The Waters of Hermes - Le Acque di Ermes

Giuseppe Conte and Massimo Maggiari A Dialogue What is Mitomodernismo? I can only speak about my own idea, my personal view of Mitomodernismo. First of all, unlike at the beginning of the century, it is not an organized movement. Of all the poets invited to be here from Italy, only Tomaso Kemeny was deeply involved with the foundation of the movement. But also the others present today— poets whom I regard as the best of our generation in Italy—are in agreement that there is a relationship between myth and poetry, although everyone of us has a different style. Mitomodernismo is a literary group that opens a new direction towards the place where myth and soul, soul and language, language and cosmos are connected. In this way, anyone of you (pointing at the public) can be mitomodernista! What do I mean when I say the word Mitomodernismo? In my opinion, both in the fields of poetry and narrative, Mitomodernismo means all of the following: 1) to bring the metamorphic and primordial energy of myth into our language and our work; 2) to rediscover the living presence of ancient gods in nature and in our language, in our soul and in everyday life; 3) to overcome the typical idea of the crisis in Western civilization, to overcome materialism and nichilism; 4) to find the new springs of spirituality, connecting our culture with other civilizations, making spiritual energies meet, exploring the universe of different cultures, such as the native American culture, the Sufi and Hindu philosophies, and so on; 5) to connect poetry again with prophecy; 6) to reconnect poetry and the dream of the future; 7) to rediscover, through our literary work, the power of eroticism as manifested in soul, heroism, nature, cosmos and myth. Thus, Mitomodernismo is something that we must reinvent and create in every moment. How different is your way of dealing with myth in this new literary approach? For Mitomodernismo, myth is not an archeological recreation. It is a form of knowledge. In our century, many writers, the most relevant in the literary field, have written just to demonstrate that the glorious myth of the gods is not dead, and that it is possible now to create new myths. Mitomodernismo challenges the thesis of the death of myth and of the impossibility of its re-creation. Mitomodernismo believes, just as the poets in the Romantic Age did—and before that, the Italian Renaissance poets—that the role of the poet is that of shaman, traveller, and warrior of the spirit. Mitomodernismo has its roots in the Romantic age, when poets dreamed of renewing the world and of creating new visions of the soul. What is the role of Hermes in this new approach to literature and myth? Hermes is a minor god in the Greek pantheon, but we find him also, under different names, in the Egyptian pantheon as Anubis and Thot, in the Hindu pantheon as Pushan, in the German pantheon as Odin, and in the Celtic pantheon as Lug. According to the Homeric Hymns, Hermes was a newborn baby when he killed a tortoise, stripped it of its carapace, and applying seven strings to it, began to play and sing praises to Zeus and Maia, his parents. Hermes is a trickster, the god of thieves and liars, the protector of markets; but first of all, he is a messenger, an intermediary between gods and men, a guide, a very special kind of guide for the souls going to the Underworld. Therefore, I think that poetry has a continuous relationship with Hermes, because poetry invites us to speak with the shadows and brings us closer to their land, allowing us to see what is otherwise invisible and to fly around the world of the shadows. Hermes is the God of quickness and lightness, the very same god Calvino wrote about in the American Lectures. Now, only Hermes, not Dyonisus, not Apollo, can help us bring perspective to light and darkness, and to recapture in our language the enchantment of everyday life.

ROBERTO MUSSAPI
La dea pietosa a Giuseppe Conte Venne o forse furono le tende a dirmi che era passata, ma io cercavo la sola parola per fermarla, era tardi per vederla, non per attenderla ancora, lei che amò l’uomo più solo sul mare di smalto e non fu riconosciuta. Atena, dissero, tu che l’ami, accoglilo per sempre nella tua quiete, placa le onde che gli feriscono i fianchi, la memoria. Era schiuma e lui non la vide, proseguiva nella sua zattera e nei suoi stracci, era una corrente d’aria, la mia stanza era vuota il cerchio della lampada freddo, inossidabile. Per voi, disse la voce, ma la luce si era spenta prima nella mia mente che nella stanza e il buio uscì da vene non mie non era mia la mia voce. Poi, nell'ora, riconosciuta, tornò la primavera e faceva ancora freddo e tutti erano lontani negli impermeabili il vento li distanziava, muoveva la loro parte volatile, il tessuto.	The Compassionate Goddess To Giuseppe Conte She came or maybe it was the curtain that told me she had passed, but I was looking for the only word to stop her. It was too late to see her, yet not too late to wait for her, for her who loved the loneliest man on the enamel sea — and was not recognized. Athena, they said, you who love him, welcome him forever in your quiet, quell the waves that wound his sides his memory. She was foam, and he did not see her. He floated in his raft, in his tatters. There was a draft. My room was empty, the light circle of the lamp cold, stainless steel. For you, said the voice, but the lamp was turned off in my mind earlier than in the room — darkness came out of veins not mine and my voice was no longer my voice. Then, in the hour, recognized, spring returned. It was still cold, every one was far away in their raincoats, the wind made them look distant, moved their volatile parts, the tissues.
