Zoom - The Book

WE CAN BE ALONE, TOGETHER If I were blind, I would see you the same. I would use your eyes discovering I have always been blind Because I couldn’t see myself. You’re not just a mirror You are me. I put my trust in you and the only thing that I know is that, as long as you keep my hand and I’m by your side, I’ll be safe I’ll just where I’m meant to be. Thank you, Because you showed me For the first time Which colour my eyes are. A.M. 49

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Sitting alone, here While hearing the song of the wind Thinking of the migratory birds Thinking on the emptiness And the song of the wind got even stronger It’s like a submarine exploring my seabed Like I wish I could do with you The song of the wind is now silent And I still have a lump in the throat. There is a sort of a wall between us You built it because you are afraid And doing that, you scared me I can be a migratory bird and fly until I overcome your walls, until I touch you in a trivial dance I wish I could destroy it with a sword Or with a kiss I wish I could just sit next to you Just the two of us Walking down the streets of Bergolo Like tillandsia plant, I have no roots Like the folaghe, I have no roots So forgive me if, just for a moment 51

I’ve been thinking on having roots So that they could touch the ground Drinking your water instead of mine Forgive me if I wish I could have stared into your eyes a bit longer Than the nothingness you allowed me to. ((Thanks for having being my muse and inspiration during the whole project.)) Federico 52

Aqua Apa Viz Nero I blind myself So I won't see Am I afraid of you Or am I afraid of me? Look Breath See Don’t be shy Cut the branches But keep the root Aqua Apa Viz Nero Despina Kokkidou Alessia Maggiulli Carmen Csilla Medina Ella Cincan 53

You were so perfect Andrei Feraru Autumn reddish forest The leafs were falling down quietly The smell... got all over my body The atmosphere and my condition They were all a dream Until you came... Looking me in the eyes You wanted to tell me something But you couldn’t I got it, no need for words The sense of guilt… it’s so intense I didn’t mean to hurt you all I feel so sorry... I’ve broken you Is there still something... that I can do ? You went away, leaving me empty Is there still something that I can do? Don’t leave me here, all by myself The part of dreamland started to disappear Maybe one day… you’ll just come back. 54

Κομμάτια στο πάτωμα Eleni Papageorgiou Δεν ήθελα να τα καταστρέψω Δεν ήθελα να βλέπω τα κομμάτια Δεν ήθελα να δω τη θλίψη στα μάτια σου Βρέθηκα στη θέση σου Και είδα και τα δικά μου κομμάτια Τότε κατάλαβα Τότε κατάλαβα τι έκανα Ένιωσα την παρόρμηση Και παραδόθηκα σε αυτήν Χωρίς έλεος Χωρίς αναστολές Μετά όμως τα είδα Ήταν τα συναισθήματά σου Σκισμένα Τσακισμένα Πεταμένα Παρατημένα Δεν ήθελα να τα καταστρέψω 55

The Moon is shining tonight But you just see a bonfire on the beach I wonder if our hearts are made of the same material Probably they are, but I don’t know. And you don’t even seem to care While I’m alone here in outer space And you’re watching TV in your sofa If you still can’t see me, put on your glasses And take me out where there’s music there is people And they’re young and alive But as long as I deeply want to be with you, I still want to be myself I may give you 250 g of quality dark chocolate But I won’t give you my soul, if you don’t respect me. Tell me, how do I look? Tell me, are we made of the same material? Tell me, how do YOU look? Tell me if you’ve made a radiography of your soul with a precision sonar The boreal forest covers almost 60% of my hopes that you understand me Autumn leaves, and so are you leaving soon too Away! Away! Away from the Moon of Southern Summer days I just don’t know 56

