Il Grand Magal di Touba a Trieste

In wolof (dialetto senegalese parlato dall'omonima popolazione) Magal significa rendere omaggio, celebrare, magnificare e consiste in atti di gratitudine resi al Signore e al suo Profeta Maometto.
Nella comunità murid (*), (confraternita religiosa mussulmana di derivazione Sufi, nata nel 1883 in Senegal), si festeggiano numerosi Magal, ma il più importante è il Grand Magal di Touba, che viene celebrato il 18 del mese lunare di Safar e che commemora la partenza per l'esilio in Gabon di Shaikh Aamadu Bàmba Mbàkke, fondatore della confraternita stessa, oltre che della città di Touba. Un esilio cui il capo spirituale della Murīdiyya (**) fu costretto, nel 1895, dal governo coloniale francese, che non vedeva di buon occhio la sua influenza crescente sulla popolazione senegalese né la sua critica antiviolenta nei confronti dell'autorità coloniale. Un esilio che si trasformò in un viaggio spirituale lungo sette anni, in mezzo a sofferenze, preghiere, meditazioni e speranze.

Nel giorno del Grand Magal milioni di murid, in tutto il mondo, si riuniscono in un momento di preghiera collettiva, nello spirito della mistica di Aamadu Bàmba, imperniata sulla conoscenza e la fedeltà ai principi base dell'Islam, alle sue leggi, ai suoi libri sacri, alle sue pratiche di culto, nonché sulla dirittura morale, la purezza, la devozione alla comunità.

Così è avvenuto anche a Trieste, il 22 dicembre scorso, al Palazzo dei Congressi della Stazione Marittima, con la partecipazione di numerosi fedeli provenienti, oltre che da Trieste, anche da Gorizia e Udine.

Salmodie dei poemi di Aamadu Bàmba, letture del Corano, preghiere, conferenze si sono alternate nel corso della commemorazione, intervallate dal pranzo, a base di riso, carne di manzo, pollo, verdure varie, uova, preparato dalle donne nei due giorni precedenti, dai giochi dei bambini e da momenti di socialità tra adulti, accompagnati da bicchieri di te e caffè Touba (bevanda particolarmente gustosa, aromatizzata con lo “jarr” - pepe di Guinea).

Una grande festa, dunque, all'insegna della solennità religiosa ma anche della convivialità, aperta non solo ai fedeli mussulmani bensì alla comunità di Trieste intera, segno quest'ultimo di un'ospitalità e di una generosità che parlano da sé, senza bisogno di ulteriori commenti, forse “solo” di qualche riflessione.

Prima di lasciare la parola alle immagini che, in questo casospecialmente raccontano molto di più di quanto possa fare il linguaggio scritto, vorrei ringraziare di cuore Niang Cheikh, Sadiop Ndiage, Aina Wade Baro, l'Associazione senegalesi di Trieste e tutti gli altri amici che mi hanno accolto, ospitato, aiutato in vario modo nel corso della bellissima giornata passata in loro compagnia.

 شكرا جزيلا 

(*) "termine che deriva dall'arabo murīd (colui che aspira a) e che viene generalmente utilizzato nel Sufismo per designare il discepolo di una guida spirituale", fonte: http://www.bahaistudies.net/asma/mourides.pdf, pag. 1

(**) confraternita murid, "yoonu murit in wolof, ةيديرملا ةقيرطلا , Aṭ-Ṭarīqat al-Murīdiyya o semplicemente,ةيديرم Murīdiyya in arabo", fonte: ibid.

Living con la caserma

"La leggenda giapponese delle mille gru dice che chi riesce a piegare 1000 senbazuru, ovvero le gru di carta, esprimendo lo stesso desiderio dopo averne realizzata ognuno, vedrà realizzato il suo desiderio."

(cit. http://www.nippolandia.it/post/7931/1000-gru-di-carta-la-leggenda)

E il desiderio espresso, in modo implicito o esplicito,  dalle persone presenti all'evento "Living con la caserma", sabato 21 dicembre 2013, è molto semplice: che la caserma di via Rossetti, un'area di dodici ettari dismessa nel 2008, venga restituita alla collettività.

Molti gli eventi in programma, organizzati da "Casa delle culture" e "Living Europa": il torneo di calcio nel piazzale della caserma, la proiezione di alcuni documentari, il laboratorio dei Living Theatre Europa ("Resist now: per abbattere la struttura, teatro di polizia"), lo spettacolo teatrale "La crocifissione", del Mismas Teatro, la performance di Danza Butoh di e con Elena Boschi e Gary Bracket.

Per motivi tecnici non è stata possibile la proiezione dei documentari. Analogamente, il laboratorio di teatro non ha avuto luogo a causa del numero ridotto di partecipanti. Ciò è dovuto probabilmente al fatto che, con l'approssimarsi del santo Natale, molti triestini erano impegnati nella corsa al regalo, perdendo così un'occasione più unica che rara: quella di entrare nella caserma, di guardarsi intorno, di partecipare attivamente o come semplici spettatori agli eventi, di riflettere, soprattutto.

Di seguito alcune immagini della sala cerimonie, della performance di Danza Butoh e, infine, dello spettacolo la Crocifissione.

A proposito di quest'ultimo va segnalato che avrebbe dovuto andare in scena anche il giorno successivo, alla stazione dei treni di Trieste, in tre orari distinti: 8.30, 12.30 e 19.00. Sfortunatamente, il regolamento delle ferrovie dello stato (che richiede un'autorizzazione per eventi del genere) ha impedito la performance, facendo scattare l'intervento delle forze dell'ordine che, nell'esercizio delle loro funzioni e di fronte al secondo tentativo da parte degli artisti di portare avanti la pièce, hanno inflitto loro sanzioni pecuniarie per un ammontare di 20 euro a testa.

A maggior ragione, dunque, si pone il problema dei luoghi in cui le varie forme d'arte possano trovare espressione, soprattutto di quelle che preferiscono la piazza al palcoscenico, cui, tra l'altro, non tutti hanno la possibilità di accedere.

La caserma di via Rossetti

Nella speranza che la caserma di via Rossetti venga restituita alla collettività e che non divenga l'ennesimo caso di (s)vendita del patrimonio pubblico in virtù di false promesse di riqualificazione, termine che in neolingua si traduce, si è giù visto, con speculazione.

Le fotografie sono state scattate sabato 21 dicembre 2013, in occasione dell'evento "Living con la caserma", di cui parlerò nel post successivo (clicca qui), un esempio di quanto le persone possono fare quando dispongono di un luogo in cui poter esprimersi.

Waiting for "La crocifissione" - a performance by Mismas teatro

La crocifissione

di Pier Paolo Pasolini

Perché Cristo fu esposto in croce?

Bisogna esporsi (questo insegna

il povero Cristo inchiodato?),

la chiarezza del cuore è degna

di ogni scherno, di ogni peccato,

d'ogni nuda passione…

(questo vuol dire il Crocifisso?

sacrificare ogni giorno il dono

rinunciare ogni giorno al perdono

sporgersi ingenui sull'abisso).

Noi staremo offerti sulla croce,

alla gogna, tra pupille

limpide di gioia feroce,

scoprendo all'ironia le stille

del sangue dal petto ai ginocchi,

miti, ridicoli, tremando

d'intelletto e passione nel gioco

del cuore arso dal suo fuoco,

per testimoniare lo scandalo.

Lo spettacolo "La crocifissione" sarà presentato in data 21 dicembre 2013 durante un evento di cui si parla qui: Living con la caserma

Clicca qui per tornare alla pagina dedicata a Mismas Teatro

Spoon River Anthology (inspired by)

The hill

Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley, The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter? All, all are sleeping on the hill. One passed in a fever, One was burned in a mine, One was killed in a brawl, One died in a jail, One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife— All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith, The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?— All, all are sleeping on the hill. One died in shameful child-birth, One of a thwarted love, One at the hands of a brute in a brothel, One of a broken pride, in the search for heart's desire; One after life in far-away London and Paris Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—

All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily, And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton, And Major Walker who had talked With venerable men of the revolution?— All, all are sleeping on the hill. They brought them dead sons from the war, And daughters whom life had crushed, And their children fatherless, crying— All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where is Old Fiddler Jones Who played with life all his ninety years, Braving the sleet with bared breast, Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin, Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven? Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago, Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary's Grove, Of what Abe Lincoln said One time at Springfield.

The Circuit Judge

TAKE note, passers-by, of the sharp erosions Eaten in my head-stone by the wind and rain— Almost as if an intangible Nemesis or hatred Were marking scores against me, But to destroy, and not preserve, my memory. I in life was the Circuit Judge, a maker of notches, Deciding cases on the points the lawyers scored, Not on the right of the matter.

O wing and rain, leave my head-stone alone! For worse than the anger of the wronged, The curses of the poor, Was to lie speechless, yet with vision clear, Seeing that even Hod Putt, the murderer, Hanged by my sentence, Was innocent in soul compared with me.

Elmer Karr

WHAT but the love of God could have softened And made forgiving the people of Spoon River Toward me who wronged the bed of Thomas Merritt And murdered him beside? Oh, loving hearts that took me in again

When I returned from fourteen years in prison! Oh, helping hands that in the church received me, And heard with tears my penitent confession, Who took the sacrament of bread and wine! Repent, ye living ones, and rest with Jesus.

Mrs Benjamin Pantier

I know that he told that I snared his soul With a snare which bled him to death. And all the men loved him, And most of the women pitied him. But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes, And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions, And the rhythm of Wordsworth's "Ode" runs in your ears, While he goes about from morning till night Repeating bits of that common thing; "Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?"

And then, suppose; You are a woman well endowed, And the only man with whom the law and morality Permit you to have the marital relation Is the very man that fills you with disgust Every time you think of it while you think of it Every time you see him? That's why I drove him away from home To live with his dog in a dingy room Back of his office.

Mrs Williams

I WAS the milliner Talked about, lied about, Mother of Dora, Whose strange disappearance Was charged to her rearing. My eye quick to beauty Saw much beside ribbons And buckles and feathers And leghorns and felts, To set off sweet faces, And dark hair and gold. One thing I will tell you And one I will ask: The stealers of husbands

Wear powder and trinkets, And fashionable hats. Wives, wear them yourselves. Hats may make divorces— They also prevent them. Well now, let me ask you: If all of the children, born here in Spoon River Had been reared by the County, somewhere on a farm; And the fathers and mothers had been given their freedom To live and enjoy, change mates if they wished, Do you think that Spoon River Had been any the worse?

Dora Williams

WHEN Reuben Pantier ran away and threw me I went to Springfield. There I met a lush, Whose father just deceased left him a fortune. He married me when drunk. My life was wretched. A year passed and one day they found him dead. That made me rich. I moved on to Chicago. After a time met Tyler Rountree, villain. I moved on to New York. A gray-haired magnate Went mad about me—so another fortune. He died one night right in my arms, you know. (I saw his purple face for years thereafter. ) There was almost a scandal. I moved on, This time to Paris. I was now a woman,

Insidious, subtle, versed in the world and rich. My sweet apartment near the Champs Elysees Became a center for all sorts of people, Musicians, poets, dandies, artists, nobles, Where we spoke French and German, Italian, English. I wed Count Navigato, native of Genoa. We went to Rome. He poisoned me, I think. Now in the Campo Santo overlooking The sea where young Columbus dreamed new worlds, See what they chiseled: "Contessa Navigato Implora eterna quiete."

Minerva Jones

I AM Minerva, the village poetess, Hooted at, jeered at by the Yahoos of the street For my heavy body, cock-eye, and rolling walk, And all the more when "Butch" Weldy Captured me after a brutal hunt. He left me to my fate with Doctor Meyers; And I sank into death, growing numb from the feet up,

Like one stepping deeper and deeper into a stream of ice. Will some one go to the village newspaper, And gather into a book the verses I wrote?— I thirsted so for love I hungered so for life!

Dippold the Optician

What do you see now? Globes of red, yellow, purple. Just a moment! And now? My father and mother and sisters. Yes! And now? Knights at arms, beautiful women, kind faces. Try this. A field of grain -- a city. Very good! And Now? A young woman with angels bending over her. A heavier lens! And Now? Many women with bright eyes and open lips. Try this. Just a goblet on a table.

Oh I see! Try this lens! Just an open space -- I see nothing in particular. Well, now! Pine trees, a lake, summer sky. That's better. And now? A book. Read a page for me. I can't. My eyes are carried beyond the page. Try this lens. Depths of air. Excellent! and now? Light, just light, making everything below a toy world. Very well, we'll make the glasses accordingly.

Nellie Clark

I WAS only eight years old; And before I grew up and knew what it meant I had no words for it, except That I was frightened and told my Mother; And that my Father got a pistol And would have killed Charlie, who was a big boy, Fifteen years old, except for his Mother. Nevertheless the story clung to me.

But the man who married me, a widower of thirty-five, Was a newcomer and never heard it 'Till two years after we were married. Then he considered himself cheated, And the village agreed that I was not really a virgin. Well, he deserted me, and I died The following winter.

Johnnie Sayre

FATHER, thou canst never know The anguish that smote my heart For my disobedience, the moment I felt The remorseless wheel of the engine Sink into the crying flesh of my leg. As they carried me to the home of widow Morris I could see the school-house in the valley To which I played truant to steal rides upon the trains.

I prayed to live until I could ask your forgiveness— And then your tears, your broken words of comfort! From the solace of that hour I have gained infinite happiness. Thou wert wise to chisel for me: “Taken from the evil to come.”

Louise Smith

HERBERT broke our engagement of eight years When Annabelle returned to the village From the Seminary, ah me! If I had let my love for him alone It might have grown into a beautiful sorrow— Who knows?—filling my life with healing fragrance. But I tortured it, I poisoned it

I blinded its eyes, and it became hatred— Deadly ivy instead of clematis. And my soul fell from its support Its tendrils tangled in decay. Do not let the will play gardener to your soul Unless you are sure It is wiser than your soul's nature.

Herbert Marshall

ALL your sorrow, Louise, and hatred of me Sprang from your delusion that it was wantonness Of spirit and contempt of your soul's rights Which made me turn to Annabelle and forsake you. You really grew to hate me for love of me, Because I was your soul's happiness, Formed and tempered

To solve your life for you, and would not. But you were my misery. If you had been My happiness would I not have clung to you? This is life's sorrow: That one can be happy only where two are; And that our hearts are drawn to stars Which want us not.

Edith Connate

WE stand about this place—we, the memories; And shade our eyes because we dread to read: "June 17th, 1884, aged 21 years and 3 days." And all things are changed. And we—we, the memories, stand here for ourselves alone, For no eye marks us, or would know why we are here. Your husband is dead, your sister lives far away, Your father is bent with age; He has forgotten you, he scarcely leaves the house Any more. No one remembers your exquisite face, Your lyric voice! How you sang, even on the morning you were stricken,

With piercing sweetness, with thrilling sorrow, Before the advent of the child which died with you. It is all forgotten, save by us, the memories, Who are forgotten by the world. All is changed, save the river and the hill— Even they are changed. Only the burning sun and the quiet stars are the same. And we—we, the memories, stand here in awe, Our eyes closed with the weariness of tears— In immeasurable weariness.

Ollie McGee

Have you seen walking through the village A Man with downcast eyes and haggard face? That is my husband who, by secret cruelty Never to be told, robbed me of my youth and my beauty; Till at last, wrinkled and with yellow teeth, And with broken pride and shameful humility,

I sank into the grave. But what think you gnaws at my husband's heart? The face of what I was, the face of what he made me! These are driving him to the place where I lie. In death, therefore, I am avenged.

Schroeder the Fisherman

I SAT on the bank above Bernadotte And dropped crumbs in the water, Just to see the minnows bump each other, Until the strongest got the prize. Or I went to my little pasture, Where the peaceful swine were asleep in the wallow, Or nosing each other lovingly, And emptied a basket of yellow corn, And watched them push and squeal and bite,

And trample each other to get the corn. And I saw how Christian Dallman’s farm, Of more than three thousand acres, Swallowed the patch of Felix Schmidt, As a bass will swallow a minnow. And I say if there’s anything in man— Spirit, or conscience, or breath of God That makes him different from fishes or hogs, I’d like to see it work!

Mrs George Reece

TO this generation I would say: Memorize some bit of verse of truth or beauty. It may serve a turn in your life. My husband had nothing to do With the fall of the bank—he was only cashier. The wreck was due to the president, Thomas Rhodes, And his vain, unscrupulous son.

Yet my husband was sent to prison, And I was left with the children, To feed and clothe and school them. And I did it, and sent them forth Into the world all clean and strong, And all through the wisdom of Pope, the poet: “Act well your part, there all the honor lies.”

