tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77046816757256974822024-03-19T00:47:55.062-07:00Come sono ioCome sono io - Il Blog di Donatella MainoDonatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-46808730655274377182024-02-02T04:00:00.000-08:002024-02-02T04:01:25.637-08:00Mele bruciate<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOoz7Beb9GaLP2oByAUmipSpTLiJxz1LeOwd5LbHu3AEwbyPG7i4pF8s4TbbxhAiHJFx5_O2eUtymNdPVbiYUMM9Z2rcFzEJeMgsXDN_hRCckmXaPWbDf5ZGGFk4AT64S2LmTOyWuTscTUEpIAv5DOktZlWyWFzhwlIoxLK6uleguydViSs_p3gHdDDWg/s800/mele-bruciate.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOoz7Beb9GaLP2oByAUmipSpTLiJxz1LeOwd5LbHu3AEwbyPG7i4pF8s4TbbxhAiHJFx5_O2eUtymNdPVbiYUMM9Z2rcFzEJeMgsXDN_hRCckmXaPWbDf5ZGGFk4AT64S2LmTOyWuTscTUEpIAv5DOktZlWyWFzhwlIoxLK6uleguydViSs_p3gHdDDWg/s320/mele-bruciate.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">Sei andato oltre qualcosa</p><p style="text-align: center;">che non riesce nemmeno a morire</p><p style="text-align: center;">dentro una suggestione</p><p style="text-align: center;">come l'odore delle mele bruciate</p><p style="text-align: center;">o dei rami d'abete gettati nel fuoco.</p><p style="text-align: center;">poi all'insù, su, su, a ribere le linfe natali:</p><p style="text-align: center;">le mie ferite di bambina,</p><p style="text-align: center;">i geloni, le scarpe tagliate in punta,</p><p style="text-align: center;">l'idea di essere una figlia non voluta.</p><p style="text-align: center;">una farfalla afghana scrive con gli occhi.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Donatella Maino 02-2024</span></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">Foto : Art. Stasa Kopunovic. </p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-15102262942176373062024-01-22T15:57:00.001-08:002024-01-22T15:57:56.185-08:00Quid tibi dixerunt?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihnLicPmhGyyW-rjiOWCRYeM9rjq91BToHIYzFQWlowWEKhqcit0cFJtFdON2LBgzL9IJo1BY_KHQ_k_usJflq5PmsnyspJgeZ702cOYXP7YA4ZV9iVu8bsknlpuBlVh_iGBEbdxDwq_uLcPakkrOlXQ1rQLudeH_NKSRNBcabANsXrKpzK_Gu94Q4BGGE/s960/quid%20tibi%20dixerunt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="808" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihnLicPmhGyyW-rjiOWCRYeM9rjq91BToHIYzFQWlowWEKhqcit0cFJtFdON2LBgzL9IJo1BY_KHQ_k_usJflq5PmsnyspJgeZ702cOYXP7YA4ZV9iVu8bsknlpuBlVh_iGBEbdxDwq_uLcPakkrOlXQ1rQLudeH_NKSRNBcabANsXrKpzK_Gu94Q4BGGE/s320/quid%20tibi%20dixerunt.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">ci toccheremo in un incubo vuoto,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">diremo che non siamo ancora tornati</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">perchè stiamo mangiando quel frutto</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">nello spazio dilatato dal vino.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">quid tibi dixerunt?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">che devi amarmi come un uomo</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">salvarti dalle mie ombre</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">e dalle piogge di sale</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">(quanto delle tue lacrime resta)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">per quella spina che è tarlo</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">all'osso forbice, lame incrociate</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">a tagliare la p(i)ena.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><span style="color: red;">Donatella 2024</span></b></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><p><br /></p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-47112399779206370422023-12-14T05:37:00.000-08:002023-12-14T05:37:49.101-08:00Retrospettiva<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PmxPE7olrcZ5xh5IvRY1wYuYoqcor78tHLcBEfWGLPeI4ij3Sj26vD9lzd2ySBhwYjreHHhe83uz4aAGyZQS-Pt0mV28p3EB83GvD-V99lSOhpiw8iAnQsBg_jpdYICVR9h6NvwegpRgXY4WyWxTEHS8UIwpaPNSE38bJ7I2493ldL8MeNtUs1t0EQYu/s960/retrospettiva.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PmxPE7olrcZ5xh5IvRY1wYuYoqcor78tHLcBEfWGLPeI4ij3Sj26vD9lzd2ySBhwYjreHHhe83uz4aAGyZQS-Pt0mV28p3EB83GvD-V99lSOhpiw8iAnQsBg_jpdYICVR9h6NvwegpRgXY4WyWxTEHS8UIwpaPNSE38bJ7I2493ldL8MeNtUs1t0EQYu/s320/retrospettiva.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">retrospettiva</span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">l'attesa del messia</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">lo specchio mi distorce</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">l'attesa del messia</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">tracciando margini di sangue</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">in sordo ruggito.