Could it be that my being an eagle makes me an earthquake victim?

Ivan Pozzoni, a poet 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).

THE EARTHQUAKE

I’ve been condemned, by Pontius Pilate’s alter ego,

to aim, raise the hammer!, with a pointer on the right anda rifle on the left, to a lanky style,

to a bizarre stylus, osti!, i’ll never become Dmitrij Sergeevič Merežkovskij,

to, stubbornly, raise the bar like Bubka, there’s no risk of landing in the undergrowth,

all Russians, my new models, all from the steppe, all Sergey

i wouldn’t want to wake up one morning and realize i’m gay

by dint of raising the bar and dealing with the “member”,

selling my ass every day to arrogant writers is enough for me.

What the fuck do you mean i have to write earthquake-stricken?

I have to move to a shack in the still-unreconstructed Abruzzo,

bribes, in Italy, are never touched, they’re organized through home banking

even the healthy  kickbacks, defying plane geometry, has become a trading phenomenon.

I tried to write a series of verses, shook the PC, and threw it out the window,

i turned it back on, finding it unharmed, and in Word i always discover the same old story,

a frozen writing like Orogel’s maxi pouches,

with a flexible form similar to the expiration date on a bag of wurstell,

in distribution centers, once the bag expires, they change the label

mine is a caloric writing that condemns every gourmet to fattening.

Are my verses bizarre enough? Some compare me to Cecco,

some to Cécco Bèppe, the unredeemed anti-artist, some to Esenin, some to a lansquenet,

sometimes i struggle to equate myself with myself, a tuneless melliphonous nightingale,

could it be that my being an eagle makes me an earthquake victim?

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Read: The Ballads of the Cross