de Gita Meridiana Uno solo al timone che non parlò mai nel viaggio, poi lo incontraron disse, era lei che piangeva, tra le grandi schiume, piangeva lei le lacrime umane, si è sciolta. Voi restate, fratelli, in piedi, fate un’ombra lucente. Nessuno siede su quella sedia di paglia e le ombre sono tornate nel ripostiglio. Dolore e incantesimo si raggrumano, furono scorza. Era lei, Giuseppe, che è passata nella tua vita come una nebbia marina. La vedemmo alla sera, quasi svanita, lontana. E con lei l’eco e il ritorno delle parole, a lei non è servito amarti, seguirti su per le scale di Porto Maurizio da bambino, implorare pietà al padre per te, per la tua strada. Oggi è discesa in forma di ragazza a te sconosciuta, ma io l’ho vista chinarsi sulle tue mani e piangere e scomparire verso Oneglia, lasciandoti solo di fronte alla luce della tua ombra e al mare della memoria perenne altissima.	from Gita Meridiana The only one at the rudder who never spoke during the voyage — they met him later, she said. She was the one crying, among the great foams, she cried human tears, she melted. You, brothers, you remain standing, casting a shining shadow. No one sits on this straw-thatched chair, and the shadows have returned in the closet. Grief and enchantment clot together, they were bark. It was she, Giuseppe, who passed through your life like marine mist. We saw her in the evening, almost faded, distant, and with her were the echo and the returning words. It did her no good to love you, to follow you when you were a child up the slate steps in Porto Maurizio, begging your father for mercy for you, for your street. Today she descended in the shape of a girl known to you, but I saw her bend over your hands and cry, then disappear towards Oneglia, leaving you alone in front of the light of your shadow, looming tall, perennial, by a sea of memory.
La visione di Enea Poi fu il buio delle fronde così lontano dal buio della notte, ombroso, mosso, respirante di anime, e l’attesa della sua voce e un brivido vegetale nel nero: e davanti a noi l’antro, la bocca vuota e desolata della sibilla, vaticinio, aria smossa dal suono, pura voce. E poi il ramo d’oro, e la promessa, e la dolorosa discesa, e l’ombra di mio padre: per te mi sono piegato alla voce e al buio delle fronde, per rivederti nei tratti disegnati dal tempo della tua vita e della mia impressa memoria, per te accetto le parole uscite dalla roccia, e il sangue che sarà sparso, e i morti presenti e i morti futuri, e il nostro ricordo edificato sui morti. E la tua immagine d’ombra si chiamava esilio, e rividi Ettore e il suo nemico piangente per Patroclo, Eurialo e Clorinda, e la pietà di Lancillotto e i partigiani azzurri e tutti quelli che caddero per ricordare la tua ombra. Molti ne riconobbi nelle fila nemiche, uscii nel mattino, per combatterli.	Aeneas’ Vision Then there was the darkness of the branches, so distant from the darkness of night, shady, blurred, breathing with souls, and the waiting for her voice, and a vegetal shiver in the black: and in front of us the cave, the empty and desolate mouth of the Sibyl, prophecy, air moved by the sound, pure voice. And then the golden bough, and the promise and the painful descent, and my father’s shadow: for you I submitted to the voice and darkness of the branches, to see you again in the features drawn by time, of your life and of my imprinted memory. For you I accept the words coming out of rock, and the blood that will be shed, and the present dead and the future dead, and our memory built on the dead. And your image of shadow was called exile, and I saw again Hector and his enemy crying for Patroclus, Euryalus and Clorinda, and Lancelot’s piety and the blue partisans and all those who fell to remember your shadow. Many of them I recognized among enemy ranks. In the morning I went out to fight them.
