Stefano Iori

Stefano Iori (Mantua, 1951)
The author made his debut as a writer in 1992, signing the volume of the theater Scritture (Province of Mantua ed.). Stefano Iori revealed himself to the audience and critics with the reasoned filmography I Grandi Film – Tinto Brass (Gremese, Rome 2000). He has collaborated with various publishers as curator, among these Giorgio Mondadori. Stefano signed three books of poetry: Gocce scalze (Albatros Il Filo, Rome 2011), Sottopelle (Kolibris, Ferrara in 2013, with a preface by Gio Ferri) and L’anima aggiunta (Edizioni SEAM, Rome 2014, Pellicano 2016) bilingual edition (ita/eng) with Beppe Costa’s preface. In 2015 he published the novel La giovinezza di Shlomo (Gilgamesh Editions, Asola – MN). He is managing editor of the Literary Prize Giuseppe Acerbi’s Notebooks, as well as artistic director of the International Poetry Festival Virgilio (Mantova) and Sirmio International Poetry Festival. He collaborates with several magazines and is co-director of the poetic blog Trasversale. He coordinates the National Poetry Prize Terra di Virgilio.
Stefano Iori is a scholar of Jewish culture.

Stefano Iori – poems

In the ghetto, on the third floor of a narrow street
reviewed version by Sottopelle – 2013

My house on the third floor
gives on a street
that would be narrow
in any real city,
but here is thought to be big
that antique strip
of disjointed pebbles
From the street every noise,
even the tiniest one,
going swiftly to the window,
becomes bigger at every step
until it reaches me
as a rumble or thunder
But if I yell from the balcony,
calling the friend who is passing by,
he does not hear and keeps on walking straight
Dismayed ear,
voiceless word,
bothersome result
of the sneering sound
Useless hubbub,
vain word
It takes little
to helplessly suffer
In the suspended island
one can neither take nor give

***

One minute after the twilight

Fireflies on the creek
Arches of limestone
with crooked shadows
Half-closed eyes
pushed beyond the garden
Unsure light of stars and moon
brushes the gloomy leaves
Where the swallows flew
the common noctule hesitant flutters about
In one minute
the mind is spinning,
nostalgic-mind,
of dreams already enjoyed
Dull frenzy
seasoned with fear
and death is laughing

***

Delight

Studying, how delightful!
Parabola in love
Twine of passions
Thirst of the unsaid
Reel (un)veiled
Reel to the infinite
on the wave of smile
And wind from the skies
sleepy and acrid smell
spreads around
Mixture of anise,
absinthe and mint
Ecstasy from the inside

***

On mount Zion

The last olive unpicked
falls from the bony branch,
twisted, jaded
on Mount Zion
the foxes run,
lively lightning
of hungry red fur
No grass on the hard ground,
apart from a toasted tuft
torn to pieces by the wind,
that smokes in dust
on the last ridge
Whoever dares the hill is thirsty
in search of light and truth,
but only the tawny thunderbolt
know how to find water
And hide its source
from beasts and travelers
I know that on the peak
I will surely get,
but I would need to drink,
in order to survive,
the foxes’ pee
Patient rat
Daring rat
Furious rat

***

Added soul

Apart from me,
the added soul
works alone
It writes to me and tells me
kindly
I think of it but it’s not there,
I look back and it laughs
The beauty – you know? –
is that it leaves its marks.

***

Omage to Fernando Pessoa

What stagnates in my heart does not afflict me,
because the good things that will ever be
Are traces with no shape
that go beyond the pain
I can almost get a glimpse of them,
I chase them in a limpid dream,
but then I surrender to their light
that tells too much
Therefore the sadness proudly triumphs,
like a huge oak
that darkens the meadow
with leonine foliage
Yes, a rekindled tree… but…
one by one, the leaves fall,
they fill puddles
between the trail and the haze
Go away shadow, let light come back!
Flight of honey of the true truth
towards skin with pores wide open
There’s no obstacle, or shell
There’s no limit
The wind seeps in, tense and fast
between the dried branches
of my old name
And it makes another

***

The vat of miracles

“Not a must”
apex of the unexpected,
you need to ferment,
until you get sweeter,
like the grape in the vat
In this way the bitterness of the usual goes away,
tears of the chance,
insipid to the excess
“Not a must”
caught in flight,
hugged to rejoice
in transparent peace,
with the new code
of the so-wished miracle

SHARE

LEAVE A REPLY