A poetry reading from Maresciàra - poems of love, darkness and wildlife by Giovanni S. Orecchio cover art

A poetry reading from Maresciàra - poems of love, darkness and wildlife by Giovanni S. Orecchio

A poetry reading from Maresciàra - poems of love, darkness and wildlife by Giovanni S. Orecchio

By: Giovanni Simone Orecchio
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About this listen

A reading of verses I wrote. This is quite an experiment. Anyway, I'll try to propose a listening experience which should not be too homemade.
The poems I'll read are taken from a book I published a couple of years ago, which is called Maresciàra - poems of love, darkness and wildlife.
If you'd like to purchase, please click here, if not, is the same

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084DH5F7Q

I'll try to be humble and please, keep in mind that every verse I write, as with any poet, is part of my soul. Also, I must say reading is like being completely naked. That's weird.  
I do apologize for a certain lack of diction, bad recording quality, poor translation. 
During the episodes you'll find various themes. There's love, there's nature, there's anxiety, sadness, delirium, a whole variety of emotions and topics that during the poetic process might happen to experience. 
Thank you so much for listening, and I wish you all the best 

sincerely, 
giovannni s.  

Copyright 2021 Giovanni Simone Orecchio Art Literary History & Criticism
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Episodes
  • Episode 7: ep. 7 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - kilimanjaro

    Episode 7: ep. 7 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - kilimanjaro
    Sep 1 2021

    sea doesn’t get tired  
     
     

    finding itself sad, furious 
     and the clouds from the mountain with it
     -bunches of thunder vapor
     horses- they fly offshore
     
     this sea storm is mine
     mine are its roars,
     mine its sheets of foam
     repeating themselves like holy exchange
     of saliva
     in a moribund Greece
     
     this sea storm is ours,
     it looks like your forehead
     -sea she-wolf mist
     salt suspended-;
     or like laying on a moist bed,
     to the rest of thighs
     crossed like swords, corals
     like algae then |
     
     has brought on land
     any kind of debris,
     eating the flesh of my mind away
     leaving the flaccid part exposed
     like crab-goblet open wide;
     it smashed bottles
     softened glass, rocks, shells,
     it barked and hissed,
     it enervated carcasses,
     diluted sewers.
     
     another Autumn came /
     and yet another Autumn dies on me -
     I can only -
     report things -
     manifestations -
     performing those to my temples only
     with someone else’s voice
     
     -the feeling of being ill
     as the feeling of being healthy
     interrupts me |
     
     sea storm is itself and itself
     only,
     only fishermen should pronounce about |
     
     it leaves us this manner,
     moved
     by masterfulness of exhausting;
     by perseverance of an entity
     with no mind at all
     but alive
     more than anything.-
     
     
     Trezza 12 October 19

    ______________________________


    Viale

     
     the streets of my savage land
     always smell like
     meat and neigh,
     hot oil,
     lemon on blue fish /
     bony and barked war


    __________________________


    there were many springs / impossible / avogghifàri
     

     how much ink 
     how many 
     turquoise thoughts 
     I devoted to you
     
     how many tangles and dogs to the throat 
     how many moist gazes 
     like exact wings 
     
     and on the meantime, 
     how less 
     my hands reached,
     how less I entered inside you;
     how I like
     Venus 
     how mild
     I am.
     
     Yet, 
     I always smile 
     like I’m crying 
     or like I’m about to carve 
     a knife 
     out my pocket /
     and again, like I’d see 
     -in the idea of me smiling- 
     the most revolting abomination, the slowest- 
     a child of the craziest
     (my happy face, 
     disgusts me from forgetful whole of time)
     
     yet
     I’ll cease thinking about you 
     when flowers will start talking 
     when the sea will transform to blood, 
     when -having become a beast- from my eyes 
     I shall drink the Moon of you 
     and only with beasts and salt I shall talk 
     only ivy and sea 
     I shall understand 


    ___________________________

    thank you, sincerely 
    giovanni s. 
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    11 mins
  • Episode 6: ep. 6 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - just a cock singing

