Göteborg, en scandinavisk Bologna

Jag skrev en kort bertättelse på svenska för svenska språk kursen. Jag hoppas att svenska modermålstalare ska inte bedöma min operfekt svenska.

(Principio di racconto che ho scritto quasi di getto in svedese. Dedicato alla mia amata Göteborg, la Bologna della Scandinavia).
Vi tog en Göteborgs typisk spårvagn. Göteborgs spårvagnlinje är lång och mycket fin. Det brudar att göra staden unikt och charmig. Det var en kalt mörkt kvällen och jag var lika glad som ett barn att uppleva Goteborgs spårvagns vibe. Det var ett skön vibe. Det känt som om vi var i en skönlitteraturs bok, det var som om jag var en lycklig karaktär. Vi åkte till ett Göteborgs området heter Haga, ett ex proletärt distrikt. Och sen till Järnstorget där det lå en pub med en spännande publik som väntade på mig, på oss, andra artister, deras drömmar, nostalgi, jordbävningar och så vidare…
Jag hade lämnat dock min gitarr hemma, men en trevlig musiker lånade ut mig sin gitarr. Jag känna mig upphetsad och spänd. Det fanns åtminstone ett hundra människor som önskade lyssnade på mig, mycket ljus på scenen och mycket tystnad i publiken. Jag känt mig som hemma omgiven av unge som uppskattade min musik. Att vakna upp, nästa morgon, i ett hus i en konstnärs campus gjorde den här känslan till och med starkare och obeskrivligt.

Det känt som om några bytar av kreativitet var i morgons luften. Dock, de kom inte ner från himlen. De kom ut från oss. Stader och de boende på stader, även Stockholm och stockholmare, kunde inte längre våga att låtsas, att försätta med sina orealistisk föreställningen av ett liv utan konflikter.

De känt sig tvinga av att se fattiga människor i dagliga tåg att känna over sig sörj for sina självet full av tomthet och regeringens ord, TVs amerikanska show eller vad som helst kan man säga på en dejtschat.

Jag känt mig som en främling som märkte inte skillnader mellan filosofi och vetenskap, ett löv och en kudde, en sträng och ett hår på handen, en gittar och hennes levande kropp.

Matteo Iammarrone.

Everybody’s heart day

(A poem about the attempt to write a poem).

Under alla hjärtansdag

as well as all the other days

I’m going to tell you about an extraordinary experience.

It’s about heart, but it’s not a disease. It’s a trip, but it’s not a transplantation.

It’s not waiting and it’s now, present, past and freedom.

One doesn’t have to book, but it’s not a desperate boat crossing of bloody sea.

It’s not socialism either, there so much to fight, attention to pay to.

Normally, the rules of the world we run on, the miserable greatness and wide narrowness of the history of the words we conceal ourselves behind, would not allow such an experience to be told.

However, today some lines are emerging from my chest

as strangling rebels of an impossible cause

they long for a square where protesting, shouting and resting…

it’s called “Matteo’s pappertorg:

A space where everybody has their own bush-universe to laugh, to kiss, to smile or to be shy.

While the pen is leading me I feel I’m going to disappear kidnapped by room’s wall and transported where poets with no order in mind and no paper to cry on find some rest.

But I’m still here, and the lines will continue to strive for their space on the square of the page,

accomplishing the task of telling what is unspeakable: both of you, two diverse summers

exploding in the same geographical corner, my room.

One’s blondness, the other one’s passion as two comets burning my room’s dark skies, bodily presence of an heaven untouched by global warming and acid rains

It’s not watching over us, it’s not watching over you, you are watching over it, placed, as you are, from the top of my tongue, spicy is the taste of such an extraordinary match of hearts.

And old goddesses that we believed to be death now call us from the depth of the wood,

providential spies challenging the patience of the last layer of ice

make photos of our disappearing, they will be sold to spectators whose tongues will be one day your new party’s carpet, but this is just another story, just another chapter of the plotless novel accompanied by Rimmel.

Let’s grab my throat instead. Let’s grab it in a blink of eternity.

Let’s grab my throat to celebrate the certainty of defeat, as a port that tomorrow will exist between two wars that yesterday were safely far.

As a political revolution,

as the struggle of Feelings on this page,

the ongoing party less party in Matteo’s Pappertorg, nobody knows what everybody is doing but everybody’s heart shape has been printed on a bronze like Branting’s proud face.

Perhaps to show that Beauty is not God, Beauty does exist. And it can be still expressed, out of nothing, out of banality. All of this is enough to imagine, I told you my experience, I told you about the lovers’ love that you though it could not be told because how would you describe a walking in the forest? A Landscape where one of your mouths scratched the surface I look at it. As a sculptor I look at the public monument I contributed to create and whether beneath the surface is growing joy or pain it is not a worry of these lines today.

Matteo Iammarrone.

Il puro e l’impuro [English Subtitles]

Here we go. I wish you are ready for that. It’s not a great masterpiece (how could it be? We were all amateur actors, except for one of us, we had no means and Sabrina, the film-maker, has talent but is still young).  In spite of it all, it is an interesting italian-independent short movie, directed and produced by my friend Sabrina Monno, a student at the University of Bologna. I’m writing in english because, although the dialogues are in italian, the following version is provided of english subtitles so that all our international friends (and/or partners or whatever labels one might prefer) can enjoy. We are talking about love and relationships. Relationships and different ways of looking at relationships: two young couples. One of them is committed to a polyamorous. The other one is committed to a monogamous one. One of two couples propose the other to take a trip together…

*L’Audio è in italiano. Subtitles in english

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