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Snapshots
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last night / thanks to douglas / i learn this morning from poetryetc tomorrow is my birthday anny 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 stillness 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 reawaken 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 more 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 provide more information (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: Spooky 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 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 snapAnny Ballardini guilty (do I have to feel - am I) guilty I am (guilty) tired_warm_comfortable_bored _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 CONVENTIONS 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 I know 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 apart. 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 yelp cold 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 meet an I 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 Maxine 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 *** Here 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 hi the tide of outgoing students rafting for better notes in your brain cells hi to the hands of a colleague: _How much better I am_ she says hi 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 A CANVAS TO BE THROWN AWAY 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 shouldn't 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 www.wildhoneypress.com under Poetryetc Project. The rest - amounting in all to a run of a year - are archived here. Poetryetc, like its affiliate Salt Publishing (http://www.saltpublishing.com), was founded by Australian poet John Kinsella. Salt is managed by Christopher Hamilton-Emery (cemery@saltpublishing.com), while Poetryetc is owned by Alison Croggon (ajcroggon@bigpond.com). Poetryetc is now archived at http://www.jiscmail.ac.uk/lists/poetryetc.html. 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. 
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