Beppe Costa is born in Sicily and lives in Rome.
In 1976 he founded the publishing house called Pellicanolibri , became in 1992 a crowded library even nowadays, publishing famous writers such as Fernando Arrabal (some works have been also translated by him), Manuel Vàsquez Montalbàn, Gaston Bachelard, Gisele Halimi, Naim Araidi.
He has still published Alberto Moravia, Dario Bellezza, Arnoldo Foà, Adele Cambria, Anna Maria Ortese, Goliarda Sapienza.
He won the Prize Alfonso Gatto in 1990.
He wrote different poetry and literary works, including “Impaginato per affetto” (Pellicanolibri), “Anche ora che la luna” (Multimedia Edizioni) in 2010 with cd too; “Rosso, poesie d’amore e di rivolta”(Volo Press) nel 2013, “La terra non è il cielo” (Gilgamesh) in 2014 and, with Stefania Battistella, “Dell’amore e d’altre abitudini” (Pellicanolibri 2015).
In 2017 the reprint of “Romanzo siciliano”( first edition 1984), present in several libraries in the world.
For the first time in Italy he engaged to obtain “Law Bacchelli” for the writer Anna Maria Ortese.
He curated the book series “Inediti rari e diversi”, in Pellicanolibri from 1978 and from 2013 with the name Associazione Pellicano.
He was guest in many literature festivals and translated in different languages ( such as arab, jewish, turkish).
In this year his activity has stopped for health problems and some friend have required for him the benefit of “Law Bacchelli”.
Even now that the moon
Even now that the moon
what’s the worth if when you were there
she was already gone.
Even now that the moon is here, you are not
and I wonder if even the stars are playing with you
like you and I still wonder if in the land,
where you willingly went there is the same moon and the same sea
Even now that the moon returns
if you perhaps return, you’ll return different
you won’t be anymore with me,
who has no light and no stars in gone universes,
had my thoughts all for you
And I find no other, I seek in vain before
the moon returns while you’re not here.
You are no more and I wonder if the moon plays tricks and deceives,
accomplices or tyrants of love,
that moon which is not there.
And I here, sitting before the threshold
and you, looking at another sky, another sea
where the moon which is not here
Red abundant in dying streets
red of hearts that don’t see the sun
red of sun that don’t see hearts
of hearts at the slaughter
of fiery dawns of shots in the sky
red the blood of a life
that is born
red of a mother who dies
blackened red of mines and sweat
red of wine drunk of you
red of nightly dance stage
red of love sometimes at your side
red the sunset that exchanges
with the day of life that takes me back to you
red of light of authors’ paintings
red of flames in the chimney that warms up the air
red of a cross when it’s sympathetic
red that burns but doesn’t bring heat
red of a flower picked by mistake
red of innards of lava
on the earth that it washes
red the dim light that exploding you don’t see
red you wear when you undress modesty
red of lips that you open to the lips
red the wound in your womb and in this way
my life begins.
I’d desire earth
the smell of leaves and ants
grass, dried tree branches,
I’d sit and watch my body
covering itself with insects
I’d desire the sea
to let me cover with water
go down to the bottom
to discover light and extinguishing it slowly
and die like a fish caught
I’d desire heaven
to pass through clouds and beyond
to intrigue birds,
which eventually fearlessly would start pecking
and fall back with no more heart
I’d like to hear it beating, the heart
to amplify until bursting
I’d like to think about my years
to loose and restart again
I’d desire to drink much wine
to go insane, drunk with no more eyes to tell
I’d like to run to the infinite
and see me arriving always before me
I’d desire to shave my wrists well
to drink my blood, to return clean and child
I’d very much desire you