</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">a mani vuote, a piedi scalzi,</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">sono nudo filo d'erba radicato</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">tra la fessura del lastrico</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">e il marciapiede:</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">salga la mia voce al plesso degli dei</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">che il mio petto è in urto rauco</div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">al fragore della terra</div></span></div></blockquote><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: red;"><b>Donatella Maino 14 dicembre 2023 </b></span></p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-61338061625629647612023-11-17T08:26:00.000-08:002023-11-17T08:26:43.668-08:00Oltre le parole<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLCNN7eAzO4iSlMrm-lxMaDAd3-szpIgwIBTMK4RZIVKEeky9awv2sNi_95RMLva7zBR2-qYchhTqlX6ZdexsjqUVUneJwht4JcL0MjkJEVj0Ow-dh_BrEN_hDaa0mg-GEam6M2dyOLUWJme3-TfwmTS4zCE5g3TR3DMAE8LGkHwyZqxkfAAhwqyEMYNr7/s526/Oltre%20le%20parole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLCNN7eAzO4iSlMrm-lxMaDAd3-szpIgwIBTMK4RZIVKEeky9awv2sNi_95RMLva7zBR2-qYchhTqlX6ZdexsjqUVUneJwht4JcL0MjkJEVj0Ow-dh_BrEN_hDaa0mg-GEam6M2dyOLUWJme3-TfwmTS4zCE5g3TR3DMAE8LGkHwyZqxkfAAhwqyEMYNr7/s320/Oltre%20le%20parole.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">Oltre le parole</p><p style="text-align: center;">quando tutto sarà detto,</p><p style="text-align: center;">la parola andrà verso il suo oltre,</p><p style="text-align: center;">sentirete il battito della mia latitanza</p><p style="text-align: center;">arrivare dai boschi di pietra;</p><p style="text-align: center;">forse allora canterò ancora,</p><p style="text-align: center;">sarà un canto sottile</p><p style="text-align: center;">che fluido scorrerà nella trasparenza </p><p style="text-align: center;">del mio essere ogni paesaggio.</p><p style="text-align: center;">Saprete rileggermi nel non detto</p><p style="text-align: center;">sarà in quel rovo che fiorisce </p><p style="text-align: center;">alla fine di tutte le stagioni.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;"><b><span style="color: red;">Donatella Maino 16 - nov - 2023</span></b></p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-53786292722937154332023-11-02T17:29:00.004-07:002023-12-14T05:39:34.670-08:00Spettri e orchidee <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIH8RGwLmNgB7SA2yDiHMkHArv5U80BC7-QVlIfAjUitwhChJs2qQV4F0s2aH0hl7pxDIfsLjYYtxwvHpDnjCVmgvb9IYZNcxZyr94T6FuxG9tNqjLteJaLT1x3RE1An9QnqV7Ajfdyy9RH3IYytXlXCHgyCbbl2NaMBGOmbc1PBcOn0wELv7Og0wZ-aaL/s526/Spettri%20e%20orchidee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="419" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIH8RGwLmNgB7SA2yDiHMkHArv5U80BC7-QVlIfAjUitwhChJs2qQV4F0s2aH0hl7pxDIfsLjYYtxwvHpDnjCVmgvb9IYZNcxZyr94T6FuxG9tNqjLteJaLT1x3RE1An9QnqV7Ajfdyy9RH3IYytXlXCHgyCbbl2NaMBGOmbc1PBcOn0wELv7Og0wZ-aaL/w419-h419/Spettri%20e%20orchidee.jpg" width="419" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Ho pianto l'alito glaciale</span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">di infiniti legamenti</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">che già frantumavano le stelle</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">in chiarore di tramonti.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Dagli abbaini dell'inferno</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">ho sempre veduto</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">un punto diverso dal vero</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">aprendo palpebre dolenti</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">com'orchidee slabbrate</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">ad adornare sanguigne</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">sartie di vascelli arenati</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">nella palude dei rimpianti:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">gli spettri tutti insieme</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">rivivono all'orlo delle mie pagine</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">pensando che il nero sul bianco</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">siano i colori</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">di una rondine addomesticata.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><span style="color: red;">Autore della foto : </span><span style="color: red;">Rino Rossi</span></b></span></p></blockquote>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-20548818110486420052022-06-16T06:01:00.003-07:002022-06-16T06:01:23.736-07:00Invero <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3T19oACWCk1WmMXSkKtRThH3ThHXJW2xX0mmczyTty9sbpZFitwuKhOMLw0tmi5pUm5OBsHdMLQbFzErzrcRczDnND5EQrH4L68cjd-BFvBQqHbZ6d9hE_1JBwZ98q1OYmWJiFN1SA3C1MWdooUirJm4Gpq48hqMVnjKh0uYBJQZ-5D447LjpF6yiw/s526/Invero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3T19oACWCk1WmMXSkKtRThH3ThHXJW2xX0mmczyTty9sbpZFitwuKhOMLw0tmi5pUm5OBsHdMLQbFzErzrcRczDnND5EQrH4L68cjd-BFvBQqHbZ6d9hE_1JBwZ98q1OYmWJiFN1SA3C1MWdooUirJm4Gpq48hqMVnjKh0uYBJQZ-5D447LjpF6yiw/s320/Invero.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> Mia madre andava e veniva<br />in quel tempo senza annodomini,<br />in quegli anni col tredicesimo mese.<br />Non era strano, le ultime decadi dell'invero<br />erano sogni lontani nel provvisorio terrestre<br />che come acaro si annidava nei versi.<br />Chiamami sempre bambina,<br />che d'esser donna ne ho fatto vergogna.<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino (Anni 2000)<br />Art. Francesco Paci Salerno.</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-22253157270143770552022-06-15T15:31:00.004-07:002022-06-15T15:31:36.970-07:00Innocenza e poesia <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcfe7RyGKhG80tWzdbqbnq5Wjxw4tKe6IuYrFqCtpC-4rygr9BohNRImKbi_PygiAL9LuCsFJee0qQAWn6Xfh3fTy1gQjMnuFxGS9f442Vqm2l-I2c1lngqKey1Hsy2bv5hjtH5yjxwn5XNmAe64hs2JRxe0bmtSykigeGcsAOOMb6aHDaZw2ER7aqgQ/s600/Innocenza%20e%20poesia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="600" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcfe7RyGKhG80tWzdbqbnq5Wjxw4tKe6IuYrFqCtpC-4rygr9BohNRImKbi_PygiAL9LuCsFJee0qQAWn6Xfh3fTy1gQjMnuFxGS9f442Vqm2l-I2c1lngqKey1Hsy2bv5hjtH5yjxwn5XNmAe64hs2JRxe0bmtSykigeGcsAOOMb6aHDaZw2ER7aqgQ/w356-h317/Innocenza%20e%20poesia.jpg" width="356" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> oscillo, ondeggio<br />simile a me stessa<br />e a mille figure diverse.<br />se chiudo gli occhi<br />trovo il tuo volto,<br />dentro le palpebre serrate,<br />se li riapro<br />sei immagine che rifulge<br />alla pupilla dilatata.<br />nel mio letto ferito,<br />sono innocenza e poesia del peccato<br />come la gioia del vino, è pane bagnato,<br />cristallizzato al sale delle mie lacrime.<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino (anni 2000) <br />Art. Manfred Koschabek.<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-5469323370495323532022-06-14T16:06:00.005-07:002022-06-14T16:06:43.949-07:00Satira <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbI4OWX1e4ZsUj0aIUkb7keq9KFjeRGYojrzDcJnBxhC2ARMb8s0WvC0n1yoUnU_fygk7AlhQNx2mOlgLBnqwbSqC6yj9O247PJeV0ZJMZigXs56sWfVyY_EZ7PaCx8wUvSEWKAfrSca5E7-kffcISxQxjW1ov6VrwKvKMnhp5yFVEi0PIj8DtryvWWQ/s1079/Satira.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1079" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbI4OWX1e4ZsUj0aIUkb7keq9KFjeRGYojrzDcJnBxhC2ARMb8s0WvC0n1yoUnU_fygk7AlhQNx2mOlgLBnqwbSqC6yj9O247PJeV0ZJMZigXs56sWfVyY_EZ7PaCx8wUvSEWKAfrSca5E7-kffcISxQxjW1ov6VrwKvKMnhp5yFVEi0PIj8DtryvWWQ/w365-h244/Satira.jpg" width="365" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> ho cantato nel silenzio,<br />osannando i miei meriti<br />fino a disprezzarli;<br />come una talpa sapiente<br />sono uscita dalla tana<br />mettendomi sulle spalle<br />colui che cammina di traverso<br />lasciando agli idioti la fama<br />della rettitudine.<br />nei digiuni, nei sospiri,<br />siamo quasi ridotti alla fame:<br />istruirsi è faticoso.<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino (anni 2000)<br />Art. Marina Tomasi.</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-47752687186926272802022-06-13T17:31:00.002-07:002022-06-13T17:31:11.408-07:00Epilogo<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DMMACU3V6vxWUKOXKuXVB3hjqSq2xoYrFK_f6MRuFvoF7GgYwbArHEFwUwvjB_pjCEA2qr54e796ftK-Hh4jlYd-PKEbIpO8OIB_4pv1qlN2a6740QRksNncEBsPIxBZLUiTV4dxgEXubFRcUiBxyTXBEb1OsvFQTcGnBR7T4mb9zZriJNWMFNDWUA/s709/Epilogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="709" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DMMACU3V6vxWUKOXKuXVB3hjqSq2xoYrFK_f6MRuFvoF7GgYwbArHEFwUwvjB_pjCEA2qr54e796ftK-Hh4jlYd-PKEbIpO8OIB_4pv1qlN2a6740QRksNncEBsPIxBZLUiTV4dxgEXubFRcUiBxyTXBEb1OsvFQTcGnBR7T4mb9zZriJNWMFNDWUA/w363-h277/Epilogo.jpg" width="363" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> L'odio verso tutto ciò che è trascorso <br />non colmerà mai la nostalgia:<br />quella stanza con le sue ombre, <br />tu che mi guardi come se vedessi qualcosa<br />che non riconosci, <br />come osservassi il mare in un giorno di burrasca. <br />Quante volte alla stessa mensa,<br />ora mi offri l'amaro pasto della sofferenza,<br />levigo le parole come ciottoli di fiume <br />mentre il silenzio si allarga nel vuoto,<br />mosso da una ragnatela che filtra il dolore.<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino <br />Art. Paci Francesco Salerno.</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-34761130660779387182022-06-13T17:27:00.004-07:002022-06-13T17:27:34.748-07:00Autunno <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchOTQ9OyeMvsn5pGdUEZxue-VZCxjY40PX8QfMq3XiIWRQDZz1kKxe9Kpt3vUWY7RZ-0XxDQZbcM7FyQkXnaWfRTNegMHIbIbVXzLipnr3Oay6GazWYuZkdwXcY_-0MHLXmH3nFrIUo-rAYrwAaLVHrJLLRuBmEOoyy_9pw696E0uctSUKyt6J9DFWg/s640/Autunno.