Elisabeth Childers

DUST of my dust, And dust with my dust, O, child who died as you entered the world, Dead with my death! Not knowing Breath, though you tried so hard, With a heart that beat when you lived with me, And stopped when you left me for Life. It is well, my child. For you never traveled The long, long way that begins with school days, When little fingers blur under the tears That fall on the crooked letters. And the earliest wound, when a little mate Leaves you alone for another; And sickness, and the face of Fear by the bed;

The death of a father or mother; Or shame for them, or poverty; The maiden sorrow of school days ended; And eyeless Nature that makes you drink From the cup of Love, though you know it’s poisoned; To whom would your flower-face have been lifted? Botanist, weakling? Cry of what blood to yours?— Pure or foul, for it makes no matter, It’s blood that calls to our blood. And then your children—oh, what might they be? And what your sorrow? Child! Child! Death is better than Life!

Theodore the Poet

AS a boy, Theodore, you sat for long hours On the shore of the turbid Spoon With deep-set eye staring at the door of the crawfish’s burrow, Waiting for him to appear, pushing ahead, First his waving antennæ, like straws of hay, And soon his body, colored like soap-stone, Gemmed with eyes of jet. And you wondered in a trance of thought What he knew, what he desired, and why he lived at all.

But later your vision watched for men and women Hiding in burrows of fate amid great cities, Looking for the souls of them to come out, So that you could see How they lived, and for what, And why they kept crawling so busily Along the sandy way where water fails As the summer wanes.

Lois Spears

HERE lies the body of Lois Spears, Born Lois Fluke, daughter of Willard Fluke, Wife of Cyrus Spears, Mother of Myrtle and Virgil Spears, Children with clear eyes and sound limbs— (I was born blind). I was the happiest of women As wife, mother and housekeeper,

Caring for my loved ones, And making my home A place of order and bounteous hospitality: For I went about the rooms, And about the garden With an instinct as sure as sight, As though there were eyes in my finger tips— Glory to God in the highest.

Margaret Fuller Slack

WOULD have been as great as George Eliot But for an untoward fate. For look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit, Chin resting on hand, and deep-set eyes— Gray, too, and far-searching. But there was the old, old problem: Should it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity? Then John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me, Luring me with the promise of leisure for my novel,

And I married him, giving birth to eight children, And had no time to write. It was all over with me, anyway, When I ran the needle in my hand While washing the baby’s things, And died from lock-jaw, an ironical death. Hear me, ambitious souls, Sex is the curse of life!

Aner Clute

OVER and over they used to ask me, While buying the wine or the beer, In Peoria first, and later in Chicago, Denver, Frisco, New York, wherever I lived, How I happened to lead the life, And what was the start of it. Well, I told them a silk dress, And a promise of marriage from a rich man— (It was Lucius Atherton). But that was not really it at all. Suppose a boy steals an apple

From the tray at the grocery store, And they all begin to call him a thief, The editor, minister, judge, and all the people— “A thief,” “a thief,” “a thief,” wherever he goes. And he can’t get work, and he can’t get bread Without stealing it, why the boy will steal. It’s the way the people regard the theft of the apple That makes the boy what he is.

Isa Nutter

DOC MEYERS said I had satyriasis, And Doc Hill called it leucæmia— But I know what brought me here: I was sixty-four but strong as a man Of thirty-five or forty. And it wasn’t writing a letter a day, And it wasn’t late hours seven nights a week, And it wasn’t the strain of thinking of Minnie, And it wasn’t fear or a jealous dread, Or the endless task of trying to fathom

Her wonderful mind, or sympathy For the wretched life she led With her first and second husband— It was none of these that laid me low— But the clamor of daughters and threats of sons, And the sneers and curses of all my kin Right up to the day I sneaked to Peoria And married Minnie in spite of them— And why do you wonder my will was made For the best and purest of women?

Lydia Humphrey

BACK and forth, back and forth, to and from the church, With my Bible under my arm Till I was gray and old; Unwedded, alone in the world, Finding brothers and sisters in the congregation, And children in the church. I know they laughed and thought me queer. I knew of the eagle souls that flew high in the sunlight,

Above the spire of the church, and laughed at the church, Disdaining me, not seeing me. But if the high air was sweet to them, sweet was the church to me. It was the vision, vision, vision of the poets Democratized!

Amanda Barker

HENRY got me with child, Knowing that I could not bring forth life Without losing my own. In my youth therefore I entered the portals of dust.

Traveler, it is believed in the village where I lived That Henry loved me with a husband’s love, But I proclaim from the dust That he slew me to gratify his hatred.

