Life Continued


This brief poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye begins on the ground and ends in the sky.

It starts out in sadness and ends in joy.

It is a prayer - for we are the Earth, the Air, the Fire, and the Water.

And Death shall not have us.

For we are Life continued.


Alberico Collina


Do not stand at my grave and weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Stories Unearth What We Bury

Ancient Coffer of Nuri Bey is a story that rotates around an ancient chest, whose power lies in the mistery of its contents.

Certain stories, and this is one of them, reveal what we conceal from ourselves.

And they do this by reflection.

Some phrases resonate with us louder than others, lending new meaning to the story.

Often the truth they disclose about us is not flattering.

But this makes them all the more valuable.

Ultimately, these stories help us discover who we really are.

If we let them.



Alberico Collina



Ancient Coffer of Nuri Bey by Idries Shah

Nuri Bey was a reflective and respected Albanian, who had married a wife much younger than himself. One evening when he had returned home earlier than usual, a faithful servant came to him and said:

"Your wife, our mistress, is acting suspiciously. She is in her apartment with a huge chest, large enough to hold a man, which belonged to your grandmother. It should contain only a few ancient embroideries. I believe that there may now be much more in it. She will not allow me, your oldest retainer, to look inside."

Nuri went to his wife's room, and found her sitting disconsolately beside the massive wooden box. "Will you show me what is in the chest?" he asked.

"Because of the suspicion of a servant, or because you do not trust me?"

"Would it not be easier to just open it, without thinking about the undertones?" asked Nuri.

"I do not think it is possible."

"Is it locked?"

"Yes."

"Where is the key?"

She held it up, "Dismiss the servant and I will give it to you."

The servant was dismissed. The woman handed over the key and herself withdrew, obviously troubled in mind.

Nuri Bey thought for a long time. Then he called four gardeners from his estate. Together they carried the chest by night unopened to a distant part of the grounds and buried it.

The matter was never referred to again.



Source: http://www.spiritual-short-stories.com/spiritual-short-story-278-Ancient+Coffer+of+Nuri+Bey.html#sthash.IO4FVizj.dpuf

Just Once


The opening lines of Maintains Pereira, a novel by Antonio Tabucchi, here translated by Patrick Creagh, foreshadow a resurrection of sorts.

In the bloody days of Salazar's dictatorship in Portugal, two young and desperate lovers enlist the help of Pereira.

Pereira is an unlikely protagonist, a conservative widower, obsessed by death and his obesity, who will find the will to live again, by changing the desperate couple's fate.

And putting his life on the line, Pereira will taste youth and drink adventure in the shadow of military oppression.

And he'll learn what it's like to have something worth dying for.

Just once.


Alberico Collina


"Pereira maintains he met him one summer’s day. A fine fresh sunny summer’s day and Lisbon was sparkling. It would seem that Pereira was in his office biting his pen,the editor-in-chief was away on holiday while he himself was saddled with getting together the culture page, because the Lisboa was now to have a culture page and he had been given the job. But he, Pereira, was meditating on death. On that beauteous summer day, with the sun beaming away and the sea-breeze off the Atlantic kissing the treetops, and a city glittering, literally glittering beneath his window, and a sky of such a blue as never was seen, Pereira maintains, and of a clarity almost painful to the eyes, he started to think about death. Why so? Pereira cannot presume to say. Maybe because when he was little his father owned an undertaker’s establishment with the gloomy name of Pereira La Dolorosa, maybe because his wife had died of consumption some years before, maybe because he was fat and suffered from heart trouble and high blood pressure and the doctor had told him that if he went on like this he wouldn’t last long. But the fact is that Pereira began dwelling on death, he maintains. And by chance, purely by chance, he started leafing through a magazine. It was a literary review, though with a section devoted to philosophy. Possibly an avant-garde review, Pereira is not definite on this point, but with a fair share of Catholic contributors. And Pereira was a Catholic, or at least at that moment he felt himself a Catholic, a good Roman Catholic, though there was one thing he could not bring himself to believe in, and that was the resurrection of the body. Of the soul yes, of course, for he was certain he had a soul; but all that flesh of his, the fat enveloping his soul, no, that would not rise again and why should it?, Pereira asked himself. All the blubber he carted around with him day in day out, and the sweat, and the struggle of climbing the stairs, why should all that rise again? No, Pereira didn’t fancy it at all, in another life, for all eternity, so he had no wish to believe in the resurrection of the body. And he began to leaf through the magazine, idly, just because he was bored, he maintains,and came across an article headed: ‘From a thesis delivered last month at the University of Lisbon we publish this reflection on death. The author is Francesco Monteiro Rossi, who graduated last month from the University of Lisbon with a First in Philosophy. We here give only an excerpt from his essay, since he may well make further contributions to this publication."

from Maintains Pereira by Antonio Tabucchi (translated by Patrick Creagh)

Her Song


The following poem is one of my favourites.