How do I look so? Do you have any idea? The Queen-Moon is on her throne You are in yours, and where am I? Can you give me tap for ingredients to reach your eyes? Your throne? It’s ok, yeah, tell me it’s okay, tell me I’m okay and wait for my reaction So tell me, are you still listening? Do you want other 250 g of quality swiss chocolate? I think you are going to be able to see pretty soon That I may not be good at being happy But I’ll be perfectly fine if you tell me It’s okay. Federico 57

M. Notes on poetry. Odd as it may seem, not a few academic discussions contemplate the issue on whether poetry must be a cold or hot served product – what is to say, the result of a calm reflection or rather offspring of the impetus. Neither do I – I completely ignore how to start a poem or how to finish a hug, even that ones which I thought so long. How to? Silently, perhaps. After all, all written words take the risk of coldness, of becoming the aesthetic dryness of an ink which does not run anymore. They will make you doubt, they will make you consider the Machiavellian character of a poetic recurrence which, otherwise, would be embraced as a stammering, emotive voice. I do write, and it could eventually be the reason of your mistrust; nonetheless, it all was born – as all of us – trembling beyond language. Here you have my hesitation, my written silence. 58

¿Para qué la palabra? Si nada en ella resigue la silueta del mundo y sabe más de Dios el gemido que la oración. Para qué la palabra esa moneda gastada en el camino, si no es acaso por el placer de la pérdida: virtud humilde y análoga a la de saber vestirse para desnudarse de ocasión. (What for the word / if nothing about it resembles the outline of the world / and there is more knowledge about God in the moan / than in prayer./ What / for / the / word, / wasted coin forgotten in the ground, / if it is not because of the pleasure of the loss: / humble virtue like the one of / knowing how to dress just to strip / with joy.) 59

Cincuenta y siete días después, me pregunto a qué sonará tu calleja hoy cuando la fiesta sean ya trastos sucios, trazos inservibles en la cartografía de las noches llegue el hastío de los grillos y la oscuridad se desparrame sobre el silencio como la tinta sobre los poemas. (Just as dance is the joy of body, poetry is the joy of language: unconcerned about meaning, it solely plays at being – and it is.) 60

NOTES ON DESTROYING 61

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Summer Breeze Touching me as you and me were touching There was this summer breeze And I thought that this must On the last day of August have been you It was calling me to join it I decided to dance with it, to dance with you I could hear it whispering We met each other somewhere As I was sitting in a balcony of in the night sky Patmos The world was spinning around Listening to Don Henley us But we were holding each other I could hear it passing through so tight the alleys It was the safest place: your hug Gently embracing the small houses of the island Slowly you took me back to the balcony I could see it kissing the sea You gave me a warm goodbye With such a passion kiss Even the greatest love would be You left jealous I opened my eyes I saw the most calming sunrise I could feel it all over my body Eleni Papageorgiou 63

Walk Good walk! Funny talk! Free feeling, without seeing. Eating grapes, touching stones. It was like waves creating songs! Jéssica Silva 64

A bench A bench is a funny place. People sit on it with a different face. They cry or smile, For a minute or a while. So sit on a bench for a while. Maybe to cry, maybe to smile. Maikel Mõttus/ Melancholic Dandyman 65

A Tender Trip Blindfold. Dark. A trust, a smaller smiler gallant flicker guide’a tide’a -flacker, lick’a light, a see seeing weavin’ tripper tipper, a give’a hand’a help’a stella fella skelter feet, a fearer a fall a astone a calam’a fall a wall a form tee attenda of tasting light, coat a loan a the blind, the sight, a hand a mountain a mortal finitude’a grip a grappa taste a singa samba, home. stumble tumbla tricker, a Kai Roland Green Bergolo Tale Hills ham up the role of hiding snugs, a nook, a plant-strewn plinth. Giovanni blames himself apiece for losing the young. Once, a calling-up to stand was heard and passed from buck to buck until they split life from limb and lay 66

awake, below ground, to wait. Kai Roland Green Oh, their castigation! Like the heavy bellowing of the overcast and the overwrought! Brought iron-slung water cans to feed the graveyard overspill. Since, another generation passed another blindness stayed the course. And fresh vessels moored or lichen ripe, or grapes a’plenty, or warm stones and songs left new ones cold. To the city, they run. Mother of the town insists they’ll be like tendrils: once against the grain and then return to fill with more than smoke. “More bellies filled, like cello babes of wintered wood, un-splintered” “Wince only when something short”, she says, “is flung across your path. Since all you throw, apiece, is caught and lands askance left, last”. 67

