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All the Eyes That I Have Opened
Franca Mancinelli’s award-winning collection of poetry from 2020, All the Eyes That I Have Opened, is translated into English from the original Italian by John Taylor. This is a bilingual edition of both ‘The Europe in Versi Prize’ and the ‘San Vito al Tagliamento Prize’ winner.
- GenresPoetry
246 pages, Paperback
Published January 1, 2023
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
September 6, 2023
from here ways parted
breathing was growing
in the collapse, something sweet
a hollow of time
all the eyes that I have opened
are the branches I have lost.
The enigmatic title of this latest collection from Italian poet Franca Mancinelli came to her, as she explains in a piece in her essay collection The Butterfly Cemetery, during a time of personal turmoil when, walking through the woods she came upon a tree with a trunk heavily scarred where branches had fallen off, leaving eye-shaped marks. Despite the many cuts and amputations the tree had healed and transformed itself, reaching ever upwards to the light. In this collection, certain images—trees, nature, eyes, growth, movement, among others—are called upon as she writes of passages emotional and actual, reaching, as always, deep within to speak for personal and universal experiences. As her translator, John Taylor, notes in his detailed introduction, she is increasingly drawing from both ancient sources and current events in her writing. This book begins and ends with sequences in which the poet attempts to give some voice to migrants seeking a better life in Europe, meeting cold and closed borders on the way. This work stems from and interdisciplinary project she took part in tracing a route often used.
A longer response can be found here: https://roughghosts.com/2023/09/06/i-...
breathing was growing
in the collapse, something sweet
a hollow of time
all the eyes that I have opened
are the branches I have lost.
The enigmatic title of this latest collection from Italian poet Franca Mancinelli came to her, as she explains in a piece in her essay collection The Butterfly Cemetery, during a time of personal turmoil when, walking through the woods she came upon a tree with a trunk heavily scarred where branches had fallen off, leaving eye-shaped marks. Despite the many cuts and amputations the tree had healed and transformed itself, reaching ever upwards to the light. In this collection, certain images—trees, nature, eyes, growth, movement, among others—are called upon as she writes of passages emotional and actual, reaching, as always, deep within to speak for personal and universal experiences. As her translator, John Taylor, notes in his detailed introduction, she is increasingly drawing from both ancient sources and current events in her writing. This book begins and ends with sequences in which the poet attempts to give some voice to migrants seeking a better life in Europe, meeting cold and closed borders on the way. This work stems from and interdisciplinary project she took part in tracing a route often used.
A longer response can be found here: https://roughghosts.com/2023/09/06/i-...
July 21, 2024
pag.34 _______________________________
pag.40 _______________________________
pag.45 _______________________________
pag.46 _______________________________
pag.46 _______________________________
pag.87 _______________________________
pag.128 _______________________________
pag.130 _______________________________
___________________________________
FROM BOOK: A un'ora di sonno da qui (Franca Mancinelli)
da qui partivano vie
respirando crescevo
nel crollo, qualcosa di dolce un incavo del tempo
tutti gli occhi che ho aperto sono i rami che ho perso.
pag.40 _______________________________
ha i denti questo giorno
come giocando morde
mi incide di sillabe le mani:
tra poco il fiotto affiora.
pag.45 _______________________________
questa faccia è una scarpa.
Contro le pietre si è aperta.
pag.46 _______________________________
il peso netto del corpo diviso
l'arco di ogni passo è uguale
ai crolli e alle stragi aperte
alla terra ancora
una volta battuta.
Componi la sconfitta
come equazione di un sentiero.
pag.46 _______________________________
nel mortaio delle mie cavità
per non so quali grani
di finissima polvere
ancora pesti.
pag.87 _______________________________
Camera oscura
nell'errore non mi sbaglio mai.
pag.128 _______________________________
un gesto può cadermi di mano e rompersi. Allora mi fermo in ginocchio. Chiamo ogni frammento, anche quelli diventati polvere. Nella mia mano vuota, aperta.
pag.130 _______________________________
aspetto che sorga il caffè dalla corolla. Un pulsante, il fiore azzurro svanisce. Non bevo. Apro la finestra: l'aria è fresca, ferma, come dentro al frigo. Un mondo ordinato. Richiudo. Ho in bocca il tempo, i suoi granelli di zucchero. Un regalo, da bambina, stretto tra due dita. Ora cerco la pace di un bicchiere d'acqua -di montagna, un piccolo lago. Svuotato in una cascata. Mi hanno detto che la pillola va ingoiata senza mordere. Intera.
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FROM BOOK: A un'ora di sonno da qui (Franca Mancinelli)
January 2, 2025
Io non lascio la terra
Io non brucio nel fuoco
[..] non posso morire
soltanto aprirmi in una fenditura
dove il pugnale si illumina.
*
Queste pagine di cartilagine
sono lo scheletro dove ti aggiri
come un’ombra nel sangue.
Io non brucio nel fuoco
[..] non posso morire
soltanto aprirmi in una fenditura
dove il pugnale si illumina.
*
Queste pagine di cartilagine
sono lo scheletro dove ti aggiri
come un’ombra nel sangue.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews