All copyright © 2003 remains with the authors.
All copyright © 2004 remains with the authors.

Anny Ballardini

last night / thanks to douglas / i learn this morning from poetryetc
mandalas of light unruly unfolded in front of my mental eye
accompanying me to where I cannot remember
into the darkness the quiet lack of them

today i am here with cecco d'ascoli - astrologer mathematician poet -
who was /not only/ burned at the stake- stood against dante
i have no idea if he prefers coffee or chocolate
henry if it rains will soon arrive
poetic lines and words
forging my soul

anny ballardini
bozen, italy, 10.58am, 7/09/03


tomorrow is my birthday

bozen, south tyrol
July 23, 2003
10.05 pm

in exactly 4 hours
i was born 47 years ago
with a full round moon

Anny Ballardini


It goes like dark green-black violent tides sucked by inexhaustible
sleepless full Moons / Mars in Pisces / from peak to crevice / lack of
skeletal frame to volcanic eruption / by any level of emotional context to
any concrete step in or out / Wednesday-Mercoledi - Mercury-Hermes / sees or
doesn't want to see / compromise is needed wisdom moulds plastic forces / it
goes way back / to the first settlers - HG draws it to Protestantism / I
preferred to depict instability within an innate human thirst of power / to
dig further into the self

and the souls need to be healed / thus poetry in its magnifying

anny ballardini
- bozen, 10.38 am., 7/30/03


Sun-tanned feet - open windows - day-light rolling precipitously in-on- plunged into,
when you wake up - the freezer - one-two-three-four-five ice-cubes in the coffee mug
- shorts - T-shirt - almost no tel. calls - no fixed appointments - the thin silver chain around
your neck makes you sweat - joyous fresh water gurgling and gurgling - thoughts find
their way
as planets wish
breathe your luxurious holiday and enlarge every moment of it
anny ballardini - bozen - 5.48pm


11.10.94 becomes 10,11,94 tab it down to cm 9
indent 1,5 cm + 1,5 cm every third line plus three spaces which build up to
12 spaces with the previous ones
skip 10 lines, main number is indented with the second 1,5 cm that is 3 cm
from the margin

-Can you see, asked my father, that is Mount X-
-Which one, papy? The one right above the hut?-
-No, follow my hand, that one, right there-
-The one above this pine-tree?-
-Are you blind?

11.10.94 becomes 10,11,94 tab it down to cm 9
indent 1.5 cm + 1.5 cm every third line plus three spaces which build up to
12 spaces with the previous ones
skip 10 lines, main number is indented with the second 1.5 cm that is 3 cm
from the margin

anny ballardini, bozen, italy, 5.43


Who lies in the molested landscape - who harassed
when black is black our
manipulated brains blindly automatically act

---it's him I know /// just free me please---

I need my feet - my teeth
I want the chunks of my face
___my eyes back

selves cut into vertical slices
black is the power of occult second rate interest
the world as computerized parts performs
his lustful need against ephemeral treacherous gains

listen - and get free
from the magnetic medianic cusp of his selfish grasp
hating the goat - symbolic of his devilish must

anny ballardini, italy


Reduced we are
___ when more come back to town after the brief absence of a holiday
eyes through the walls, dogs bark, cars and cars each one with its
personal driven touch ___
in space,
deeper down we are confined, stuck in-between the ribs,
/We Want/ they all scream out /That and that and even more We Want/
plants become a surplus, trees a useless decoration stealing parking lots,
but now that
it is night they can finally intermittently
speak through the hiccups of traffic
and we look ahead worried for their lives.

anny ballardini, Bozen, Italy, 9.01


huge patches of light - light in its might
falling and gliding through the wind

seducing and magnified by the intense colors
like the infinite hues
ranging from white/yellow/green/blue
red emerges distinct
mars & sun
work made easier if surrounded by tangible beauty
still imperative the need to go, see, meet, move
be part of the bustling choir of beings
be they here now or in history
or maybe projected by dreams

it is the celebration of natural light
stimulating the biology
of our cellular life

anny ballardini - bozen - italy - 3.29 pm -


Koiné of a restricted milieu?
I am back-channeling,
you First Man!