Pieces of Bergolo Hm an emerald grasshopper and a red rose, freshly plucked scorching sun morphing into fog and back and back again a little village near the clouds church bell the only trace of time here we start the days all together in search for poetry within us shared confusion and scattered hopes doing things I thought I’d never do feeling too much and too deeply trying to paint the impressions with words pouring our hearts onto paper and then burning it with bleeding feelings 68

Images Eleni Papageorgiou September Foggy as it was, I took a walk outside I could smell the forest I could hear the water flowing I could touch the walls For sure they are made of stone And it felt like home Even though I was not in my hometown There was a dog I could hear him strolling along the streets I could smell him too I also cuddled him And it felt like home Even though he was not my dog 69

Steps crisp kribin-krabin-krõbin suhog susog zizeg zuzog Det blæser, sahiseb, kahiseb, kohiseb Koccan, csörömpöl, csörög, zörög, kõlks Laughter kac-kac, hahotázik kihistab clicking, snapping, scratching glugy- bugyborékol splash potty sulps hm and C.C.M. 70

onomatopoeia NOUN mass noun The formation of a word from a sound associated with what is named (e.g. cuckoo, sizzle) PRONOUNCIATION onomatopoeia /ˌɒnə(ʊ)matəˈpiːə/ 71

An ode to our book sound Booklore· the pages in our book. Σαν μπούκλες οι σελίδες να ανεμίζουν, όταν φυσάει ο άνεμος· μπούκλες ή bookless? Mixing pages· repeating words· Megbukik· easy to repeat them, right? But.. puk puk it’s time to book a place for new words A hole is waiting for unspeakable food Buco a bocca in need for salt· Sarea în bucate So bookful now· that even bookworms felt sorry to eat it. Despina 72

Despina 73

täna ainult täna mitte homme, ülehomme, sellest järgneval päeval, järgmisel nädalal, järgmisel kuul, eile, eelmine aasta, esmaspäeval, kolmapäeval, reedel, pühapäeval, ükskõik mis päeval, vaid TÄNA ........... .............................................. ..................................................................... ........................ naudin. - uᴉlᴉɹǝM 15:59 (( this poem is about today. don`t live in the future or in the past. live in the present! )) Merilin 74

ma olen MUUTUNUD, emotsioone ma teisiti vaatan. oleksin justkui KADUNUD, RÖÖMSALT köigile siin jaatan. ületanud OLEN end, tõeliselt ilus oli see LEND !!!!!! - uᴉlᴉɹǝM 26.09.2019 (( my feelings after the youth exchange. i have surpassed myself and feel more happier. )) ♫ Good Nights Whethan (feat. Mascolo) ♫ Merilin 75

Putina che se sveja ch’el treno partio no teo poi pi putina che saluda co tanta riciapare. meraveja. Chea putina xe cressua This poem is written in the ma ancora e lacrime Venetian dialect and talks about qualcun ghe suga. the child who lives in each of us, Donna xovane, even when we become adults. donna putina, There’s always an afraid child in co parte el treno us, not sure whether facing a ea saluda coa manina. situation or not, but we have to Lexi, pianxi, ma no understand that some desmentegare experiences never come back che l’aventura ga ancora da and so we have to trust ourselves scumissiare. and go for them. Co te rivi no sta far vedare el lato deboe che te credi de Claudia Seno ‘vere. Meti ea maschera, manda xo i boconi amari, che de lacrime xe pieni i mari. Vivi col soe in tel core e assa in tel canton e paure. Sorridi come soeo ti te sè fare 76

