Sabine Pascarelli
Here are "paintings" of Italy in poetry. A poet wanders through the crowded street of vendors; a poet feels the lash of Winter, the bite of Summer's African winds. Meet Sabine Pascarelli, whose philosophy creates a portrait of life through language. She writes in English, although that is just one of her mastered languages; in fact, she translates professionally in German and Italian as well. English seems to be the emotional language that she chooses to speak here. It's a beautiful thing to meet a new poet, whose heart is an open window without prevailing norms, who defines a new reality, letting us watch as she creates - and explores her world. -- Grace Cavalieri
Sabine Pascarelli was born and raised in Dortmund, Germany, where she earned a degree in German language and literature at Dortmund University. She writes books for children; her most recent book, published in Germany is Glenscheck & Co. Her poems have appeared in English anthologies and literary reviews such as Only the Sea Keeps, Arabesque, Praxilla, as well as in numerous Italian Anthologies and Poetry Journals. Her latest publication of poems is the e-book PUNTI DI VISTA. She has won fiction awards, from La Spezia, Italy, and Mirabilia. Sabine works as a translator of English, Italian and German. She is the Italian translator of THE ALCHEMY OF GRIEF that won the Bordighera Poetry Award in 2006. She co-edited and translated 2 editions of THE POET’S COOKBOOK (Bordighera Press & Goethe Institut.) 2012 sees her translation of the 18th century author and feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, poems by Grace Cavalieri. Her work will be premiered at the Italian Embassy, USA.Pascarelli works and lives with her family in Tuscany.
Middle-aged Woman, Married Without Job, Grown Children
the handwritten note inside the egg shell,
saying: Consider, which came first, the egg or the chicken…
At the second-hand stall she wants to buy something
that makes her feel better. A woman tries on a fur coat,
all eyes upon her as she mirrors herself, not disliking.
Not for me, she thinks, the other murmuring to herself,
after all, they’re dead already …
She remembers, still young, three days without concern,
strolling through the city with her lover, aimless, his eyes in hers,
in love like with first snow, every crystal pristine, redeeming.
Sometimes she longs to be the message in a bottle
on a foreign shore: finally found, carefully unfolded,
held between hands, eventually read and understood.
Through And On
and people lament: the seasons are not
what they used to be, it doesn’t rain enough
and when rain comes, it is calamity.
So why not refine the rules, clear
the ground from the ashes of disguise.
The blind nodding does not serve us well.
If nothing else, let us worship the breath
that keeps us alive, in waves of sudden
silence moving through and on,
while clouds gather over the grasslands,
in contemplation
The Fact
a crow moves her wings for
reasons of survival.
She knows all about the practice
of flying, the importance to set
her feet on the ground from time
to time, stepping strongly
onto the corpse of some small
animal staring into the void
of eternity, tearing pieces
of rotten flesh,
not more anyone’s delight.
Her presence as truthfully imprinted
into the thin winter air as if it were
a sentence, black on a white page,
the writer unknown.
Early Morning
by the rush of fleeting cars,
the headlights uncover pieces
of uncertain space unfolding.
The impassible twilight that dominates
the moment creeps into the ditches
between thrown-out litter, sad definition
of our presence on earth. From the North,
a blizzard approaches, covering highway,
town, ditches, litter with its loving
white crystals, new morning awash
with disinterested light.
The Humming
Heaven bends toward earth
in a promise, almost familiar, of
arches met, stone on
previous stone graciously
overlapping in perfect faith.
From the bottom of time
roots sprout and bloom,
memorizing immortality in each
petal unfolding.
Eons from now, the slow unfolding
still taking place, still a mysterious part
of a music never written, an alphabet
of sounds, gorgeous and invasively
entering what might be coming.
© Sabine Pascarelli, all rights reserved