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="512" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchOTQ9OyeMvsn5pGdUEZxue-VZCxjY40PX8QfMq3XiIWRQDZz1kKxe9Kpt3vUWY7RZ-0XxDQZbcM7FyQkXnaWfRTNegMHIbIbVXzLipnr3Oay6GazWYuZkdwXcY_-0MHLXmH3nFrIUo-rAYrwAaLVHrJLLRuBmEOoyy_9pw696E0uctSUKyt6J9DFWg/w288-h360/Autunno.jpg" width="288" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">Le foglie diventano gialle e rosse<br />ed io sorrido al dolore dell'artrite<br />ripensando ai miei pudici peli neri.<br />Escono piccole tarme dalla manica,<br />strizzano l'occhio romantiche<br />ad ancestrali visioni di rami in fiore.<br />Ancora la mia mano è<br />trappola al prenderti le reni,<br />distanza e respiro,<br />vita e morte appena.<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino (anni 2000,anni nostalgici)<br />Art. Ida Dipa. <br /></p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-26270338361433919852022-06-04T17:18:00.004-07:002022-06-04T17:18:48.013-07:00Il sogno<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHL0-depgGzr9zwM0BjPf6LMTnjSwXZ_A5v3wH_aL1cSz7s7rLCKiCLlk3_otget2Egf4IN_MnpFC3P9Y2VPsc1QUvOjCfLbVlwOffb3bOBRUcnA9i0PXRjONvko0amW10XxOfd8Lp66iERmncW92SR0GDLKy_VnVEHgXZ7a1YkqFPVq67UkVsxbX-dA/s526/Il%20sogno.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHL0-depgGzr9zwM0BjPf6LMTnjSwXZ_A5v3wH_aL1cSz7s7rLCKiCLlk3_otget2Egf4IN_MnpFC3P9Y2VPsc1QUvOjCfLbVlwOffb3bOBRUcnA9i0PXRjONvko0amW10XxOfd8Lp66iERmncW92SR0GDLKy_VnVEHgXZ7a1YkqFPVq67UkVsxbX-dA/s320/Il%20sogno.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> muoiono i sogni più teneri<br />muoiono attraverso il mistero <br />che è dentro di me:<br />un sibilo lungo di vite confuse<br />dal riverbero della luce <br />di un primo mattino d'estate.<br />ascolta,<br /> senti anche tu il mio sogno che pulsa<br />per rinascere nel meriggio di un giorno di primavera?<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino 01.06.2022<br />Art. Rino Rossi.</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-36962362159406229832022-06-03T17:05:00.001-07:002022-06-03T17:05:23.047-07:00Maria<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5biZPWiwKX2brf1uNTnGyQ8o-BSP3b0_B3ZUAzXHVGFwRN9XEW49OCKvAfBDMG1XqUqmhDA7RBC8nIvndB1VPT-mKzu6CShCd4SmHqQQGRRRmJ3zaoERXV0dMDSayWyWjFJjXxv1MH8TaeeUQvHzhrv2g-DHHt6wm-wk6xFYlucwWn6qNi0b-pnaHCw/s600/Maria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="480" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5biZPWiwKX2brf1uNTnGyQ8o-BSP3b0_B3ZUAzXHVGFwRN9XEW49OCKvAfBDMG1XqUqmhDA7RBC8nIvndB1VPT-mKzu6CShCd4SmHqQQGRRRmJ3zaoERXV0dMDSayWyWjFJjXxv1MH8TaeeUQvHzhrv2g-DHHt6wm-wk6xFYlucwWn6qNi0b-pnaHCw/w272-h340/Maria.jpg" width="272" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">Scritta ai tempi dell'uscita del libro "11 Minuti" di Paulo Coelho perciò datata.</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;">Si dava agli eretici d'amore, Maria<br />che dal Brasile portava l'innocenza:<br />geme il chiarore nel cielo<br />delle piogge premature<br />- malavita di ventri insaziabili -<br />sui seni che cadono al tedio,<br />il liquido ardente che brucia le cosce<br />di lei fino ai polsi coperta di nero<br />davanti al camino di una casa prestata,<br />al sudario che ripudia la fame<br />soddisfacendo l'appetito volgare<br />per un soldo di terra laddove<br />le campane suonano sempre a martello.<br /> </p><p style="text-align: center;">"Mani tese ai ceppi d'onore:<br /> all'improvviso dentro di me è esplosa una luce, una sensazione superiore a tutto ciò che conoscevo. Ci siamo amati tanto, <br />alla fine ho conosciuto Dio"<br />(Paulo Coelho)<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino <br />Art. Francesco Paci Salerno.<br /> </p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-63166437459819746212022-06-03T16:59:00.004-07:002022-06-03T16:59:40.481-07:00Viola<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMphIvxDrojk4Xzuyd2qyuaJY7ydbwOE2FwYF_3fKOuYcYDEeXtgyP1MbH-Z3m0BmGkdirVKHkUVGtpjVzoqfEWWFISR1GJbwNx4SA6NpPJvmWtPdRDqNo5r2vi_uGlQY9ad1igE7xBlEGt5s2gv2fpdEW1w61_7Zp9TcYVEJoWXfkVfuWmGLtIQqa-g/s536/viola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMphIvxDrojk4Xzuyd2qyuaJY7ydbwOE2FwYF_3fKOuYcYDEeXtgyP1MbH-Z3m0BmGkdirVKHkUVGtpjVzoqfEWWFISR1GJbwNx4SA6NpPJvmWtPdRDqNo5r2vi_uGlQY9ad1igE7xBlEGt5s2gv2fpdEW1w61_7Zp9TcYVEJoWXfkVfuWmGLtIQqa-g/s320/viola.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> i rami della quercia frustano<br />le mura del carcere spezzando<br />l'aria in tante piccole gocce:<br />una cavità antica, un amore feroce,<br />il corpo appeso ad una fune di parole.<br />Prego a mani mozze,<br />bestemmiando litanie,<br />bruciando diari macchiati di viola,<br />antico colore del vino appena fruttato.<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino <br />Art. Celia Anahin.