    Episode 6: ep. 6 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - just a cock singing
    Aug 27 2021
    Decomposition (and how joyful and childish it is  to talk about death, or Спокойнаяночь)  yet supine because of death  or only because  of one day effort |  may a rose blossom  from the solar plexus, or a pinky mycosis;  may flesh open wide  at the paused stern height  in order to offer a pearl   or a black stone  to who’s passing  who’s handsome thief;  hands are similar to ivies, eyes to opals pools for flies-   all the apprehensions  will be drank by grass    Trezza 22 October 19  ______________________ untitled    I do need it  but I’d like to present you  a vertebrae of my finest / I’d give it to you  like the royal rings  from trunk to heirs, and because of that hole in my back  I would not fall like a boiled fruit, instead  such as asps from the ditch  some wings would bloom,something would,/  in order to repair, wipe out  all our doubts,  since I as I’m now whole and empty  can’t. _________________________ wish   May you be the dream of a sailfish, fresh fig and Dalco’s scythe edge;  may you be loved by a dog, may your soul be nettle and bread like, fire and venom like,  and your eyes like anemone and closed wings, their fundus may remember of a celestial web;  may you live far  from those who spasmodically  look for a reason in any phenomenon […]  may your back  look like a aureus field, and your temples and thought  like brambles packed with fruits, obscure spiders;  may yesterday  be less than exuvia,  saliva dead leaf, used olive branch diadem;  may your nervous teeth  meet many sage leaves, and may your blood transform at any moon blade, your heart horse fiber and mantis;  may your sky be godless,  may your soil be a trench with holy worms, a rug of moss and sharp ferns;  may your sea go mentally white, meditate green-blue, may that blue vomit  silvery fish  and tentacles curling for lemon drops;  may you be like star and Siringe, Agdistis,  intersexual Hellenic concepts, may you love when rain plays branches;  may be damned time and its infernal wheel its swarming repetition of tortures and liberations revolutions and twists repeated to whip and nausea to grindstone and hustle of dumbs and war.   may your right to be loved  meet negligible abysses,  unfold  like fresh flour on clear wood  or the clouds sliding  off the mountain side.   ____________________________ days   pleasure and verse are triggered by  knife beating on the chop board. Between them  there’s a thin line of horse meat.   Split the nerve  Cut the suet in excess   It might be diving foreheads  in a rubber wall   intestine canvas like  quotidian membrane  to make us wish  to tear apart things nearly ended ; to creep on roots and moss  naked, slaughter; to pour cheeks with ventricles juice.   It’s a splendid night to be scared, it’s a splendid night to be melancholic,-  moon  hammers  splits the nerve if full, cuts it in a glare  if new  May the sky desire this lives  meet many scythes.  Life pusillanimity walzer, we’d better roll ourselves in a dark wave, wear miserable aestheticism,  and your kidneys, you enthusiast man,  will be licked by hounds.   II.  after brushing the crack, pieces were connected  with spit, with seaweeds and mucus ;  drive with me tonight,  place on my back  ropes and lavenders  as a living mummification rilling ,  and inside, nothing’s moving-    Catania, 24 December 19  _____________________________   i giorni     Il godimento e il verso li innesca  il coltello che batte sul tagliere.Tra i due c’è una linea di carne equina.   Spacca il nervo  Taglia il grasso in eccesso   Sarà il tuffare la fronte  in una quotidiana membrana  che sembra un muro di gomma  o una tela di budello a farci desiderare  di dilaniare cose appena finite ; di strisciare tra radici e muschi  nudi, macello;  di grondare le guance di succo di ventricoli.   E’ una sera splendida per aver paura, è una splendida sera  per aver malinconia di se stessi,- la luna  spacca il nervo se piena  come martello,  lo taglia in un baleno  se nuova   Voglia il cielo che queste vite  incontrino molte falci.   Vita walzer di vigliaccheria, faremmo bene a rotolarci in un’onda nera, a vestirci di mesto estetismo, e le tue reni, uomo entusiasta,  le leccheranno i cani.    II.  Sfiorato lo schianto,  i pezzi erano collegati  con lo sputo, con le alghe e col muco ;  guida con me stanotte,  poni sulla mia schiena  cime e lavande  come una mummificazione  in piena vita che scorre,  e dentro non si muove niente-   Catania, 24 Dicembre 19 
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    17 mins
  • Episode 5: ep. 5 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - androcell