Anny Ballardini (found by Barry Alpert)


Quick Wednesday Act

fumbling for
striving in a streamline
d-v-/jing or the baroque vision of orchestrated music
underground or red-velvet opera fauteuils
(Still Life with Madame Cezanne dans un Fauteuil Rouge)
zigzagging in and out of a methodical attempt of being

to be done
for a tapered outline

not tired
the forced pressured feed is lubricating cognitive systems
synapses opening and closing with their medusa-like info sent in combination
with the collection of what towns emit
with a specular eye it gets through to

(action of the directive starting from the EU for small series Dutch vehicles)?
 &nbps;&nbps;  - but the shamanic force needed to bring tribes to their catharsis
is opposed to the one to one relationship requested by a poetic act

collaboration or detached loneliness in defense of her strength
new possible essay waiting for the Time
when it struck an inverted imminent turn
to a Subliminal Kid:

anny ballardini
11.26pm - Wednesday - September 10, 2003


too tired -I say- to write a snapshot and anyhow who'd care,
mine isn't theory, or rare game, mane of -Ada or ardor
á rebours- that is how it should have to be due

from now to the start and then all the way through
to undo and redo and try and once
always without gain

the house demolished -rebuild- the book read
she is tired why should I make her read more
lack of lore in the dark - a bed - downtown

anny ballardini 10.30 pm - bozen, italy


no way I can win
yawning to bed
see you 'morrow

anny ballardini Bozen Italy 9pm


windy and cold - the rain last night cleaned today
an inside one - papers and people - a screen
I also remember a fall -
I'll take out its paramount colors
& project them on this white word page
add to it different characters
a new collage with a fireplace and screeching wooden stairs
books without alarm clocks or homework to correct
while the still green leaves embrace the air
& the white geranium tolls in the void
upward and elegant its hitching scent
with peaks briefly viewed in-between squared concrete
while cycling black ribbons from here to there
this morning - the power of a day in my hands
tonight - rest for a consumed end

10.51 pm
Bozen, Italy, Anny Ballardini


I cannot remember because I was there
I can go back there and from here talk to you
and I can go to when I was reading about T.
and remember what I read and resume
at present the substance of past with swift
dislocating movements while sitting still

If I want to relate of here I have to get out
and move to a staring posture which is not now
indefinite and atemporal when the wind brings
me back and I repeat _the wind brings me back_
and type it

Anny Ballardini - 11.28pm
Bozen, Italy


following yellow shades   a day compares to life-in cold twilight    the
colors of leaves almost painfully patched    now
at night a soft-warm tangible scattered still mass

new date on the immaculate page lyn leon dandelion over the dome Barthes' Punktums's hard to strike read and write (the malignant regard of the girl punished in her dyed purple pride awakens busy silly bees and the dust sizzles alive) contemplation contempt on the platform of a plantation with content palpitation,template the common plate of action

Anny Ballardini - 10.42pm - South Tyrolean Bozen


thinking of tomorrow's snapshot

                                             I needed the disgusting smell
of boiled cabbages in the house,
not hungry - might once ready, but this warm smell propagating through the
flat like a plushy hand
talks of winter of a family of a barren landscape with free scenes of mirth
and wind of the taste of sea
of long twisting roads up to the fortified bridge barking of dogs black
windows shut on the harshness of soil
it is thick opaque green - heavy like a used Russian fur coat like the
breath of a cow its moist dung
until it is so dense you almost forget it's there because it is your clothes
your hair yourself liquid
in the stagnant night distant from the town the world tomorrow and thereafter

anny 10 pm pre-shot of a snap
Anny Ballardini


guilty (do I have to feel - am I) guilty
I am (guilty)


_because of an aged day - I could have
said nothing/smiled all the way down
it's all set against changes

you end up discovering
the same old riddle
in the middle of your intention

ironical set of a masquerade
your guiltiness
protects against daily repeated paralyses

Bozen _ Anny Ballardini_ 11.40 pm


Pastoral wandering cows with grass on the higher meadows
warm or dried dung on shoes the length of legs having slipped
sweat and cold alternating precipitously in shadow and light
an eagle circuiting above harsh wind blowing through your brain
the sky - perfectly terse like glass trims the world below
with white precipices rocks further up in the roughest accessible
with white snow blinding
iced teeth iced lips iced ears frozen thoughts
cracks earthly gurgles hollowing echoing smashing snaps
void and full-full and void the gushing air
pulled into a vertigo when slabs are under stuck boots
the wind ghastly throwing you away against your will

11.46 pm - Bozen - Anny Ballardini



the plants will still be there, breathing
the light piercing through the balcony
with the same intensity at night

what changes is the emotional intention
mine as strong as that of my enemies
wall to wall at its densest

some best wishes are most welcome
superstition wins with artists
who feel thoughts as tangible events

are slaughtered/glorified several times
a day - a night _ no one will ever
be able to understand reincarnation

as poets do.

