From f5b8b5ea4b2eb31da9a0a53a49765d6d4478fb5c Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Gianluca Ciccarelli Date: Fri, 30 Jun 2023 13:31:45 +0300 Subject: [PATCH] Remove bad poetry --- Rules | 15 ------ content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/emptiness.md | 23 ---------- content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/hair.md | 41 ----------------- .../songs_to_the_stone/mario-the-butcher.md | 40 ---------------- content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/miss-you.md | 19 -------- .../songs_to_the_stone/please-disappear.md | 46 ------------------- content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/prologue.md | 16 ------- content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/religion.md | 17 ------- .../poems/songs_to_the_stone/your-hands.md | 31 ------------- .../songs_to_the_stone/your-voice-is-music.md | 11 ----- 10 files changed, 259 deletions(-) delete mode 100644 content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/emptiness.md delete mode 100644 content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/hair.md delete mode 100644 content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/mario-the-butcher.md delete mode 100644 content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/miss-you.md delete mode 100644 content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/please-disappear.md delete mode 100644 content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/prologue.md delete mode 100644 content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/religion.md delete mode 100644 content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/your-hands.md delete mode 100644 content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/your-voice-is-music.md diff --git a/Rules b/Rules index 020deb69..f84269d1 100644 --- a/Rules +++ b/Rules @@ -35,13 +35,6 @@ compile '/reviews.md' do write item.identifier.without_ext + '/index.html' end -compile '/songs_to_the_stone.md' do - filter :kramdown - layout '/songs_to_the_stone.*' - - write item.identifier.without_ext + '/index.html' -end - compile '/storie.md' do filter :kramdown layout '/story_list.*' @@ -55,14 +48,6 @@ compile '/reviews/*.md' do write item.identifier.without_ext + '/index.html' end -compile '/poems/songs_to_the_stone/*.md' do - filter :kramdown - layout '/song_layout.*' - - write item.identifier.without_ext + '/index.html' -end - - compile '/**/*.md' do filter :kramdown layout '/default.*' diff --git a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/emptiness.md b/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/emptiness.md deleted file mode 100644 index 6c8d8781..00000000 --- a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/emptiness.md +++ /dev/null @@ -1,23 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: "Emptiness" -created_at: 2022-10-11 -tags: ['song'] ---- - -
-Maybe the condition for writing is a profound loneliness.
-Certainly the longing is in me tonight,
-But not the poetry. It's because
-
-A meaninglessness has chewed on me the whole day
-While a bit sick at home, in one more meeting,
-I thought of the color of your skin,
-Of the way you close your eyes when I find the point that hurts
-and knead it to squeeze some happiness out
-of you.
-
-At what point will one word you whisper not be a command
-that would make me give up everything, just
-to see those eyes close again for me?
-
- diff --git a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/hair.md b/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/hair.md deleted file mode 100644 index 944dfed8..00000000 --- a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/hair.md +++ /dev/null @@ -1,41 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: "Hair" -created_at: 2022-10-08 -tags: ['song'] ---- - -
-The last night we spent together 
-I saw a hair of yours on the floor
-I could spell its color and knew who it belonged to
-And that was presence and I was happy
-In all the misery we shrouded ourselves into.
-
-When you were gone
-From this latitude, from this life
-I couldn't muster the courage to clean my home
-I couldn't think of taking what was left of you
-Away from what little was left of me.
-
-Days went by.
-The hair was tangled with dust
-And I noticed there were more
-I picked one up, straightened it in my hands
-Distrustful I put it under my nose in the pointless hope
-Of catching a faint whiff of that scent that had anointed me but a few days before.
-There was none. I couldn't believe it.
-
-One day I cleaned the floor. With a heavy heart
-I let go of those last dead pieces of us.
-I was mistaken.
-There were more
-Surviving the vacuum
-Entangled in the textiles of the couch
-Hidden in a crease on the side of the bed
-Shorter, longer, all bearing the color of your mane
-With variations
-So different from mine. No one
-Has entered this house ever since. The memory of you
-Just doesn't want to go away
-And I want it to stay. I want it to stay.