I AM A.M. Sono nata nel mese delle rose Tra strade gioiose per la festa patronale Sono Alessia, per gli amici Ale. Maggio è anche il mese della Madonna Una benedizione mandata da Lei ero per mia nonna, Per mia madre,invece, un motivo d'insonnia. Sono cresciuta in campagna Occhi foglie d'autunno e capelli castagna. Osservavo il mondo in silenzio e con attenzione Come fosse la Luna per un gatto su di un cornicione. Scrivo quel che sento senza ben capirlo Dico quel che penso di ognuno senza mai ferirlo. Ballo ad occhi chiusi così non mi accorgo di non saperlo fare. A volte fingo di dormire e rimango sveglia a immaginare un mondo di uomini non più padroni Ma custodi, Che non inquinano più il mare 77

Ma ne tessono le lodi. Mi destreggio abile In equilibrio su di un filo poco stabile Che divide la quotidianità dal sogno. Ma io mi lascio spesso cadere In quel luogo in cui si annulla ogni mio bisogno: Nell'abbraccio che la poesia sola sa dare. Quant'è bello sentire la penna andare E non avere su di essa più alcun potere?!! [Translation] I was born in the month of roses, Among joyful streets celebrating the patron saint's festival I am Alessia, for friends Ale. May is also the month dedicated to Mother Mari A blessing sent by her, that’s what I was to my grandmother, For my mother, instead, a reason for insomnia. I grew up in the countryside. Eyes autumn leaves and chestnut hair. I used to watch the world silently and carefully 78

Like if it was the Moon for a cat on a cornice. A.M. I write what I feel without always understand it well I say what I think of everyone always trying not to hurt anyone. I dance with my eyes closed so I don't realize I can't do it. Sometimes I pretend to sleep but i stay awake to imagine a world of humans who are no longer masters but guardians of this world, that no longer pollute the sea, but praise it. I am skillful equilibrist, balanced on a barely stable wire which divides dreams from everyday life. But I often let myself fall in that place where all my needs suddenly disappear, in the embrace that only poetry can give. How good it is to feel the pen writing by its own and no longer have any power over it?!! 79

piedra, mar y camino los de aprender suspendiendo, no sé contar en cincuenta versos los de mi padre en la obra, el camino que viví los de mi madre cosiendo, si los días que me marcaron los de ya estás en la uni, fueron mucho más de mil los de un amor de película, los de cada juego de niños junio de exámenes, los de madrugón y desayuno los de tercera matrícula, los de amigos sin móvil, los de recogerme a las siete, de esos no queda ninguno una aventura en cada camino, los de un recreo siempre corto Israel, Italia, Grecia, los de soñando despierto los de pasar tiempo conmigo, los de llorar sin hablar, los de mi abuelo sufriendo, los de volar sobre dos ruedas, los de no saber dónde ir, viento de cara vuelta a casa, cada amigo en un colegio, los de marisma, noche y ruta, los de ver quien está a mi lado, los de pasión tatuada qué raro fue ese tiempo, los de quererme para quererte los de amar todo el día aprendiendo de cada compañía, más, los de viajes, Huelva, Galicia, los de crecí, y no me lo creía, los de hacerme caso a mí mismo, los de espabilar en dos años, los de abrir el corazón, 80

por fin he encontrado mi sitio. pero cincuenta versos son muy los que me faltan versos para pocos, decir, los de aprender a ser feliz y si vienes te lo cuento aquí, los de si no te veo me muero los de mis sueños y miedos y los que me guardo para mí. que también son más de mi. los de niebla y cabaña, los de venda y ceguera, Pablo García los de un piano estrellado y la música que suena los de cariños en el mediterráneo, los de la niña que me espera, tu tranquila, dame la mano no te vayas de mi vera, 81