William and Emily

THERE is something about Death Like love itself! If with some one with whom you have known passion, And the glow of youthful love, You also, after years of life Together, feel the sinking of the fire,

And thus fade away together, Gradually, faintly, delicately, As it were in each other’s arms, Passing from the familiar room— That is a power of unison between souls Like love itself!

Henry Layton

WHOEVER thou art who passest by Know that my father was gentle, And my mother was violent, While I was born the whole of such hostile halves, Not intermixed and fused, But each distinct, feebly soldered together. Some of you saw me as gentle,

Some as violent, Some as both. But neither half of me wrought my ruin. It was the falling asunder of halves, Never a part of each other, That left me a lifeless soul.

Blind Jack

I HAD fiddled all at the county fair. But driving home “Butch” Weldy and Jack McGuire, Who were roaring full, made me fiddle and fiddle To the song of Susie Skinner, while whipping the horses Till they ran away. Blind as I was, I tried to get out

As the carriage fell in the ditch, And was caught in the wheels and killed. There’s a blind man here with a brow As big and white as a cloud. And all we fiddlers, from highest to lowest, Writers of music and tellers of stories, Sit at his feet, And hear him sing of the fall of Troy.

Mabel Osborne

YOUR red blossoms amid green leaves Are drooping, beautiful geranium! But you do not ask for water. You cannot speak! You do not need to speak— Everyone knows that you are dying of thirst, Yet they do not bring water! They pass on, saying: “The geranium wants water.” And I, who had happiness to share And longed to share your happiness;

I who loved you, Spoon River, And craved your love, Withered before your eyes, Spoon River— Thirsting, thirsting, Voiceless from chasteness of soul to ask you for love, You who knew and saw me perish before you, Like this geranium which someone has planted over me, And left to die.

Pauline Barrett

ALMOST the shell of a woman after the surgeon’s knife! And almost a year to creep back into strength, Till the dawn of our wedding decennial Found me my seeming self again. We walked the forest together, By a path of soundless moss and turf. But I could not look in your eyes, And you could not look in my eyes, For such sorrow was ours—the beginning of gray in your hair, And I but a shell of myself. And what did we talk of?—sky and water,

Anything, ’most, to hide our thoughts. And then your gift of wild roses, Set on the table to grace our dinner. Poor heart, how bravely you struggled To imagine and live a remembered rapture! Then my spirit drooped as the night came on, And you left me alone in my room for a while, As you did when I was a bride, poor heart. And I looked in the mirror and something said: “One should be all dead when one is half-dead—” Nor ever mock life, nor ever cheat love.” And I did it looking there in the mirror— Dear, have you ever understood?

Flossie Cabanis

FROM Bindle’s opera house in the village To Broadway is a great step. But I tried to take it, my ambition fired When sixteen years of age, Seeing “East Lynne” played here in the village By Ralph Barrett, the coming Romantic actor, who enthralled my soul. True, I trailed back home, a broken failure,

When Ralph disappeared in New York, Leaving me alone in the city— But life broke him also. In all this place of silence There are no kindred spirits. How I wish Duse could stand amid the pathos Of these quiet fields And read these words.

Hortense Robbins

MY name used to be in the papers daily As having dined somewhere, Or traveled somewhere, Or rented a house in Paris, Where I entertained the nobility. I was forever eating or traveling, Or taking the cure at Baden-Baden.

Now I am here to do honor To Spoon River, here beside the family whence I sprang. No one cares now where I dined, Or lived, or whom I entertained, Or how often I took the cure at Baden-Baden!

Serepta Mason

MY life’s blossom might have bloomed on all sides Save for a bitter wind which stunted my petals On the side of me which you in the village could see. From the dust I lift a voice of protest:

My flowering side you never saw! Ye living ones, ye are fools indeed Who do not know the ways of the wind And the unseen forces That govern the processes of life.

Francis Turner

COULD not run or play In boyhood. In manhood I could only sip the cup, Not drink— For scarlet-fever left my heart diseased. Yet I lie here Soothed by a secret none but Mary knows:

There is a garden of acacia, Catalpa trees, and arbors sweet with vines— There on that afternoon in June By Mary’s side— Kissing her with my soul upon my lips It suddenly took flight.

Clicca qui per visitare altri luoghi della memoria a Trieste