Giornata Mondiale della Poesia - Il Reading in Inglese di Thea

Sylvia Plath
You're
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,Gilled like a fish. A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode. Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,Trawling your dark as owls do. Mute as a turnip from the Fourth Of July to All Fools' Day,O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.Farther off than Australia.Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.Snug as a bud and at home Like a sprat in a pickle jug. A creel of eels, all ripples.Jumpy as a Mexican bean.Right, like a well-done sum.A clean slate, with your own face on

Notes Towards a Poem That Can Never Be Written
In this country you can say what you like because no one will listen to you anyway,it's safe enough, in this country you can try to write the poem that can never be written,the poem that invents nothing and excuses nothing,because you invent and excuse yourself each day.Elsewhere, this poem is not invention.Elsewhere, this poem takes courage.Elsewhere, this poem must be written because the poets are already dead.Elsewhere, this poem must be written as if you are already dead,as if nothing more can be done or said to save you.Elsewhere you must write this poem because the is nothing more to do.~by Margaret Atwood


The Rights by Denise Levertov

I want to give you
Something I’ve made
Some words on a page – as if
To say “Here are some blue beads”
Or, “Here’s a bright red leaf I found on the sidewalk”
(because to find is to choose, and a choice is made). But it’s difficult;
So far I’ve found
Nothing but the wish to give. Or
Copies of old words? Cheap and cruel; also senseless:
Take this instead, perhaps – a half – promise: If
I ever write
A poem of a certain temper
(willful, tender, evasive, sad & rakish)
I’ll give it to you.


Watching my grandmother by Dianne Sisko

Watching my grandmother undress is like a movie
Because she is grey and white and silver-brown
Flickering like film in the dark
Her satin slip becomes as she bends
Moving water and a cloud
Hovers silver around her head
Her lips are black and her eyes sockets
Are silent silent only a radio
Tinkling like a real music box



Shel Silverstein: Where the sidewalk ends

My skin is kind of sort of brownish, pinkish, yellowish white
My eyes are grayish blueish green.
But I’m told they look orange in the night.
My hair is reddish, blondish, brown,
But it’s silver when it’s wet
And all the colors I am inside have not been invented yet.