Fino a quando? "Fino a quando si sgretolerà il tessuto e le fibre diventeranno inattingibili anche all’ultimo sguardo, al ricordo.” “In questa stessa crudeltà di ottobre, nel brivido del ruscello, in questa caduta io sento come una compassione universale che ha preceduto la genesi e la giustifica. Perché non dovrebbe sopravviverci?” “Che cosa resta della terra esplorata, e dei campi su cui abbiamo edificato la nostra storia, se non sarà un uomo, uno che beve e sanguina, quello a cui passeremo la staffetta?"	Till When? “Till the time when the fabric will fall apart and its fibers will become unattainable, down to the last glance, the last memory.” “In the same cruelty of this October, in the shudder of a rivulet, in this fall, I feel almost the universal compassion that precedes genesis, justifying it. “Why should it not survive us?” “What remains of the explored land, of the fields on which we have built our history, if not a man, one who drinks and bleeds, the one to whom we pass on the legacy?”
Parole di Socrate per nascita e morte Avrò nostalgia di questo tempio, la luce del marmo, l’ombra delle colonne dove la mia ombra si annullava per un istante. Nostalgia dell’opera, del bianco levigato fino alla luce negata alla terra. C’è un’altra opera, lontana, ora, nel tempo della cicuta e della prossima morte. Non ci appartiene, non è mia, vostra, sfiora la nostra vita come un’ombra bianca. Io sono stato suo servo, anche se ho obbedito ai costruttori di templi che lavorano il marmo, anche se ho vissuto come un’ombra in attesa di potervi amare diversamente, uomo fuori dalle spoglie dell’uomo e unito per sempre a quelli che piansero disperati all’ombra del tempio. La geometria delle stelle è lontana e presente, io la sentivo, dentro, parlava per lei, eppure ero solo un povero, un servo della parola e del mutamento. Lasciatemi volare via come perduto, bianco nel cielo che sbianca e si perde, lasciatemi la mia libertà e la mia morte. Non piangete. Piangete quello che fui accanto a voi, piangete voi stessi, la fredda consolazione della pietra, il tributo alla città, lo strazio della convivenza. Lasciatemi morire e perdermi nel mio ritorno.	Word of Socrates for Birth and Death I will miss this temple, the marble light, the fresh shade of the columns where my shadow annulled itself for an instant. I will miss the work, the bench polished till it reflects the light unknown by earth. There is another work, now distant, at the time of the hemlock and the coming death. It does not belong to us; it is not mine, not yours, it touches our life like a white ghost. I have been her servant, even if I obeyed the temple builders who work with marble, even if I lived like a shadow waiting to be able to love you differently, like a man outside the semblance of a man, joined forever to those who cried, in despair in the shadow of the temple. The geometry of the stars is distant and present. Yet I felt it, inside, I spoke for it — though I was only a poor man, a servant of the word and of change. Let me fly away as a lost soul, white in the sky that whitens and fades, leave me my freedom and my death. Do not cry. Cry for the person I used to be when I was near you, cry for yourselves, the cold consolation of the stone, the tribute to the city, the torment of cohabitation. Let me die and lose myself in my return.
Lettera dall’età della pietra Questa è una pietra da cui ho tolto le scaglie, fu un lungo lavoro nella notte, poco fuoco, la ultimai, conclusi l’opera, perché affissa a una freccia colpisse l’oggetto, la sua morte per la mia vita. E io volevo solo che tutto splendesse, che il cerchio della vita e della morte chiudesse anche la mia vita nel ricordo. L’ho fatto per te, per sopravvivere, quando io non sarò più che un’ombra e tu la sua luce repressa, tu ed io chiusi nel cerchio del pianeta, che il tempo divide e l’amore confonde.	Letter from the Stone Age This is a stone that I have chipped. It was a long work in the night with little fire, I finished it, I completed the work, so that I could affix it to a dart and make it hit an object, its death for my life. I only wanted everything to shine, and the circle of life and death to enclose also my life within memory. I did it for you, to survive, even when I will be nothing more than a shadow¬ and you its repressed light: you and I will be enclosed in the planet's circle that time divides and that love confuses.