</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-24814312947118874962022-05-30T15:18:00.003-07:002022-05-30T15:18:22.955-07:00Catechismi<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdMNdohGburpgW8fmWNINFpEpKo5FMRWiPehBon9J4utvh40Q67EhGk4iBnuUwyBbKAvsv0F6pt2JF1RfDAzmuLT09U1Rcis8SXEDunE20wNlCKIHA2MPf3U0X8Nu6v8KBkMvn4GMEaovZcEND0ykQSOnxvR5YaBq3woN7Blwk47qvetN8CBwdF_O4w/s720/Catechismi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="502" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdMNdohGburpgW8fmWNINFpEpKo5FMRWiPehBon9J4utvh40Q67EhGk4iBnuUwyBbKAvsv0F6pt2JF1RfDAzmuLT09U1Rcis8SXEDunE20wNlCKIHA2MPf3U0X8Nu6v8KBkMvn4GMEaovZcEND0ykQSOnxvR5YaBq3woN7Blwk47qvetN8CBwdF_O4w/w242-h347/Catechismi.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> Ogni giorno è un mese nel retrobottega delle iniziazioni,<br />le sottovesti macchiate di rosso, l'acquavite rapprende<br />il coagulo morto prima di nascere, una culla che cade<br />e mormora piano l'ave maria.<br />Un velo da sposa impigliato nei rovi<br />una donna che ride appoggiata alla fonte<br />la bruma che segna sinuosità vagabonde<br />sulle linee contratte di un giorno<br />che muore inghiottito da scarpe di pezza<br />e catechismi a pieghe di pelle intessute alle colpe.<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino <br />Art. Antonella Losso.</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-24048893652361819922022-05-30T15:14:00.006-07:002022-05-30T15:14:59.358-07:00Non ho vent'anni<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzUOomg81YzOwtNCvnOaRlzZIBDqwWXjBi4ElTuJAt4qchtS8-_-q709BFZH7Tdk6wN58UWnpxnacwgsxQrjmGROdu5E2NDg_zxK4wi9YA-4XExZqYWb42gGu9U08TddMyZhWQN3ImDcGH-0h_1xB3GFStHShOFKOUqJA6NeskWkUxlfKJgcPOGsC0A/s700/Non%20ho%20vent'anni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="525" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzUOomg81YzOwtNCvnOaRlzZIBDqwWXjBi4ElTuJAt4qchtS8-_-q709BFZH7Tdk6wN58UWnpxnacwgsxQrjmGROdu5E2NDg_zxK4wi9YA-4XExZqYWb42gGu9U08TddMyZhWQN3ImDcGH-0h_1xB3GFStHShOFKOUqJA6NeskWkUxlfKJgcPOGsC0A/w264-h352/Non%20ho%20vent'anni.jpg" width="264" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> ma sono rimasta intatta<br />nei suoni della poesia, negli incantesimi verbali,<br />ancora mi prendono per mano<br />quando sono in territorio misterioso:<br />e' un colloquio nascosto <br />chè il poeta vive nella solitudine.<br /><br />Con il tempo diventa salvacondotto per<br /> la poesia<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino <br />Art. Manfred Koschabek.</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-30046234954882929042022-05-30T15:10:00.005-07:002022-05-30T15:10:37.991-07:00Trasparenza (a mio figlio) <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQTtBrzRcpci3-t0hp5C4miagc81umhWHVam3C28kmaPT1abH_Kmmdp1PjCejnVzu4sNNroV7w3VSqqL_NVZZ7bfynQeWxOlEtW2h_OplGkaBa6QC_JWMd-xaXZIqEERRgOqy9xrp6yTRhIC5-1zevG4sfjGOMddORNEVmiLahCDSQOGFNZ-gLVwR7Q/s810/Trasparenza%20%20%20(a%20mio%20figlio).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="810" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYQTtBrzRcpci3-t0hp5C4miagc81umhWHVam3C28kmaPT1abH_Kmmdp1PjCejnVzu4sNNroV7w3VSqqL_NVZZ7bfynQeWxOlEtW2h_OplGkaBa6QC_JWMd-xaXZIqEERRgOqy9xrp6yTRhIC5-1zevG4sfjGOMddORNEVmiLahCDSQOGFNZ-gLVwR7Q/w377-h251/Trasparenza%20%20%20(a%20mio%20figlio).jpg" width="377" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> Ah, quella donna sfatta, autunnale<br />con le calze smagliate,<br />si fa pallido sesso alle acque,<br />è conchiglia smarrita ai fondali.<br />Eppure talvolta ha dei dubbi,<br />sente voci di grembo,<br />a memoria cento spade di rame.<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino anni 2000<br />Art: Laura Beghin</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-54110726573881471322022-05-26T16:23:00.006-07:002022-05-26T16:23:51.119-07:00L'attesa del messia <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRKaKYSGwwyGR6pCvSzVwQ6C_KRSAibubmKSBnXeKxPugOnloxTASzKrOl-54F1CIfmM4_xLEfLLpD6NqPNuw36jGQqxbD_SYxpYajmUg4qlJbly539QvT9xCxBEummSLYCWBmQ4Cpi_XSXUvEtEq3dl6lILrzY7REzfytDKTEAI01k_uPyuxavu_hQ/s720/l'attesa%20del%20messia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="720" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRKaKYSGwwyGR6pCvSzVwQ6C_KRSAibubmKSBnXeKxPugOnloxTASzKrOl-54F1CIfmM4_xLEfLLpD6NqPNuw36jGQqxbD_SYxpYajmUg4qlJbly539QvT9xCxBEummSLYCWBmQ4Cpi_XSXUvEtEq3dl6lILrzY7REzfytDKTEAI01k_uPyuxavu_hQ/w425-h276/l'attesa%20del%20messia.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> o specchio mi distorce<br />l'attesa del messia<br />tracciando margini di sangue<br />in sordo ruggito.<br />a mani vuote, a piedi scalzi,<br />sono nudo filo d'erba radicato<br />tra la fessura del lastrico<br />e il marciapiede:<br />salga la mia voce al plesso degli dei<br />che il mio petto è in urto rauco<br />al fragore della terra.