Barndomsgader Vi skal på opdagelse Vi køber lodne bånd og knapper Vi prøver gyldne armbånd der rasler og falder af spinkle håndled Vi ønsker os snabelsko og hører om en der faldt ned af en trappe i Helsingør Vi ved at narkomaner spiser risifrutti Vi ved at når en brosten stikker op på en mærkelig måde er det et gemmested Vi går til skole med en jernkæde og en hemmelig hund Mor råber venligt ud af vinduet og de undskylder og giver plads for mit løbehjul Min mor er bange for at jeg bliver kørt ned Der er altid nogen der råber Og nogle der klæder om i portenes indhak En pige står og hænger på hjørnet min mor siger at hun er fjorten år Hun har mørkebrune krøller og spinkle arme hendes ansigt er solbrunt men er ved at få et gråligt skær Hendes mandelformede øjne er hårde og desperate og flakker ligesom hende altid rundt i kvarteret Jeg lærer at gå på en bestemt måde Og sige nej når jeg bliver spurgt om prisen Jeg forsøger at fjerne det sorte under mine øjne med toiletpapir 82

Det river i den fine hud og jeg får tårer i øjnene De spurgte om ID men vi var kommet fire år for tideligt Så vi hang i natten, trancelignende bevægelser skikkelser i mørke kroge Tyk røg bølgede ud mellem små hvide tænder dunede overlæber, flakkende blikke, kejtede ranglede kroppe vi skraber vores knæ på vej over hegnet Mor er på fars side Hun beder mig komme hjem Jeg har bygget lejr et andet sted end klædeskabet jeg bor hvor jeg er Vi renoverer en papkasse Og stirrer på det æggehvide loft Der tolereres ikke bløde kiks I min familie I min familie hugger vi hovedet af dem der skaber sig og laver ravage Ømhedens symboler findes i en rød kasse på en hylde der ikke er min. 83

Af Alva Leonora von der Pahlen 84

Dunele instabile Cu privirea căzută în pământ Îți numeri din nou degetele de la picioare. Nu mai simți de mult nisipul greu Ce se scurge printre ele Ci doar fața arsă cu răutate de soare. Îți continui drumul Dar nu îndrăznești să-ți ridici privirea Știi foarte bine ce te înconjoară- Ți-au descris totul despre dunele instabile; Te-au avertizat în legătură cu soarele Și cum nu ai voie să-l privești. Dintr-o dată strigi Și te lași să te topești ușor Pe nisip Lăsând înapoia ta o mica urma Ștearsă rapid de dunele instabile. Ce nu apuci sa vezi insa Este cum urletele tale se prefac în păsări Ce o să atingă 85

Într-o zi Soarele. [Translation] Unstable dunes Looking at the ground You're counting your toes again. You stopped feeling a long time ago The sand gliding through them; You feel only your face Maliciously burnt by the sun. You're following your path But you don't dare to look up You know perfectly what's surrounding you- They told you everything about the unstable dunes; They warned you about the sun And how you're not supposed to look at it. Suddenly you scream And you allow yourself To slowly melt on the sand Leaving a small trace behind 86

Rapidly erased by the unstable dunes What you don't get to see Is how your screams are turning into birds That will one day Reach The sun. Bristena 87

Bollo Redondo It warmed the feet of the carpenter boy When you let the water run Whose hair was washed? Who held back? You were red and he was coy Your body sold, your body old, Enough to choose, insisted Remembered blue (that’s mistaken, too) Distinguished truth, resisted A straggly pack of plastic wrap Was a Sunday morning treat I scoffed them down from the Netto bag A Magdalena sugar trap Take note of this, a jam-filled kiss An article definitely lost Mary’s sin, disquieting What your memory truly cost Kai Roland Green 88