2003/2004 ___ Bozen, Anny Ballardini


0.26 - Thursday
no one will ever love me as she has

have always known

after sleep I will go
to remember/forget her sacrifice

in-between the air
how will I ever

let her know

Anny Ballardini///Bozen, South Tyrol, Italy


_I'll shoot you straight in the middle of your eyes_
boasted the kid who was then sent away, boasted (?)
where is the truth,
my best student left, her friend, too

three students less, without the psychopath, the intelligent, and the beautiful
(crisis in the middle of the third year middle year in the course of the specific study)
what will I be teaching now and to whom?

(to the two balls of fat, to the sneaky one, to Madame (-I'm sure I'm the best)
to the three Holy_Mary's, to the one who will cry all her tears without her friend)

where is the truth,
his personality slowly took shape out of the mist:
digging down to his parents whom now we know are sellers of arms

before I had quick glimpses into his private life through brief compositions:
kilometers of floor in the outskirts, a walk with his dogs, a garden, villa at the sea,
interested in cars, radios, wars, the Second World War, the Nazis weapons,

as a teacher you sometimes build nests, stage dreams, paint words,
an entire school,scape somewhere in time, for yourself and for them
this time it grew wild, it cracked in the middle, it all fell

Anny Ballardini


Thursday morning
after the third episode of the Lord of the Ring
&nbps;    &nbps;    my friend and me: we saw it -
&nbps;    &nbps;    sweating after over three immobile hours in front of the screen
with a coke and potato chips
then the narrow dark alley
&nbps;    &nbps;    the small square with the old hotel in which Mozart slept
in front of the Neptune fountain,
&nbps;    &nbps;    the pillory was in the middle of the market
last sales in the boutiques of the center
the unusual mild air brings to spring
&nbps;    &nbps;    winter has closed its doors
it's already Thursday morning, day of Thoer, giovedě, giorno di Giove.

Anny Ballardini, 12.56 AM


Some time off to watch _The Last Picture Show_ by Peter Bogdanovich
b/w; 121'; '71;
outside the sun inflates volumes to a new
plastic intensity
brilliant pastel colors let a park speak of a
September Parisian corner,
seen somewhere before -
maybe the given remembrance of a dear one,
on Wednesdays it's mild,
the big fir tree a forceful alga moving in the air
in the early afternoon traffic is kind,
the town an oasis among mountains
with its palms, we pass through dark & bright shapes,
on the balcony in front a gemmed plant:
hope widens my lungs in a deep breath

work to mark, coffee-cigarette, pens, I will be shut here inside for
hours from now.

Anny Ballardini, February 11, '04, Bozen


alarm clocks ringing round morning again
school /don't! - jump up - books papers
as a reminder: yes, I like it

(I don't think we should do it - I think we should do it - I don't - I do)
who cares who put me into this

a black Wednesday

the town is bursting before the carnival holidays
darkness envelopes manipulatory ways
they glitter before they're cut
clinging to the floor
in a taupe

in a grain
rising several moons
words to mutter scatter apart
without any compliance from my mood
not tuned twisting backward unseen into the night

Anny Ballardini, Italy


card games while answering & doing phone calls

in need of an illusion of playing
which verges onto desperation

on the screen red follows black until you can't distinguish them
fast it has
to be in sedentary subdued moves

a day flowed by without surprises usual steps / reactions no teeth clenching
except for habitual tensions

no colors wonted speech no calls same things
difference resides within the ordinary behavior