L’incantato della stella Fu un lungo viaggio, duna su duna, per gli scribi. Per me fu breve, breve in confronto all’immobile mappa delle stelle. Sapevo che il nostro destino era la pista, o uscirne, perdersi nelle sabbie, lentezza era lo sguardo degli astri, che ho conosciuto, studiandone posizione e luce. I segni del cielo, le rotte eterne, e noi scivolanti come onde verso una morte lieve come la carezza di una donna al tramonto. Conoscevo la perfezione celeste e il breve respiro umano che si estingue dopo un atto d’amore. La vita, svanire prima dell’orizzonte. Ho conosciuto il cosmo e le teorie caldaiche, le pietre che sfiammano del ricordo di Venere, i disegni del cielo gelosamente custoditi nei tappeti. Poi la grotta e fu buio e respiro animale e povere membra, e una lontana oscurità rasoterra, più lontana delle stelle, io non guardai dentro, io provai pena del tanfo, del povero calore di corpi raccolti. E uno ne guardai che mi passava accanto, con gli occhi fissi rapiti da una stella. Bruno, sporco, con le spalle chiuse da idiota beveva la luce come eternamente, eternamente io lo ricorderò, lo racconto. Perché non fu riflesso ma scontro, tra quella luce a me nota e un’altra oscura che in modo assoluto lo incatenava al cielo.	Bewitched by a Star It was a long journey, dune after dune, for the scribes. For me, it was brief, so brief compared to the motionless map of the stars. I knew our destiny was the track: to get out of it or to lose oneself in the sands. Slow was the glance of the stars I knew, studying their position and light. The signs of the sky, the eternal routes, as we glided like waves towards a death were as soft as the caress of a woman at sunset. I knew the celestial perfection and the brief human breath extinguished after love making. Life — to vanish before the horizon. I have known the cosmos and the Chaldean theories, the stones still burning with the memory of Venus, the designs of heaven jealously guarded in carpets' weave. Then it was cave and darkness and animal breath and poor limbs, and a distant obscurity closer to earth, more distant than the stars. I did not look inside. I felt compassion for the smell, the poor heat of the gathered bodies. I looked at a man passing near me, his eyes staring, enraptured by a star. Brown, dirty, with the tight shoulders of an idiot, he drank light as if it were eternal. I will remember him forever, I will tell his story. Because it was not a reflection, rather a clash between that night known to me and another obscure one that chained him firmly to the sky.
La notte del dieci agosto Non piangere, Harun, in questa notte d’agosto quando le stelle cadono e la loro luce si dissolve nel buio come la sabbia nel sonno: se fossero sempre fisse e immutabili ti sarebbero estranee, e il loro splendore immobile offenderebbe la tua carne. Immagina che scendano per una compassione celeste, incarnazione d’astri che si disfanno in polvere, molecole di luce che si compenetrano al buio, ricorda la storia del beduino Habib che si innamorò di una lucciola e visse ogni istante della sua luce guardandola, e disperò vedendola morire in una notte. Ma dopo anni di pianto nel gelo del deserto una notte all’improvviso lui la rivide risplendere alta in una stella fissa: la lucciola, l’errante, la luce fenomenica, tornava dal cielo al beduino analfabeta. Né tu, sultano, né il povero beduino, avete pianto per una stella o una lucciola, ma per la sola cosa per cui piange un uomo, una donna: lì fu il dolore di luce persa, premonizione astrale del tempo spegnente, l’estinzione già inclusa nella ferita del miracolo, e la distanza dal cielo, la morte. Impara dal beduino, amala come si ama una lucciola, donati a ogni istante di sopravvivenza, e quando lei ti parrà persa nella notte tu nei suoi occhi scoprirai di colpo la luce alta delle stelle fisse, e in lei che parve dissolversi in una notte d’agosto l’affinità mortale con te che la supplichi.	The Night of August 10th Do not cry, Haroun, on this August night when the stars fall and their light dissolves in the dark like sand when we sleep: if they were always fixed and immutable they would be foreign to you, and their motionless splendor would offend your flesh. Imagine they descend out of celestial compassion, an incarnation of stars that turn to dust, molecules of light penetrating one another in the dark. Remember the story of the bedouin Habib who fell in love with a firefly and lived every instant of light watching her, desperate when he saw her die one night. But after years of weeping in the frost of the desert, suddenly one night he saw her again shining high in a fixed star: the firefly, the wandering one, the phenomenal light, returning from the sky to the illiterate bedouin. Neither you, sultan, nor the poor bedouin, have cried for a star or for a firefly, but for the only thing for which a man cries: a woman. There was the grief of lost light, an astral premonition of a time fading away, the extinction already included in the wound of the miracle, and the distance from the sky, death. Learn from the bedouin, love her as one loves a firefly, give yourself at every moment of survival. And when she appears to have been lost in the night you will suddenly discover in her eyes the high light of the fixed stars, and in her, who seemed to dissolve in an August night, you will find mortal affinity with you who beg her.