegria, non la millenaria<\/em>
\nsua lotta: la sua natura, non la sua<\/em>
\ncoscienza; \u00e8 la forza originaria<\/em><\/p>\n

dell\u2019uomo, che nell\u2019atto s\u2019\u00e8 perduta,<\/em>
\na darle l\u2019ebbrezza della nostalgia,<\/em>
\nuna luce poetica; ed altro pi\u00f9<\/em><\/p>\n

io non so dirne, che non sia<\/em>
\ngiusto ma non sincero, astratto<\/em>
\namore, non accorante simpatia\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n

come i poveri povero, mi attacco<\/em>
\ncome loro a umilianti speranze,<\/em>
\ncome loro per vivere mi batto<\/em><\/p>\n

ogni giorno. Ma nella desolante<\/em>
\nmia condizione di diseredato,<\/em>
\nio possiedo: ed \u00e8 il pi\u00f9 esaltante<\/em><\/p>\n

dei possessi borghesi, lo stato<\/em>
\npi\u00f9 assoluto. Ma come io possiedo la storia,<\/em>
\nessa mi possiede; ne sono illuminato:<\/em><\/p>\n

ma a che serve la luce?<\/em><\/p>\n

5<\/i><\/p>\n

Non dico l\u2019individuale, il fenomeno<\/em>
\ndell\u2019ardore sensuale e sentimentale\u2026.<\/em>
\naltri vizi esso ha, altro \u00e8 il nome<\/em><\/p>\n

e la fatalit\u00e0 del suo peccare..<\/em>
\nMa in esso impastati quali comuni,<\/em>
\nprenatali vizi, e quale<\/em><\/p>\n

oggettivo peccato! Non sono immuni<\/em>
\ngli interni e esterni atti, che lo fanno<\/em>
\nincarnato alla vita, da nessuna<\/em><\/p>\n

delle religioni che nelle vita stanno,<\/em>
\nipoteca di morte, istituite<\/em>
\na ingannare la luce, a dar luce all\u2019inganno.<\/em><\/p>\n

Destinate a esser seppellite<\/em>
\nle sue spoglie al Verano, \u00e8 cattolica<\/em>
\nla sua lotta con esse: gesuitiche<\/em><\/p>\n

le manie con cui dispone il cuore;<\/em>
\ne ancor pi\u00f9 dentro: ha bibliche astuzie<\/em>
\nla sua coscienza\u2026e ironico ardore<\/em><\/p>\n

liberale\u2026. E rozza luce, tra i disgusti<\/em>
\ndi dandy provinciale, di provinciale<\/em>
\nsalute\u2026 Fino alle infinite minuzie<\/em><\/p>\n

in cui sfumano, nel fondo animale,<\/em>
\nAutorit\u00e0 e Anarchia\u2026ben protetto<\/em>
\ndall\u2019impura virt\u00f9 e dall\u2019ebbro peccare,<\/em><\/p>\n

difendendo una ingenuit\u00e0 di ossesso,<\/em>
\ne con quale coscienza !, vive l\u2019io; io,<\/em>
\nvivo, eludendo la vita, con nel petto<\/em><\/p>\n

il senso di una vita che sia oblio<\/em>
\naccorante,violento,\u2026.ah come<\/em>
\ncapisco, muto nel fradicio brusio<\/em><\/p>\n

del vento, qui dov\u2019\u00e8 muta Roma,<\/em>
\ntra i cipressi stancamente sconvolti,<\/em>
\npresso te, l\u2019anima il cui graffito suona<\/em><\/p>\n