Anny Ballardini - 8.25 pm - Bozen - Sout Tyrol - Italy


Snap shun

Anny Ballardini
Bozen, Thursday, 11.3.2004


Sun and sun rotating
rotulating rebussing rekrreeAting
since this morning with its temperate flow
robust fragmenting all beneficial triangled Run
gems here and there and up high over there again
listen, viewed in-between the fragmented glittering dots
they're slowly chewing absorbing deeply singing digesting
stretching themselves further up to reach for warmth and light
a satisfying most appeasing peaceful continuous brunch
trees have almost become fluid inside their rigid trunk
as if gracefully dancing under the protective hand
of our most beloved benevolent Apollinian god
whose embroidered designs keep us all
upturned to his awesome Beauty
unequaled by living man

Anny Ballardini, Bozen, Italy


Today I could write of the stars, their peaceful influence
of how lovers meet in spring and offspring see their first winter day
of how branches bend under the weight of buds struggling upwards to new skies

or I could write of how spring breaks the world with hot/cold days
of milky sleepy hours and irritable moods, postponements of dates
on the complexity of human souls with their double faced incomprehensible fates
on the delirium money and fame can give and of what people can do to get them

of perversity
of the perversity adversity dictates
of black poison meant to annihilate
of nightmares interrupted in sweat
of how the Book of Dead
                              was made real again

of how it was re-interpreted

once discovered the inextricable complexity of images
behind images - hands motivated by others' hands
& human psychology proved to be a limited toy
when compared with the skyscraping height
of nonsensical noise stammering to set
common I's on a towering glittering
madly-sickening position for
an ephemeral sniff of lust
slick trick gone abrupt
to tired eyes who
won't ever

Anny Ballardini, Boden, Italy


           (Full Moon at 15.60 Libra
           April 5 at 12.04 pm GMT, 2003)

Poets couldn't but be transfixed by the beauty of the Moon in Libra
they called her shamballa, Artemis from Delos opening tunnels besieged by boars
companion of Persefone, Hecate queen of night, Selene in Heaven

depicting her rarefied rays _white bone_ circle crystals of light
they invented colors from violet to bottle green both attuned and resonant
shades & shadows breathtaking nuances suspended among dark clouds

even of a perfectly double mirrored rainbow they talked me
and followed & preceded her up & down rivers drawing hills
through Breugel, Hieronymus Bosch, a Friedrich Caspar David alive
attracted by her luscious shivering beauty someone stated
                                                       Tiresias saw her.

11.39 pm
Anny Ballardini, Bosen, Italy



the wind blows down the plant on the balcony
branches are hurt arms heavily folded on the floor
a friend knocks down lofty walls - walls climb higher
a Russian thimble on the desk with an elephant engraved
some stones, iron, tiger eye - calcite, lighters, pens,
selenite, papers, four agendas,
                                Maxine is four days old
sun outside

and the winds blow and trees dance,
it is dark it's almost night

a silent night

Anny Ballardini, Italy, 9.32 pm


after cloudy days
a sunny setting
technical problems engulf hours
a bunch of tulips & perfumed flowers
in the center of the table
an artists' meeting
when on the way back
_Cloud Cooling Sun on Skin_
by Chris Murray
hit me like a blow

chaotic energies
keep strung as violin chords
abrupt oscillations
grounding is needed

Anny Ballardini - 11.27 pm - Bozen - South Tyrol


And one is for the father and one's for the son
another for the mother and their adopted child
like in a spinning narrowing tube tight and fast
it was out
finished a job start another one that's the daughter
the same as her mother
_Slow down_ she said _and relax
an elastic too stretched will break_

_When in Dublin I went to Trinity College
all those books..._ 15, ecstatic in a past rapture she smiled

_We met_ she is maybe five with starry eyes
               stands there with an all-giving smile

_I'm exceptionally free tomorrow morning,
if you wish I can work those empty hours_
And one is for the mother and one's for the son
and one for the father and their adopted sun.