-
diff --git a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/mario-the-butcher.md b/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/mario-the-butcher.md deleted file mode 100644 index 1e568d08..00000000 --- a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/mario-the-butcher.md +++ /dev/null @@ -1,40 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: "Mario the butcher" -created_at: 2022-09-12 -tags: ['song'] ---- - -> _You've read this once. It's not a great story and I've written it long before we met. Yet, it's part of our shared memory._ - -The night was a vortex of lights of every intensity, and of shadows thick andimpenetrable. Along the streets, snakes made of asphalt, cars moved slowly, speeding forward, describing curves, projecting cones of solid light that would rend the night and the dark that seemed to be willing to swallow them. It was the October 12th, 1982. - -The girl ran breathlessly in the butchery; she was more beautiful than not, wore a violet raincoat, and a pair of horn glasses bought in the only shop in town, held by Ms. Turolla, a childless, sweet widow. The cuts of meat had been almost all placed back in the fridge room on the back of the shop, kept cold by a 1960 Gersteiner motor, of those that inspire trust in the average Italian as every machine built by Germans, while, in fact, it was Swiss. The counter occupied almost the whole width of the shop, leaving a small passage on the far right, to allow the butcher to get in and out. The cashier was placed on top of the glass, with a scale that showed the customers the weight of the meat that they were buying. The digits were shown with red LEDs on a triple screen, one for the weight itself, one for the cost of a kilogram, and the third with a custom message, that the owner had decided to be a generic greeting, valid throughout the day. When Christmas or Easter, but no other festivity, came along, the man asked the boy working for Mr. Brunelli, the barber whose shop was just across the street, to come and set up the season greetings. - -It had been an intensely desperate Friday of a rainy autumn in a little suburb of the province of Rome. The man behind the counter must have been in his early forties; he wore his white apron, washed many times, with the remains of the stains that had accumulated over the seven years since he had started helping his parents run the shop. He protested when the girl had entered the shop, declaring that he was about to close it for the day. The girl insisted, looking desperate: _It’s the only butcher that I’ve found open, please,_ ── she said ── _I’m coming from a long shift at the hospital, I’ve got people coming over for dinner_. He stretched, starting a long sigh; then, feeling rude, interrupted it, and went back behind the counter, smiling, asking how he could be of help. - -Leaving the shop, she looked like a radiant young woman; tired, sure, but happy. Mario tried to imagine the people she hung out with, and who were lucky enough to spend the evening with such a lovely host, chilling out, or singing after dinner, the glasses of wine clinking against each other. He let down the shutter of the shop and ended the sigh that he had started before. - -He walked toward Piazza Italia, turning right and taking the large road that connected to the stairs of the church of San Giuseppe. The small Piazza had been the place where the people of that town had started the rebellion against the Nazi occupation, in 1943. Some of the citizens were among the first to form a core group of the Resistenza, tired as they were of the insolence of the Germans. - -On one of its side, the statue of San Giuseppe was standing in a niche, illuminated by one spotlight, slightly, making him visible in the general obscurity. Mario ran into Don Crescenzo, who was heading somewhere in a rush. He managed to wish him good evening; the priest, almost as if awaken suddenly from a bad dream, looked at the butcher, and replied to the greeting. He had the time to ask news about the health of Marios’s mother; he was heading to a deathbed, visibly shaken. - -Viviano Merini was a pharmacist and a dear friend of the man since their childhood. Don Crescenzo had come to the town from outside, somewhere in the South, 50 years before. His family and Viviano’s had arrived almost at the same time, Viviano’s parents coming instead from Rome, where Raffaele Merini, Viviano’s father, had been a dentist, activity that he continued in the smaller context of the province; with much joy, it must be said, of his lovely wife, Greta, a novelist, who needed the peace of the outskirts to recover from a weak schizophrenia, almost surely caused by the stress of the city, and later by the birth of Viviano. Don Crescenzo wore a raincoat on top of his tunic; on his nose, he had forgotten his glasses, which he usually only used for reading. The big nose trembled feebly under the water and in the fresh air. He’d been one of the men of the Resistenza himself, and Viviano had been one of theirs, too. - -The men parted ways. It was still raining lightly, but Mario kept the umbrella closed because the water on his face would clear his mind; besides, he liked to look at the passers-by, the handsome people walking toward their nice occupations. There were two girls with their musical instruments closed in the cases, talking thickly to each ot her, so that the music of their voices arrived at Mario’s ears like in a faraway, forgotten dream. He recognized Adelina, one of the two, to which he had imparted math lessons some time ago. - -She was fourteen; she made her family proud. At the end the