    Episode 5: ep. 5 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - androcell
    Aug 27 2021
    joint / to you, sleeping    your pain is hard. you always look like  crossed by a thousand thoughts a thousand blades/  a thousand sailing ship dreams ,  blood accidents, clay;  I like your dog eyes/ your pain is mine to guard, to admire,  It is mine to heal, since it comes me natural as sharing a wept it comes / and I come  to you / you come to me   I want to make you spirit and flesh  sex and water  thigh  free to be shown or not to be scratched or not;  kiss you on the forehead and where  your legs join in cave incision  sea like or not  inlet, everywhere; looking at your back one night and nothing else,  sleep inside you  being slept, dreamt, bit;  my chest and what it contains  that’s yours,   an only with you it moist with blood in the best way/ laying/  yours are my nervous feet  yours is my phallus  yours are my spasms  yours is my neck  you are almond woman  and no one fits like you exactly coincide.___________________lawyer M. boat    it doesn’t sail on salt water anymore gathering rain instead;  fixed on wooden turrets night blue keel, water-green higher and wooden  Someone brought it here to Mauro’s shipyard were was born, sons or devastated friends, after you died, and such as the memory of you it rests under just olive trees unjust heat -you would have said it better-  Put me back on the sea, -seems saying- its graceful planks seem to whisper, take those clamps away from me I am pretty, willing to cut waves be barge and refuge for naps of bathers, fisherman’s desire/ I’m not able to dream here I’m not fond of hills or birds singing but I am of sea stacks dawn beginning marine sun marine warmth___________________________dusk    I like your nape  looks like a tiny bridge  a wooden bridge leading to the lands of your mind, you mind’s caves, things on fire-  this beating I hear from stern, through stern, in stern/ does this beating belong to the one I care about most (creature)?  she speaks to me being me plus Cancer sign/ and she’s all the complex metaphors and desire and black and gate and risk  she’s a leaf to rain on,  she consoles me ________________________August 3     in this hot weather death I walk,  slowly  like skin in water.   it is enough  to be next to a fan of yours, then isn’t enough/  cause my mind detaches  from skull and its axis  like a crown from the pedestal,  like garlic from dirt/  with a glass per day  of fecund red oblivion , -no blade sight passes  through this blood-  a hundred years to live  carcass of thinking  roars  about what you were  smoke in squall /   here: eat  earth and sea things that tasted the same  for a thousand years ;  things that breathe, eat on their own,  suck, sip, absorb, chew, digest  other things with wings, fins, leaves,  roots, nails, jaws, mineral and dirt molecules/  happiness is in basil.  in this hot weather  suggesting death  more than freeze does as skin in water  still   happiness is in basil leaves  in your hands on my ears  in fishermen shouting ____________________onirical (a dream)  as I reached  the crater’s mouth   I came to my ogival wound   completely awake I came  to my sleep, to my vigil  in total seclusion of thought    mind wasn’t aching  but had consistence  of exhausted leaves in plastic or jute   -temples like mad magnets-   on the throat trampoline  still  a black molasses black wept  mustard silence  of things repelled, imprisoned -boiling wort unconscious-   I came to anxiety that had form of a clearing  with suspended bodies all over  -also suspended was the bodies sight-  and the clearing was a laying down temple meanwhile  a stern itching, and the eternal fallen down ourselves in infinite copies of ourselves,  always identical  then always different,  never better,  deceived in a modest and immature  renovation circus ending  in shedding skin  /the ghoulish act/   With phantasmagorical radiant ravishing  new coloring  we do throw ourselves in hope of a different brain  and at any dusk  we’re swindled.    II.   You poet, wearing amulets you rummage  in discernment itself,  looking for a reason for reincarnation, a rule or evidence; arousing and caring about anything; your eyebrows look like dolphins.   It’s poet fashion and only  poet fashion  seeking for a system untangling impossible, -must it be sublime system-   My green poet is never tired, he’s a child wearing in ash armor  and I love him.   The woman with him  doesn’t know mournfulness, and the stars on her eyelids  don’t burn her at all, and she leaves galloping  with arch and arrows  pointing heavens.    III. As I came to the womb of earth  I hit her with my member,  she rejected it firstly,  then embraced it, and as...
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    25 mins

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