</p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: right;"> Donatella Maino<br />Art: Maurizio Nelli <br /></p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-31785559763634913492022-05-26T16:19:00.000-07:002022-05-26T16:19:00.190-07:00Caramelle Elah nocecento<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0dqoK17U55soYKws3jvnZEYOJZM51_Yn_TVfPgAqVIr7NhDzuoAFeETNmykxPv-mVYJiWqx2cVvT1RWTWZTz0R5ZT-07jKiEHhu-I7DjaqVnAyKAq365vyuSDeNl9InhQ296pYlGpwLOuecHzLomAxxa-osAgMMc4d2bSD5JSEu3Ihp2ofQ2CpWog0g/s720/Caramelle%20Elah%20nocecento.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="510" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0dqoK17U55soYKws3jvnZEYOJZM51_Yn_TVfPgAqVIr7NhDzuoAFeETNmykxPv-mVYJiWqx2cVvT1RWTWZTz0R5ZT-07jKiEHhu-I7DjaqVnAyKAq365vyuSDeNl9InhQ296pYlGpwLOuecHzLomAxxa-osAgMMc4d2bSD5JSEu3Ihp2ofQ2CpWog0g/w259-h364/Caramelle%20Elah%20nocecento.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> Calzini rossi, gonne corte,<br />caramelle Elah novecento.<br />Spacco le pareti alla mia bolla:<br />amare, dormire, a volte parlare<br />e dire d'amaro il verso<br />quando coglievo viole fra i sassi<br />di quella strada antica<br />quando le dita dei piedi erano ossa<br />fasciate di stracci e le formiche<br />bracciali che stringevano i polsi.<br />Sotto il sonno sono ancora tutt'ossa,<br />ravvolta in spirale, la punta estrema<br />mi bacia le labbra.<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;">Donatella Maino<br />FOTO MIA</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-44796520946706222672022-05-25T15:31:00.004-07:002022-05-25T15:31:39.118-07:00(Prosa antica)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijPtucsOFh1i8JVBVDQsYMDaDYg7O1I_3eUtJ7lnTonlnfKTxtAWucl2bW9C33VuJzy0Lm0x7LEhaiQ52dOZLu1Ueix5bhYR6beGq3pWaWuG3BlU_aE30siz0MME3s9JdjITftlGJwr1EVHSzNygXBCl6Oc5-jOMhdKS3XLbIj9NORH0fHc4TKLkJHug/s526/(Prosa%20antica).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" height="379" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijPtucsOFh1i8JVBVDQsYMDaDYg7O1I_3eUtJ7lnTonlnfKTxtAWucl2bW9C33VuJzy0Lm0x7LEhaiQ52dOZLu1Ueix5bhYR6beGq3pWaWuG3BlU_aE30siz0MME3s9JdjITftlGJwr1EVHSzNygXBCl6Oc5-jOMhdKS3XLbIj9NORH0fHc4TKLkJHug/w379-h379/(Prosa%20antica).jpg" width="379" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> Nulla, nulla, non ti muovere,<br />ormai la frase è spezzata,<br />una parentesi e poi ancora una parentesi<br />hanno corroso la lingua, l'anima,<br />più non scorre sangue nell'io ubbidiente.<br />Imperversa la tua voce,<br />mi viene in mente l'urlo aperto cinque anni fa<br />mentre mi uccidevo cadendo nella neve<br />davanti ad una sporca locanda,<br />ero acqua sciolta al male.<br />Ancora l'insegna m'invita,<br />un affrettarsi di passi su e giù<br />agli angoli del mio cervello, all'imbarco per l'isola.<br />Così resto in silenzio e chino il capo sul petto<br />che mutilato disegna metà dello scempio.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Donatella Maino</span> <br />Art.Kerstin Kuntze.<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-85406056918725438592022-05-23T15:25:00.002-07:002022-05-23T15:25:18.357-07:00La campanella<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZfmuqjWDWf8W5TTrcSYH15RrYHxlPQ5pqK7IJXAUfryhQZv0owMuSgbkAwZAKwWVbsF8_V6HtCQLwlHCndPHFhEEkawMeEqvVXSAV0HaBwHB9oKpd0nguV5ZFLq51af4LCxFh3D64qjdPphNpXAm2M8TZ3WlL1IgNc5AABA2j0LXTeuEQJG7ydWackQ/s960/la%20campanella.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="639" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZfmuqjWDWf8W5TTrcSYH15RrYHxlPQ5pqK7IJXAUfryhQZv0owMuSgbkAwZAKwWVbsF8_V6HtCQLwlHCndPHFhEEkawMeEqvVXSAV0HaBwHB9oKpd0nguV5ZFLq51af4LCxFh3D64qjdPphNpXAm2M8TZ3WlL1IgNc5AABA2j0LXTeuEQJG7ydWackQ/w264-h396/la%20campanella.jpg" width="264" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> Ah, poter sorvergliare la mia vita!<br />Ricordo quel convento, <br />quelle vesti ampie e nere <br />andare fruscianti verso <br />grani di giaculatorie, amen o così sia!<br />Poi la gobba, quasi piegata in due<br />per nascondere attributi e rossori<br />affidandomi alla vergine maria.<br />La paura dei passi falsi, "bada a te,<br />indietro non si torna nessun ago e filo <br />può aggiustare labbra di rosa, nessuno<br />ti vorrà più, segnata a dito per la via".<br />La curiosità si fece inganno.<br />Scese la notte, sentivo il pulsare delle arterie<br />nella mente mille strali come fuochi d'artificio,<br />svolazzava qualche cornacchia o... erano le suore?<br />Lo vidi venire verso di me, ci sogliemmo nella neve,<br />ci accostammo, ci penetrammo,<br />forse era l'abisso, forse era la campanella dei frati,<br />ti prego fammi luce...<br />Me ne tornai a casa, placata, quasi rasserenata per quel dovere assolto.<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Donatella Main</span>o <br />Art. Vilma Alberti.