of road that from San Giuseppe led to Piazza Resina, on the side of the church of Saint Anna, there would open a court, with some car parked in the open, bearing quietly the insolent rain beating against the aristocratic chassis. A portal, covered by a small roof, offered shelter to a young homeless boy. The boy looked at Mario and seemed uncertain about what to do. He must have been less than thirty years old, quite short, with blond dark hair. He was often seen in Piazza Resina, trying to sell small poems to the customers of the two cafes standing on the two sides of the square, the Red Silk on one side, and Bar Ettore on the other. - -Someone said that he was the secret lover of Rita, the wife of the owner of the Red Silk, whom some other voices said was beaten up by her husband from time to time, when he had drunk or when the business was not going well. Year in year out, the bar had resisted more than 30 years, even though Sergio and Rita were not the first owners. They had bought it from mister Ernesto Culavedra, who really came from Argentina, together with his wife Rosa and their daughter Irina; and the Culavedras had first come because their ancestor, whose name was Ernesto, too, had left the town in 1899 and went looking for fortune in South America; and so the descendants had thought to visit their ancestor’s home, stayed almost 20 years, and then sold the bar and disappeared, and no one heard anything anymore about them. - -Mario looked at the boy, with a mix of fear and sadness in his eyes, then produced a key from a pocket, put it in a keyhole until it heard it click in the silent night. He pushed the door, went in, and closed it behind. - -The stairs went up to the third floor, where he had a small flat. His father had bought it in 1970 with the money he had put away with the butchery, and by selling the small restaurant that he had kept until the ‘69. The restaurant’s specialty was, of course, the meat, prepared in all possible ways, with a huge barbecue at a fixed price on Sundays, where people went after the Holy Mass; and it wasn’t rare to see Father Jacopo himself, sometimes; nowhere close to Easter, needless to say. When Mario was a kid, he helped his parents after school; that is until he started college; and then again, when he dropped off to take care of the shop when his father had died. - -Mario’s mother, ill, was sleeping in her room. She had left the TV on. A kid was playing on a beach under the loving look of a young, beautiful girl, maybe his mother, or his big sister. She had long brown hair, enticing eyes, and her hands were just lovely when she passed them in the kid’s hair. Mario would have liked to have a family, too, but he couldn’t build one. His father died in a car accident; he managed, together with his mother, the small butchery which served the few families that still lived in that place that the story ignores. - -Many moved to the big city, in search of job or to change life, tired of feeling isolated from the world, feeling that they could be part of it only if they moved where the collective conscience counted a higher number of souls, where everything was noisier, believing that events and lives could be written intensely and fully only by screaming and moving continuously and quickly. - -His mother had been sick for a whole year. The lungs. A young nurse took care of her during the day, but at seven sharp would leave, and Mario closed the butcher shop at the same moment, and whatever time it took to get home, no more than half an hour, was how long Donna Cristina would stay alone in her room. This arrangement had left him quite nervous, in the beginning, until he got used to it, after a few months, so that now he walked down the street without worry. And that night he thought that by helping the young girl, he would’ve been able to reconnect with the world and the happy life that he had spent not long ago and that he had forgotten, always running behind the needs and the responsibilities of daily life. He would run, too; no need to move to the city for that. It was already complicated as it was. He gave a look at the watch ── eight twenty. - -Donna Cristina was lying with the rosary in her hands. He got closer to seat her more comfortably, or she would wake up full of aches the day after. He didn’t turn on the light to avoid waking her up abruptly, and besides, the light from the TV lit the room sufficiently. He took the remote and pressed the Mute button. The girl on the beach had started talking with a soft, distant voice, dubbed in Italian from a German show. Mario noticed her resemblance with Alina, the nurse that had left less than an hour before that very room where he was standing. He turned toward the woman and noticed something dark on the candid linen. He drew closer. It looked like blood. Terrified, he tried to -shake his mother. She wasn’t breathing. diff --git a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/miss-you.md b/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/miss-you.md deleted file mode 100644 index bdcef187..00000000 --- a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/miss-you.md +++ /dev/null @@ -1,19 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: "The ways I miss you" -created_at: 2022-10-04 -tags: ['song'] ---- - -
-For however much I may insult you
-    and curse the memory of you
-The truth of it all is that I miss you
-    in ways I didn't think possible
-    before meeting you.
-
-Fow however much you can still hurt me
-However devastating our time together was
-It's still been the happiest
-    and the most broken
-    I've ever been.