Shelley \u2026.Come capisco il vortice<\/em>
\ndei sentimenti, il capriccio ( greco<\/em>
\nnel cuore del patrizio, nordico<\/em><\/p>\n

villeggiante) che lo inghiott\u00ec nel cieco<\/em>
\nceleste del Tirreno; la carnale<\/em>
\ngioia dell\u2019avventura, estetica<\/em><\/p>\n

e puerile: mentre prostrata l\u2019Italia<\/em>
\ncome dentro il ventre di un\u2019enorme<\/em>
\ncicala, spalanca bianchi litorali,<\/em><\/p>\n

sparsi nel Lazio di velate torme<\/em>
\ndi pini, barocchi, di giallognole<\/em>
\nradure di ruchetta, dove dorme<\/em><\/p>\n

col membro gonfio tra gli stracci un sogno<\/em>
\ngoethiano, il giovincello ciociaro\u2026.<\/em>
\nNella maremma, scuri, di stupende fogne<\/em><\/p>\n

d\u2019erbasaetta in cui si stampa chiaro<\/em>
\nil nocciolo, pei viottoli che il buttero<\/em>
\ndella sua giovent\u00f9 ricolma ignaro.<\/em><\/p>\n

Ciecamente fragranti nelle asciutte<\/em>
\ncurve della Versilia, che sul mare<\/em>
\naggrovigliato, cieco, i tersi stucchi,<\/em><\/p>\n

le tarsie lievi della sua pasquale<\/em>
\ncampagna interamente umana,<\/em>
\nespone, incupita sul Cinquale,<\/em><\/p>\n

dipanata sotto le torride Apuane,<\/em>
\ni blu vitrei sul rosa\u2026Di scogli,<\/em>
\nfrane, sconvolti, come per un panico<\/em><\/p>\n

di fragranza, nella riviera, molle,<\/em>
\nerta, dove il sole lotta con la brezza<\/em>
\na dar suprema soavit\u00e0 agli olii<\/em><\/p>\n

del mare\u2026. E intorno ronza di lietezza<\/em>
\nlo sterminato strumento a percussione<\/em>
\ndel sesso e della luce: cos\u00ec avvezza<\/em><\/p>\n

ne \u00e8 l\u2019Italia che non ne trema, come<\/em>
\nmorta nella sua vita: gridano caldi<\/em>
\nda centinaia di porti il nome<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0del compagno i giovinetti madidi<\/em>
\nnel bruno della faccia, tra la gente<\/em>
\nrivierasca, presso orti di cardi,<\/em><\/p>\n

in luride spiaggette\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n

Mi chiederai tu, morto disadorno,<\/em>
\nd\u2019abbandonare questa disperata<\/em>
\npassione di essere nel mondo?<\/em><\/p>\n

6<\/p>\n

Me ne vado, ti lascio nella sera<\/em>
\nche, bench\u00e9 triste, cos\u00ec dolce scende<\/em>
\nper noi viventi, con la luce cerea<\/em><\/p>\n

che al quartiere in penombra si rapprende.<\/em>
\nE lo sommuove. Lo fa diventare, vuoto,<\/em>
\nintorno, e, pi\u00f9 lontano, lo riaccende<\/em><\/p>\n

di una vita smaniosa che del roco<\/em>
\nrotol\u00eco dei tram, dei gridi umani,<\/em>
\ndialettali, fa un concerto fioco<\/em><\/p>\n

e assoluto. E\u00a0 senti come in quei lontani<\/em>
\nesseri che, in vita, gridano, ridono,<\/em>
\nin quei loro veicoli, in quei grami<\/em><\/p>\n

caseggiati dove si consuma l\u2019infido<\/em>
\ned espansivo dono dell\u2019esistenza \u2013<\/em>
\nquella vita non \u00e8 che un brivido,<\/em><\/p>\n

corporea, collettiva presenza;<\/em>
\nsenti il mancare di ogni religione<\/em>
\nvera; non vita, ma sopravvivenza<\/em><\/p>\n

– forse pi\u00f9 lieta della vita – come<\/em>
\nd\u2019un popolo di animali, nel cui arcano<\/em>
\norgasmo con ci sia altra passione<\/em><\/p>\n

che per l\u2019operare quotidiano:<\/em>
\numile fervore cui d\u00e0 un senso di festa<\/em>
\nl\u2019umile corruzione. Quanto pi\u00f9 \u00e8 vano<\/em><\/p>\n