</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-77299431892233251282022-05-23T15:22:00.002-07:002022-05-23T15:22:09.371-07:00La rosa bianca<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlwmMUQGhGj9nI6ft8qC27w_20OZzIskwCSPoVuF721S0-wlOdTwbx_Rpd82_Y7yhU9dIF_ynJsWFUPuRELYgLJtUy531m9ygFM8UY_L29UvrKeoH5wbL1gVQpI9qePFvclOWb5bzEAxXMicUUErBYTt1SgBq_BUObstdkgHqu73hJW_QPLf9B-XQGQ/s960/La%20rosa%20bianca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="960" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlwmMUQGhGj9nI6ft8qC27w_20OZzIskwCSPoVuF721S0-wlOdTwbx_Rpd82_Y7yhU9dIF_ynJsWFUPuRELYgLJtUy531m9ygFM8UY_L29UvrKeoH5wbL1gVQpI9qePFvclOWb5bzEAxXMicUUErBYTt1SgBq_BUObstdkgHqu73hJW_QPLf9B-XQGQ/w410-h273/La%20rosa%20bianca.jpg" width="410" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> Quella rosa bianca, arrossata ai petali,<br />si volge confusa alla frasca,<br />si sveste dell'intimo opale;<br />tenerezza della primavera<br />nel grembo rosa, colpa e inquietudine,<br />mascherato destino, flusso di stelle<br />e di nubi che fuggono, mutanti armonie<br />erompono come nastro ai lievi lombi,<br />scorrono il sorriso, incerte.<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Donatella Maino</span><br />Art Luise</p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-383836779357308412022-05-23T15:17:00.000-07:002022-05-23T15:17:00.976-07:00Silenzio<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_SMzUUnaCbEbLFbq4_HyvK4O4u_JhfGMb8Dv4y5JO6GAUxa9gaaBU_vdkjtsba4x6RXelk1Kn2gUK-ZH9o2_mFDYPEtIEz0_p_1hWsf0EYvSQXBWh9gyZ3zmHL38p08ScQZawabSORcHuR-W2WNduju1P-xuJPg9QZW2GZZVpe4LSwP85w8uGqk5SfQ/s600/silenzio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="600" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_SMzUUnaCbEbLFbq4_HyvK4O4u_JhfGMb8Dv4y5JO6GAUxa9gaaBU_vdkjtsba4x6RXelk1Kn2gUK-ZH9o2_mFDYPEtIEz0_p_1hWsf0EYvSQXBWh9gyZ3zmHL38p08ScQZawabSORcHuR-W2WNduju1P-xuJPg9QZW2GZZVpe4LSwP85w8uGqk5SfQ/w356-h304/silenzio.jpg" width="356" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> vivo il mio lutto d'amore<br />con le caviglie legate,<br />chè le cose perse si ritrovano<br />con tutto ciò che resta. il cesto è vuoto tanto che s'apre: <br />è un attimo segreto,<br />mai ho avvertito<br />questo silenzio profondo.<br />Le parole nascoste e zitte in mezzo al guado<br />a un passo da noi che restiamo fuori.<br />No, nemmeno il ricordo salva.<br /><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;"> <span style="color: red;">Donatella Maino 2022</span></p><p style="text-align: right;">Art. Manfred Koschabek <br /></p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-39078042850382852452022-05-21T16:10:00.002-07:002022-05-21T16:10:12.298-07:00Parigi <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWU4fZzSKq4sAsylbhAUS421EIGey_AILSiosKNgRMETIYD6U_dSDCgle9LkB9U9oiSlvtqu9pcC4Iizy76fjzIjEIgYrHTya3ZSa3p0qYmQZZ4TQ6ikO5n6FIuYHNlk_zkIzf5v3AWOPz7TgFD_zbb-gZQ9vBEmhUu01_ww4rjssFQlrGgsai0t3qbw/s960/Parigi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWU4fZzSKq4sAsylbhAUS421EIGey_AILSiosKNgRMETIYD6U_dSDCgle9LkB9U9oiSlvtqu9pcC4Iizy76fjzIjEIgYrHTya3ZSa3p0qYmQZZ4TQ6ikO5n6FIuYHNlk_zkIzf5v3AWOPz7TgFD_zbb-gZQ9vBEmhUu01_ww4rjssFQlrGgsai0t3qbw/w405-h304/Parigi.jpg" width="405" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> E' sul pomo freddo degli alari<br />che rammendo i calzini di mio figlio,<br />lo sguardo annega nelle assenze<br />arrotate sulla stessa mola.<br />mi pungo le dita nude alla spinta dell'ago,<br />succhio il sangue, sciroppo di sterpi<br />smaltiti sull'argine dalla piena:<br />scarpe larghe, bocche sformate,<br />affondano le suole nella melma<br />respirando la brevità di un velo da sposa<br />conservato nella segreta del trumeau<br />in residui di ipnotico fiji sbrecciato alle narici<br />dall'aspro odore di canfora.<br />Dalle ogive di una chiesa protestante<br />mi torna il verso di un editto antico:<br />"Parigi vale bene una messa</p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Maino Donatella</span><br />Art . Antonella Losso.</p><p style="text-align: right;"> <br /></p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-63645461922971511122022-05-21T04:57:00.001-07:002022-05-21T04:57:07.249-07:00Olivia<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgUNkkcvuMOZ0OzfBhUgcAHQo_E_hc8QHku0BYidkP5liIqthQ3jQZLrKmXmUhvdvWzaSvWxm2gwvykJf7HLIYfKGO3UhI33oxRAu-hbSk6Wd79Jm_a1vJZAGCbIouW-OEknA2QGL31adDXBwr2wWsQWCpAJH9iSB7qVDFAnAoQTt5WlQ-eWfm-bs2MQ/s720/olivia.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgUNkkcvuMOZ0OzfBhUgcAHQo_E_hc8QHku0BYidkP5liIqthQ3jQZLrKmXmUhvdvWzaSvWxm2gwvykJf7HLIYfKGO3UhI33oxRAu-hbSk6Wd79Jm_a1vJZAGCbIouW-OEknA2QGL31adDXBwr2wWsQWCpAJH9iSB7qVDFAnAoQTt5WlQ-eWfm-bs2MQ/w402-h402/olivia.jpg" width="402" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> La penetrò.<br />Furono trogoli di verde faggio<br />foderati a calce viva.<br />Olivia dei vent'anni nacque<br />e morì in un'ora,<br />fucilata al muro dei volantini<br />per un cucchiaio d'orz-oro e di nutella.