-
diff --git a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/please-disappear.md b/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/please-disappear.md deleted file mode 100644 index 9ea4335a..00000000 --- a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/please-disappear.md +++ /dev/null @@ -1,46 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: "Please, disappear" -created_at: 2022-10-01 -tags: ['song'] ---- - -
-I hope that city
-I once fantasized about
-disappears from the face of the Earth,
-or at least from my memory altogether, which is the same, isn't it?
-
-That whole country
-and those few millions people
-and their language and their traditions,
-their loves and their perversions,
-their movies and their culture
-and what is left of the old empire
-that thought it could rule the world: _disappear_.
-
-I don't want to hear your name anymore.
-Every person mentioning you
-is my enemy and I want them to disappear too,
-devoured by the endless void.
-
-Every flower. Every house.
-Every mother with her child,
-Every husband with the love of his life.
-Every smiling face
-    over a drink in a bar
-    on a quiet Saturday night, among friends.
-Every self-righteous smug pretty woman who thinks
-that they can twist my life
-and drive me to my knees with pain.
-I've let you in
-and all you did was wreck. 
-
-One day I'll only see the good parts;
-but by then
-I'll have forgotten all that matters,
-because of how much it hurt _back then_,
-and so when I'm calm enough
-to see the beauty of it all,
-I will be lacking every part of it
-that made it beautiful.
-
diff --git a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/prologue.md b/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/prologue.md deleted file mode 100644 index c7f26f2b..00000000 --- a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/prologue.md +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: Prologue -created_at: 2022-09-11 -tags: ['song'] ---- - -Everything in this section is called a *song*, even though there may be a bit of everything. - -One thing is the story -for which I fished the English translation, so that you could read it. You said: -_I am not sure I understood everything but it shows you're a storyteller_. - -This section is for you, even though you'll probably never see it. -So in a way, this section really is for me. - -You've broken my heart. diff --git a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/religion.md b/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/religion.md deleted file mode 100644 index f85bdebb..00000000 --- a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/religion.md +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: "Temple on the sea" -created_at: 2022-10-09 -tags: ['song'] ---- - -
-Whenever you're feeling down
-I hope you'll remember
-That there's someone by the Baltic Sea
-Who can't take you off his mind
-
-And pretends he's forgotten
-But all he does is
-    Saying his prayer
-    For you, his religion.
-
diff --git a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/your-hands.md b/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/your-hands.md deleted file mode 100644 index ba8ea9ba..00000000 --- a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/your-hands.md +++ /dev/null @@ -1,31 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: "Your Hands" -created_at: 2022-09-30 -tags: ['song'] ---- - -
-You had long, ugly, bony hands
-Your knuckles were swollen
-Your nails chewed up and ruined 
-
-And yet I bear the mark of them on my face
-From that day you landed to deliver bad news
-And put your forehead against mine,
-Closed your eyes, and put those hands,
-    beautiful, graceful, slender,
-On my grateful face
-And I put mine on them because I couldn't believe you were there with me.
-
-And how long we've stayed like that, 
-With me worried of bystanders thinking we were crazy, 
-But wasn't I? weren't you, just a bit?
-The knots of my worry will strangle me one day.
-
-When will that day come
-when I'll be able to think of all that 
-with just gratitude, and without the bitterness? 
-
-I'm afraid that will be the day when the memory of you will be so faded 
-that it will only remain as some dull background of cosmic pain that I can feel in my bones.
-
diff --git a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/your-voice-is-music.md b/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/your-voice-is-music.md deleted file mode 100644 index 0845b820..00000000 --- a/content/poems/songs_to_the_stone/your-voice-is-music.md +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: "Your voice is music" -created_at: 2022-10-10 -tags: ['song'] ---- - -Sometimes I look out of my window in the loneliness of the cold night and imagine you walking to me while I do. I can hear the sound of your voice saying _Hi_, and of mine answering _Hi_ (one octave higher, because I’m in awe). I keep looking out, without turning, but my stare is on your reflection in the glass. Your voice is sensual, a caress to my sorry ears, a velvet drape. - -You put your body against mine and your right arm holds my torso, your right hand on my left shoulder, as if you were holding on to your property. Oh, you know me well and you know what's yours. - -No one has ever made me feel blessed and whole the way you do. And this is not even you, but a ghost I summoned in my mind. May what you do to me be blessed for however long the universe has until it implodes.