Anny Ballardini, 10.08 Bozen


relative and absolute

absolute is the Prada Foundation with Celant, Mattiacci, Franchina, Kapoor,
Hiezer, Bourgeois, Flavin, Anderson, Mori, De Maria, Quinn, McGee,
Castellani, Paolini and his homage to Pasolini, Cacciari, a chosen selection
of films from De Niro's Tribeca Festival

relative are rain and sun, the fact that it is 10pm without supper,
injustice turned into accusation, prevarication, overwork, a loving mail,
some good words, when I didn't tell my mother - she has no idea of how
devastating her words are

absolute is the power of press - journalist, front row documents material
cd's and tarts, how gentle is our world at our feet for some written
appearance -

relative is what I think of my endless discovery of images behind images of
the absolute relativity of it all

which is anyhow absolute and can ravage any relativity be it absolute or
relative Anny Ballardini, Bozen, Italy


From this windy and rather chilly spring I can send some wonderful yellow
mountain flowers and the poppies are out in large red patches breathing in
the voluptuous green,
affection, a still coughing and sneezing Anny


the holiday schedule enlarges time
run after your thought to the kitchen
under the fridge - yes here it is
without onions, only milk - coffee is ready
back to the screen it screeches away

mail or sail why scatter my brain away?

I wanted to write for the gipsy
whose love was transformed into someone's show

or for the dream collected while waiting for the sun to appear
while watering the plants he showed up again

exotic clouds of big emerald green leaves
are the growth of a rainy late spring early summer
they appease my friends' dead sisters in me
the totemic statue is slowly restructured
Cocteau's sketches seem lost in the past
with Lorca singing deep down to the ground

Anny Ballardini, 5.33 pm Italy


                 back and again
                                  that shadow in the frame
down on the portrayed cave
whispering behind your back
                                  clearly seen in front
                 or sliding sideways
or preceding somewhere

materialized thoughts
projections of many

my head
slammed against the marble
a fountain inside falling
hyper sensitized hyper viper
the tide of outgoing students
                 rafting for better notes
                                  in your brain cells
to the hands of a colleague:
                 _How much better I am_ she says
to the devastating force
                 of neighboring uncivilized drains

_money_ call out most
this June in the heat of hell

* with a thanks to A. Burke for his shadow in the frame which was decontextualized and brought somewhere else.

Anny Ballardini, Bozen, Italy


It was three years ago
when all those working at the court of justice
/ here round the corner /
signed a petition sent to the mayor
not to cut the old beautiful firs / at the four corners
of the square under which they were building a parking space

they came at dawn
trees and saws screaming

we all woke up to listen / as if our lives had been shortened
and still talk of the trees / when we meet

Anny Ballardini



The fat neighboring Lady with Red trendy shoes is vivisected in the center
of the canvas
she's of late adopted a soaring allure walking as nothing but Christ himself

instead of on water on stable pavement
her inevitably devastated skin due to old age cannot be hidden behind

the sticky bombed-combed blonde hair
adiposity of her vicious sedentary life rolls over sweaters and pants as a
jellied greaser
& the XXL military straight jacket cannot contain what she wishes
be seen

in an unavoidable close-up her mouth used only to kill people in their backs
is stressed
by the tongue retraction of a pig-nosed frog over-elongated because of its
direct intrinsic instinct
running parallel to the horizontal axis of her deformed shape,
that is her tongue and nonexistent lips cut through about 1.5m wide at 1.7m
height from the ground

she is coming from church and imbued by what she thinks people easily believe
tries to transform herself into the _Madonnina_ that is the Little Holy Mary

you can hear her stubbornly repeat: _I am the Madonnina_
and here flashes a tiny figure in mid-air all rarified light blue
witch of witches the bubble crashes when curious eyes focus on the
disgusting moving boulder
capable of creating temporary poltergeist images.

Anny Ballardini


Poetryetc is a listserv relating to poetry and poetics which provides a forum for poets to debate their critical and creative work. The list has over the years run a number of projects for its members, of which Snapshots has been the most enduring.

Every Wednesday, Poetryetc members were invited to post short poems on any subject or in any form they chose. The idea was to make a poetic collage of instamatic “snaps” of that day that reflected the international membership of the list. The project has generated an astounding number of poems.

The first two runs, of six weeks each, and the first ten weeks of the third run, are archived at Wild Honey Press under Poetryetc Project. The rest - amounting in all to a run of a year - are archived here.

Poetryetc, like its affiliate Salt Publishing (, was founded by Australian poet John Kinsella. Salt is managed by Christopher Hamilton-Emery (, while Poetryetc is owned by Alison Croggon ( Poetryetc is now archived at and anyone interested can join from that url.

To contact the listowner: Alison Croggon

These pages are designed, maintained, and hosted by Rebecca Seiferle, the Editor of The Drunken Boat. To email.