</p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><h2 class="gmql0nx0 l94mrbxd p1ri9a11 lzcic4wl aahdfvyu hzawbc8m" id="jsc_c_7d" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #65676b; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 4px 0px 0px; outline: currentcolor none medium; padding: 0px; text-align: right; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; transition-property: none !important; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql lr9zc1uh jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw m9osqain" style="animation-name: none !important; color: var(--secondary-text); font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.9375rem; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; word-break: break-word;"><span style="color: red;"><strong style="animation-name: none !important; font-weight: 600; transition-property: none !important;"><span style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl gpro0wi8 oo9gr5id lrazzd5p" href="https://www.facebook.com/donatella.maino.9?__cft__[0]=AZV_58-5Fjg8mPIZyBn__-Cfe07AeRGaWGRWdBmDEqJ-tClPTROC8fs6St9MVyhZVwWFu31zNUvsI2rVWZWx5iv1GRcolEJRuyDE-2SSPdBdEs6-d76XDCedU6Owaqh1pP4&__tn__=-]C%2CP-R" role="link" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; font-weight: 600; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: currentcolor none medium; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: underline; touch-action: manipulation; transition-property: none !important;" tabindex="0"><span class="nc684nl6" style="animation-name: none !important; display: inline; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;"><span style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Donatella Maino</span></span></a></span></strong></span><span> </span> </span></h2><h2 class="gmql0nx0 l94mrbxd p1ri9a11 lzcic4wl aahdfvyu hzawbc8m" id="jsc_c_7d" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #65676b; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 4px 0px 0px; outline: currentcolor none medium; padding: 0px; text-align: right; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; transition-property: none !important; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql lr9zc1uh jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw m9osqain" style="animation-name: none !important; color: var(--secondary-text); font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.9375rem; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; word-break: break-word;">Art.<span style="color: red;"> <strong style="animation-name: none !important; font-weight: 600; transition-property: none !important;"><span style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl gpro0wi8 oo9gr5id lrazzd5p" href="https://www.facebook.com/henry.wang.1232?__cft__[0]=AZV_58-5Fjg8mPIZyBn__-Cfe07AeRGaWGRWdBmDEqJ-tClPTROC8fs6St9MVyhZVwWFu31zNUvsI2rVWZWx5iv1GRcolEJRuyDE-2SSPdBdEs6-d76XDCedU6Owaqh1pP4&__tn__=-]C%2CP-R" role="link" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; font-weight: 600; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: currentcolor none medium; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; touch-action: manipulation; transition-property: none !important;" tabindex="0"><span class="nc684nl6" style="animation-name: none !important; display: inline; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;"><span style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Henry Wang</span></span></a></span></strong>.</span></span></h2><p style="text-align: right;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7704681675725697482.post-91141533224652290762022-05-21T04:47:00.002-07:002022-05-21T04:47:14.653-07:00Due poesie pubblicate nel 2022 su Vivi Trento<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYxr-hWjQaUqCeWfPqGhsgMf21hJJAgLWf0ovb9eB7u3RknG0EY0YeaocYrc8XK0wD32_ln9M-mTHas6gvpI87BawBKngqXSJVrKgnVgiXPHmu-ssFF-rwuqMcJGUT1aC0Oe7oycjr9BI8v1QfLs48O6OimL-rdL8NJCSIDDZt4XNKjsZ4OCh8Oyz_Q/s900/Poesie-ViviTrento.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="900" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYxr-hWjQaUqCeWfPqGhsgMf21hJJAgLWf0ovb9eB7u3RknG0EY0YeaocYrc8XK0wD32_ln9M-mTHas6gvpI87BawBKngqXSJVrKgnVgiXPHmu-ssFF-rwuqMcJGUT1aC0Oe7oycjr9BI8v1QfLs48O6OimL-rdL8NJCSIDDZt4XNKjsZ4OCh8Oyz_Q/w515-h381/Poesie-ViviTrento.png" width="515" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="" dir="auto" style="text-align: center;"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_9a"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql lr9zc1uh a8c37x1j fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Sono stata scelta con due mie poesie inviate da una cara amica ad un giornalino trentino, distribuito in luoghi molto frequentati, tipo centri commerciali etc. Ringrazio la mia amica, veramente notevole il suo affetto e la sua stima nei miei confronti. Allego le poesie in questione che amo molto e la copertina del giornalino</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Grazie per l'eventuale vostra attenzione</b>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: red;">Donatella Maino.</span></div></div></span></div></div></div></div>Donatellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01566240911812791171noreply@blogger.com0