– in questo vuoto della storia, in questa<\/em>
\nronzante pausa in cui la vita tace \u2013<\/em>
\nogni ideale, meglio \u00e8 manifesta<\/em>
\nla stupenda, adusta sensualit\u00e0<\/em>
\nquasi alessandrina, che tutto minia<\/em>
\ne impuramente accende, quando qua<\/em><\/p>\n

nel mondo, qualcosa crolla, e si trascina<\/em>
\nil mondo, nella penombra, rientrando<\/em>
\nin vuote piazze, in scorate officine\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n

gi\u00e0 si accendono i lumi, costellando<\/em>
\nVia Zagaglia, Via Franklin, l\u2019intero<\/em>
\nTestaccio, disadorno tra il suo grande<\/em><\/p>\n

lurido monte, i lungoteveri, il nero<\/em>
\nfondale, oltre il fiume, che Monteverde<\/em>
\nammassa o sfuma invisibile sul cielo.<\/em><\/p>\n

Diademi di lumi che si perdono,<\/em>
\nsmaglianti, e freddi di tristezza<\/em>
\nquasi marina\u2026.Manca poco alla cena;<\/em><\/p>\n

brillano i rari autobus del quartiere,<\/em>
\ncon grappoli d\u2019operai agli sportelli,<\/em>
\ne gruppi di militari vanno, senza fretta,<\/em><\/p>\n

verso il monte che cela in mezzo a sterri<\/em>
\nfradici e mucchi secchi d\u2019immondizia<\/em>
\nnell\u2019ombra, rintanate zoccolette<\/em><\/p>\n

che aspettano irose sopra la sporcizia<\/em>
\nafrodisiaca: e, non lontano, tra le casette<\/em>
\nabusive ai margini del monte, o in mezzo<\/em><\/p>\n

a palazzi, quasi a mondi, dei ragazzi<\/em>
\nleggeri come stracci giocano alla brezza<\/em>
\nnon pi\u00f9 fredda, primaverile; ardenti<\/em>
\ndi sventatezza giovanile la romanesca<\/em>
\nloro sera di maggio scuri adolescenti<\/em>
\nfischiano pei marciapiedi, nella festa<\/em><\/p>\n

vespertina; e scrosciano le saracinesche<\/em>
\ndei garages di schianto, gioiosamente,<\/em>
\nse il buio ha resa serena la sera,<\/em><\/p>\n

e in mezzo ai platani di Piazza Testaccio<\/em>
\nil vento che cade in tremiti di bufera,<\/em>
\n\u00e8 ben dolce, bench\u00e9 radendo i capellacci<\/em><\/p>\n

e i tufi del macello, vi si imbeva<\/em>
\ndi sangue marcio, e per ogni dove<\/em>
\nagiti rifiuti e odore di miseria.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00c8 un brusio la vita, e questi persi<\/em>
\nIn essa la perdono serenamente,<\/em>
\nse il cuore ne hanno pieno: a godersi<\/em><\/p>\n

eccoli,\u00a0 miseri, la sera: e potente<\/em>
\nin essi, inermi, per essi, il mito<\/em>
\nrinasce\u2026. Ma io, con il cuore cosciente<\/em><\/p>\n

di chi soltanto nella storia ha vita,<\/em>
\npotr\u00f2 mai pi\u00f9 con pura passione operare,<\/em>
\nse so che la nostra storia \u00e8 finita?<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I may be dating myself, indeed “classing” myself by embracing this poem so passionately. At the turn of this century after several months in Tuscany during which I escaped by train to Rome at any sign of depression, I made an abortive attempt at the opening lines of this poem. I loved the opening imagery, … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “Gramsci’s Ashes”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[17],"tags":[58,82,31],"class_list":["post-3863","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-featured","tag-italian","tag-pasolini","tag-translation"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3863","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3863"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3863\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4565,"href":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3863\/revisions\/4565"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3863"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3863"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/pastis\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3863"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}