NOTES ON REBUILDING 89

Panik er ikke en bedrift Se dagens lys slikke byens tage Løbe ned af facaderne Jeg har skjult min frysende krop i et groft brunt tæppe Her lugter af morgenurin Der er noget der knækker i mit bryst når jeg retter mig op Metalskrinene og de mørke træmøbler i spisestuen Der er noget der knækker i mit bryst når du holder om mig Gulvtæppets pels mellem mine bare tær Dine hænder virker så uskyldige, bløde, huden er nærmest uskadt, med et blåligt skær, dine fingerspidser er rosa og fingrene er slanke, men de har jo været alle mulige steder, på kroppe og håndtag og dyr, dine fingre har smuldret skunk og måske kradset i en tør fugleklat Dine hænder har taget svømmetag i olierede havnebassiner, og klasket insekter Taget mig med og ladet mig ligge. Jeg så en dokumentar om en blind mand der kunne ekkolokalisere som en flagermus Det ville være rart at være så uafhængig. Vi er i IKEA 90

Jeg har lyst til at tisse i bukserne Råbe højt og gemme mig i et udstillingsskab Overnatte i en af de opredte senge og vågne op før varehuset fyldes med folk Hovedbanegården er fyldt til bristepunktet Her lugter gråt Pladsreservation Der er vel ikke andet at tage sig til, end at kigge på hinanden eller ud ad vinduet. Jeg spiser aldrig bananer i ét stykke Engang sad to ældre mænd og gloede og kommenterede mens jeg spiste en banan. Min far siger at afsky er frygt, men forklædt, Vi læser i glittede blade, mens landskabet glider forbi \"Hvis du spiser sukker størkner masken\" Vi er højere oppe end vi plejer Væggene er sart rosa og lysegule Min kamillete har den smukkeste udsigt over bjergene og morgenrøden Her lugter af sved Den klare kølige luft kærtegner mit ansigt da jeg slår vinduet op. Et langt sort hår ligger på gulvet Som en af de tråde der forbinder os med vores “kvindelighed” 91

Det er hverken dit eller mit Loftet er ved at krakelere Vi kaster vores faste forestillinger ud ad vinduet Som gennemsigtige geler i forskellige farver når man holder dem op foran ansigtet forvrænges konturerne for den der forsøger at se igennem Jeg ligger på maven mellem brombærranker der er ved at erobre en betonplatform, en kasseret boksmadras, dele af en vaskemaskine og et tv fra oldtiden; Et lille firben slænger sig som mig i Solen, vores kroppe varmes op simultant Det er den første efterårsdag i Italien. Skinnet er sprækket nogle steder Rislende vand et insekt summer tæt på mit øre jeg ville ikke kunne holde ud hvis jeg var typen der blev angst for at den skulle kravle ind i min øregang og lægge æg, vingernes frekvens, kirkeklokker. Der er en der kalder på os. 92

Af Alva Leonora von der Pahlen 93

Agnete Nørmark 94

Teletranspórtame Allí donde por fin me conocí, Allí donde fui feliz, donde todos pudimos coincidir, nunca dejé de reír dolorosamente despedir y de sentir. y luego volvernos a dividir. Donde las lágrimas se tornaban, PRN en amargas dosis de realidad. Donde aprendí gracias a ese incesante bucle de introspección que me regalaba cada canción. Donde cada minuto contaba y cada abrazo te arropaba, el tiempo paraba y tú alma gritaba, encontrando su calma. Teletranspórtame… 95

GOODBYE TO THE I’m into you MOUNTAINS I cross your roads barefoot. The stars are given once It was a cleansing rain We kept them in our palms to mend my soul. And -now that I have to set them And – in the place in which all free- the sins While I open my fingers one by can be forgiven with a tight hug- one, I was born again, Let me cry light as the breeze of September. and shout to the trees The echo of my first cry one last time. resonates among the mountains. Suddenly a vague childhood A.M memory stands out, while, within your eyes you show me the taste of an happy ending. Share your secretsI don’t have any mouth only ears to listen to your confused thoughts. 96

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