You don’t have to put yourself in color if you look at your name,

You know, I’ll make you immortal in “portrait d’anonyme”.

Ivan Pozzoni, a renowned poet and writer from Italy, shares his poetry

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza city of Italy in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world. He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published. He was the founder and director of some literary magazines. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and figures in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retreat of academic studies, he returned to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology) 

EPIMILLIGRAMME  

You don’t have to put yourself in color if you look at your name,

You know, I’ll make you immortal in “portrait d’anonyme”.

My ink cuts better than a bowl of hemlock:

Without anyone knowing your fame has evolved.

***

BORN BACKWARDS

Why do I keep writing?

B., like Bangladesh, was

Sixteen years old, on the windowsill

Of the balcony of a Milanese high school,

But sixteen years was not enough

For God to embrace her in his leap.

R., as Romania, was

Thirteen years old, feeling a hundred,

And no angel

Was flying by her side.

E., as Ecuador, was

Thirteen years old, with no Genoa

Reminded her of Quito,

In the solitude of her dress

Off-brand, disintegrated.

C., like China, was

Twelve years old, worn out quickly,

Looking out on a balcony

With the desire not to see the world,

Throwing herself into the vortex

Of performance anxiety.

Their names are not difficult

To forget, they are names

– Like me-born in reverse,

Pressed against the glass

Of the windows of life

Jumping from the asphalt.

***

IGNOTE TOMB

Corpse No. 2,

The shadow of the wave reflected in my right retina,

Hands clenched to grasp Mediterranean sands

Worn under red surfing Bermudas.

Corpse n.7,

Muffled screaming attempts at the pit of my stomach

Marrakech hash maps in my pockets,

Scanty dirhams sown between my purse and trousers,

Led me to the mouth of the abyss.

Corpse No. 12,

‘Eloi, Eloi, lemà sabactàni’,

I don’t remember who was shouting it to whom

Not being written in the Koran:

I too died invoking it in vain.

Corpse No. 18,

Retreating on the roads between the dunes of Misrata,

In thirsty slalom between friendly and enemy missiles,

And dying of water.

Corpse No 20,

Although nomads, like me, sway

On desert ships, detonated fluids,

Never will they get used to drowning.

Every grave of the unknown migrant

Whispers that it is hard to embrace

A death that comes from the sea.

___________ 

Read: The Taxable Thumb – Poetry from Italy