We hear the sad songs, we smell the breathing roses, and we feel the grass covering us.

We also perceive what the author will not: we see the soft shadows and the silent rain, and we hear the lamenting nightingale.

And we know the poet's life is a song she will remember; a song her lover could never forget.

Her Song.


Alberico Collina


Song by Christina G. Rossetti

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain;
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

The Pilgrim Soul


This is one of my favourite poems.

Its language is simple.

Its message is universal.

And the tone is of someone who knows the value of loving with irony.


Alberico Collina


When You Are Old by William Butler Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

I Won't Be Jealous


And I'll read to you.

On a boat.

At night.

I'll read the words I could never write.

I'll read them slowly.

I'll make them count.

And when sleep will take you,

I won't be jealous.


Alberico Collina

Painting Words That Dry Below Our Breath

An orphan grows up in Naples under the watchful eye of Don Gaetano. Don Gaeta’, as he is known, is a caretaker with a skill in storytelling and spotting trouble at a distance. And both skills will prove useful in a neighbourhood where ignorance and violence conspire to cross your path many times a day. This is The Day Before Happiness – Il giorno prima della felicita’ - by Erri DeLuca, translated by Michael Moore. It is a tale in which a young boy overcomes real and imaginary fears to become an adult. It is a story of poverty, pride, and passion, where Don Gaeta’, through his evocative anecdotes, will instil in this orphan (and in us) a love of Naples, its people, and its history. And where he will show him how to walk upright, and look people in the eye; teaching him how to live, love, and ultimately survive.

In the following excerpt, De Luca has the protagonist narrate how he learned to love and respect language by “painting” words, drying them below his breath until the “blue of the ink trembled while it changed color.”:

“We used to write with a fountain pen and ink was available at every desk inside a hole. To write was to paint: you dipped the pen in, let the drops fall until one remained, and with that you managed to write half a word. Then you dipped again. We poverty cases would dry the sheet of paper with our warm breath. Below our breath, the blue of the ink trembled while it changed color. The other children dried with blotting paper. Our gesture was more beautiful, blowing wind over the flattened paper. The others instead crushed their words beneath a white card.”

Original (In Italian)
“Si scriveva con il pennino e con l’inchiostro che stava in ogni banco dentro un buco. Scrivere era una pittura, si intingeva il pennino, si facevano cadere gocciole finché ne restava una e con quella si riusciva a scrivere una mezza parola. Poi si intingeva di nuovo. Noi della povertà asciugavamo il foglio con il fiato caldo. Sotto il soffio, il blu dell’inchiostro tremava cambiando colore. Gli altri asciugavano con la carta assorbente. Era più bella la nostra mossa che faceva vento sopra il foglio steso. Invece gli altri schiacciavano le parole sotto il cartoncino bianco.”

MAIL (a 55-word story)


“I never get mail.” She’d told the mailman.

The following week, she did. It began:

“I would’ve written sooner but my pen’s shy of my thoughts.

I hope you read this half-awake.

With your eyes half-hidden by your dark hair.

And I hope its words make your lips move.

…”

“Thank you!” She told the mailman.



Alberico Collina

HELL’S DOVES (a 55-word story)


Gianciotto was always too busy.

Even to marry.

So Gianciotto married Francesca by proxy, his brother, Paolo, taking his place at the wedding.

Soon after, Gianciotto left for battle, and Paolo read together with Francesca.

Reading of Lancelot and Guinevere, their passion exploded.

One day, Gianciotto caught them making love.

And killed them.

Hell’s doves.



Alberico Collina

HOW LONG IS A PIECE OF STRING? (a 55-word story)


"...A piece of string! How long’s a piece of string?”

“Long enough.”

“Are you sure it’s not going to snap?”

“Yes.”

“What if it’s not long enough? What if it snaps?”

“You worry about killing it, and let me worry about getting you out of there.”

“If I don’t make it back…sail without me, Ariadne.”



Alberico Collina